Truth.
Elusive can be the words that paint the truth with accuracy. You must be careful not to soak your brush in niceties for then it smears the picture. If you don't wash it at all then your true colors blur. Love is in the eye of the beholder. Where truth is in the mind of the recipient. When the two collide it can be a ballet of destructive warfare. Egos loaded and defensive and insentive words become artillery. Speaking the truth to the one you love can be difficult. Most agonizing and aggrivating when they reject its purity and sincerity. Our instinct is to respond with agression. How dare you not believe me entirely!? Perhaps this is why we sometimes avoid unvailing all. For, we need the truth in order to love, however, we need not love to tell the truth.
PAL
Pretty pleasant people pretend playing party-host precedes
pleasing paranoid porcupines pricking passerby’s pretending
pain palls past paroxysm peevishly pedantic, petulantly
pigheaded prevaricating probity, pretending platitudes.
After arising almost adamantly,
afraid and abdicating abashed abatements,
atoning abysmal absolvement; accentuating accolades
acquits admonished; albeit: ad-infinitum.
Laden labyrinths languish, less laudable,
lingering lyricists linguistics, lost,
lingeringly liquidated,
loathing luminaries.
**********
This is what it sounds like:
https://voicespice.com/Player.aspx?c=p&h=ADCDF730&j=1CD9D2
A Room for Normalcy
Every day, a little normalcy of silence is needed. You can sip a hot cup of coffee or tea, sitting on your porch or a favorite solitude place, reading a book or magazine, as you inhale and exhale the breezy fresh air in and out of your lungs, watching the sunrise or sunset, which the solace should give you relief in your chest.
Writing is like inhaling and exhaling air while watching the sun descend into the nightfall, or the shy moon slowly brightening the open blue sky while dancing with the shooting stars across the galaxy.
I write to soothe my sanity and empty the memory vault of insanity. The reason being, my mind is as sharp as a blade that works constantly throughout the day without any rest, which means my fight is with myself, how subconsciously furry words wage wars against me, wanting to roam and dance, flattening their flaming wings; when their rages comes cascading and pouring down like rainfall, my pen gives in and obliges their request, then lets them out of the door so they can roam or dance freely in daylights not remain caged in the pits of darkness inside my skull.
When the flood door of hell finally opens, they’d fly away freely, because their carnal hunger is fully satisfied, therefore, they’re forced to leave me alone to my own solace, so that I can softly and easily breathe in and out the fresh air.
Taking Over
My intimate peerage of some four hundred and fifty students has reached its terminus. It has technically been two months, yet the sun has made one-third of its elliptical orbit since our last day together. For thirteen years we were, and now all that is left to say is that we once were. As we sat in dark rooms behind chipped plastic desks, before we knew anything of the volatile horizon on the other side of our cinder-block nursery, my classmates voted that I, out of the many, was the most likely to take over the world.
I do not see myself a conqueror, as they are so often on the wrong side of history. Nor do I see myself shoulder-to-shoulder with the men who inhale privilege and exhale oppression... all the while playing blind, dumb, and deaf. This world we are in has planted these thoughts as my interpretation of what it means to take over.
I saw no use in watching my own virtual graduation. I sat down at my desk and found the link to a video of some commencement speeches. I chose not to click the little blue line. What could be there that isn’t already in my mind? Life is full of unexpected problems, and we shall persevere; we are coming into the adult world now, and it is not what we expected; it is time for our generation to yield its power onto the world, and it is up to us to determine how that will happen. No high school commencement is complete without a redundant trip to the dictionary, therefore, instead of watching my own graduation, I went to Merriam-Webster.
My superlative, with its domineering connotation, implied to me that my peers had a perception of me which I found uncomfortable. To take over, as an infinitive, has three general interpretations. My inherent idea of the meaning aligns with the third: “to take or make use of under a guise of authority but without actual right.” That is not the way I want to take over the world.
The second meaning, I found more comfortable: “to take to or upon oneself.” The exemplar use of the words put it into terms of assuming responsibility, which I can accept. If anything, as an educated adult, I do feel responsible for the world–at least my corner of it.
I relate the most to the first meaning of taking over, which was the last definition I would have thought of if not for looking at a list of definitions. This meaning is “to serve as a replacement usually for a time only.” In this case, I accept my title. In fact, it is the only title I feel worthy to accept. I do not want to be president...as that position decreases in value alongside the national debt, nor do I want to be remembered for possessing the best seventeen-year-old body, or any other thing in the back section of the yearbook for the class of 2020.
In this life, in this world, I am here to serve as a replacement for a time only. The truth is that we are all of us just temporal replacements, here for a brief minute, waiting for those who will replace us. If this is it, and it is my turn to take over the world, as many have tried and many more will attempt, I would like to let the world know that I only intend to serve you all for a time, and God willing, this blue marble will be made better by it.
The Strangest Love of All – The Sequel - Part One
He studied physics, science, the elements of weather patterns, black holes, different forms of anomalies. He studied dark matter, solar flares. He amassed every book he could find on inter-dimensional space travel. He so wanted this to work.
Countless hours zipped by over the next fifteen years of his life since he met and fell in love with the only girl, now a woman that ever mattered to him. And that woman bore his child. Boy or girl? He had no way of knowing and would never know if his planned idea didn’t work.
He spent the last eight years devising a method to cross over in to a parallel world, but would it actually work? He had done testing, sending various objects through the portal but when he tried to reverse the mechanism, the items such as an apple, a plastic bottle, a cardboard box—never came back. But that proved one thing—it went somewhere, but where?
He was running out of time though. His research project was given one last funding grant for ten-million from private investors in hopes he would … could, devise a way to transport a human being like they did on the show Star Trek. Logic says it can never happen. Science says it is probable. If this actually worked, his investors would be angry at him, but he didn’t care. He was defrauding them, but if this worked, he would never be arrested. His primary goal was to unite with the only woman he ever loved. Elyse.
When he first graduated from college, he went to work for the Allied Institute. They did various projects of a scientific nature for the space program. In his second year with them, he found a way where astronauts would no longer float in their ships simply by wearing what he called a “shift belt” designed to balance the weightlessness with a normal person’s weight. That not only gave him recognition but a huge raise, a title, and some prestige.
His colleagues called him Robert (no one has called him Bobby since he entered college, with the exception of his parents). It was shortly after that when a few investors offered him money to come up with a way to transport humans from one planet to another to repopulate, providing the planet could sustain human life, such as earth.
But after many long hours studying the density of many of the known and not quite so known planets, he found there wasn’t a planet in our universe that could do that, nor would human life survive without protective gear, and actual breathing air. Most planets hadn’t the compounds, or for that matter any of earth’s properties to reconstruct homes, businesses, cities and so on.
Well there is one. A rocky planet in the habitable zone of Proxima Centauri, the closest star to Earth (not counting the Sun). Another possible candidate is Alpha Centauri, Earth’s nearest Sun-like star system 4.37 light-years away. The problem with that; it would take a hundred and thirty-seven-thousand years to get there.
As far as he knew, there was only one place and it wasn’t seen through any powerful telescope on earth.
Elyse’s home world.
Preparing the next test, he grabbed a white mouse and placed it in the teleporter-transporter. Bending down, carefully placing him on the flooring, he said, “Zach, I hope you come back. If you do, you’ll make history come alive.”
Closing the door, he went to the instrument panel and pressed a few buttons and then hit enter.
A few lights brightened in the machine, the white mouse scurried about not knowing where to go, and a whirring sound emanated from within. Thirty seconds later, Zach was gone.
