Seeking: words

15-250

Essay, prose

Or poetry

A challenge;

Writer’s prompt

Of words, though

I have not

To wrap my arms around

Depression’s 'script, so vast

Though a feeble try I’ll make

With words, I’ll do my best

Why I love to write?

Simple, I know- write

But, little’s taking shape

There on the empty page

“Thick as thieves”, this phrase, must use

In 21 words, exact

“Thick as thieves?”, I wonder

“What the heck is that?!?”

Write about a loss

Something you’ll never get back

In under 200 words

Uh, I’ve too many for that

Write of something new, Prose’s monthly challenge

I’ve many something’s new,

But new words?!?!

I’ve only few

Tell us of betrayal

The challenge of the week

I’ve betrayed and been betrayed

Which one do they seek?

Oh, I can’t do this one

A challenge; architectural

What would I say of buildings

To write so visual

Would I find the words

To speak of death, first person

Hardest of them all

In this, a valuable lesson

Tell us of the sea

And why does sadness, thee

Accompany so closely

Ah! They’re “thick as thieves”

But wait, I’ve entered both

Maybe should have waited

With words, I’m often found

Lacking that I’m patient

Seeking: words to share

I’ve found another prompt

Words, are you in there?

If so, speak!, for I’m still stumped

The truth is that I never really understood the point of Christmas. At least not how it's celebrated now, anyway. The vapid well wishes purporting to be truth, the real deal, a grand get-to-know-your-fellow-man-oh-hallelujah-how-I-care-about you, but really serving only to increase the wisher's sense of their own innate goodness. Or sell something. Of course, I understand all the traditional complaints about commercialization, but that's not really the problem. The commercials are a symptom, not the condition. Feel-good advertisements and exhortations to show how much you care are fine -as long as those who follow their Christmassy commands understand their own motivation.

No, the Christmas condition, ultimately, is the conviction, in the very heart and soul of each consumed consumer, that Christmas is nothing more than the sum of its parts. That the ingredients they have been told create Christmas by every Hallmark movie and seasonal advertisement -gifts, decorations, cookies, feast, family, and fun -must all be absolutely, ideally in place. That it wouldn't be Christmas without the Santa Claus collection firmly situated on the living room shelves and the perfect gift for every person on your list. You make a list, and you check it twice -no, thrice. And only if the items read "nice" can you relax. This is the Christmas condition: that without the right itemized actions every year, no Christmas exists. This fundamental flaw of the season has created commercialism, and around and around the cycle goes. A carefully curated recipe produces the holiday.

In my day, once upon a time, people remembered the purpose of it all. In simpler times before established and accepted tradition, when candles were lit in windows for Mary and Joseph and children saw Saint Nicholas as a benevolent spirit bearing fruit instead of the means to an end filled with plastic and noise, it was easier to be mindful of the myriad ways one could show kindness and generosity. I will not call it the "reason for the season," because that phrase and the person to whom it refers are not immune to commercialism. They have been used for purposes other than selling toys -perhaps more benevolent purposes (in many, but not all, cases), but purposes nonetheless. Still, when I was a child, oh so long ago, we did not have the glitter and fanfare, the vapid and depthless joy, that now pervades the holiday. We were left with our quiet snow and our crackling hearths, our simple trees and glistening paper snowflakes. We did not get out the Christmas stockings because we wore them everyday. And when we were angry or anxious or worried, it was not because of the self-imposed unreasonable expectations of spoiled children or the burden of hauling decorations up from the garage or down from the attic. When there is a litany of ingredients for the proper Christmas, any Christmas that fails to check off an ingredient is now less than perfect.

Without so much involved in our Christmas, we were able to remember the spirit of the season. Physical gifts are not the only way to be generous and kind, and decorations do not a happy family make. Yes, the gaudy and extravagant is fun. But is it necessary? No.

So if you glean one thing from this little tale of mine, remember this: children may notice how beautiful the living room looks, but they will not notice every Santa. They will eat their sweets with gusto, but they will not remember who prepared them unless they have a hand -or two -in the preparation. They will have a few favorite presents, and the rest will be forgotten by the time the snow melts. But always, children will remember how those around them made them feel on this, the most holy day of childhood. A joke is better and more gentle than a sarcastic comment. Be present, be gracious, be kind and forgiving. A loving atmosphere is the greatest gift of all.

wishes to you I give

those of joy, and the gift of moving on

forgetting the bad

and embracing the good

in your extraordinary life

your voice carries a gentle tune

that I follow,

like the horizon follows the sun

your heart grabs tears like a magnet

but in its kindness

it is limitless

and now you are a shiny, new coin

made of fifteen dreams

and many more to come

and even though

you are surrounded in silver nights

and darker skies

I still know that your soul

is made of liquid gold

that sends so much light

you, the little galaxy

a whisper of falling stars

a spectrum of colors

that grabs me every time

***

I wish I had the motivation

To be what I am

Strive for the stars,

Without trying to poison myself,

Drink

Drink

Down

I

Sink

Sink

Flounder, I fly,

Oblivion,

I am reaching

’cept for the recesses of my mind,

They

Creep

Creep

Creep

Until I write down all that I have,

And wonder why

I’m not what I’m not

Until I am poisoning myself.

#wine #writing #motivation #life

I’m not sorry

For going to bed at 3am

Instead of working

Until dawn.

I’m not sorry

For studying with my friends

Instead of sitting

All alone.

I’m not sorry

For going home at night

Instead of playing

A sport I hate.

I’m not sorry

For stopping piano lessons

Instead of forcing

Myself to play.

I’m not sorry

I chose not to run for President

Because you wanted it

Not me.

I’m not sorry

I chose to tutor instead of study

Because my friend's at

A fifty-three.

I’m not sorry

I chose not to take Physics

Because I loved Spanish

So much more.

I’m not sorry

I chose to take Saturday off

Because my family means

The world.

I'm not sorry

I refused to jump

Through every single hoop.

I'm not sorry

I didn't check

Every single box you drew.

I'm not sorry

I used my time

To write poetry

And truth.

I'm not sorry

I never tried

To change myself

For you.

Speak your mind

it deserves to be heard!

when you know you are right, lead the way!

do not follow just to come across as cooperative!

Be a loving fire of confrontation for the sake of creating beautiful passionate intent!

Unleash,

the rage harvested under the secretive eyes of the moon,

the resentment for its nature to nurture a timid soul;

for a fidgeting light casting no shadow is wasteful to searchers of healing radiation

We are so trapped within the spiraling illusion of media that we inevitably forget that Barack Obama had a favorite blanket as a child he could never sleep without. Donald Trump felt shadowed by his father and wished for him to hold his hand, to comfort him in his dark room when demons and shadows whirled around his head. Hillary Clinton watched another woman in her class in the eighth grade and compared the womanly figure of her body to her own. Late at night, she cried and wished she were somebody else. Why do we forget and deny the humanity, the tenderness of these people as if they are not equal to us? Every human being, man or woman, affluent or threadbare, cries in the dark hours of the night, wishing and praying for another life. But in the devilish illusion of our technological existence we forget this, we deny it, we bury it in the great scheme of our projected reality. We blame these people for the problems in our lives, people we have never met and never will, but who are the same as us. We project our own inferiorities, our own fears, our own hatred into the spiral of illusion. We stare into the screens of our false realities, aiming hatred and blame onto these faces, faces that once gazed up into their mother's eyes in admiration, or watched their father's backs as he turned it to them once more. These faces wept, they laughed, they winced in agony as life's burdens were thrust upon them. These faces were once those of the child in the dark room, the lost and hopeless teenager that skimmed the ideas of death and ending their own existence. We have lost the ability to turn within, to summon that fearful child, to face the fears of our subconcious. More so, have we lost the ability to offer the love and acceptance to our neighbors, our brothers and sisters who each feel the same emotions and fears that we do. Instead we shoot rays of violent malice and blame into the spiral of illusion created for us by the media, by technology, and by our own unwillingness to acknowledge that we are all human, we are all deserving and worthy of love and kindness. It begins by an internal journey, accessing that child in the dark room, and acknowledging that we have all been that same person, sharing the same heart, the same hope for a brighter tomorrow. Let not the spiral of illusion defer you from the truth; these people that you blame, that you hate, are you.

I write this knowing that if I am caught, my fate will be to end up as reindeer droppings. The fat man would have you humans believe that we elf folk joyfully laugh and sing while making toys for all good little girls and boys in the human world. This is pure propoganda! We are slaves and humanity must learn the truth! If I am to die bringing the truth to you, so be it! My people deserve to be free and humanity needs to... nay, must know that jolly old Saint Nick has a heart as black as coal!

Contrary to what Pere Noel would have you believe, we are not his faithful and well compensated friends. Instead, we slave in dimmly lit, freezing workshops sixteen hours a day making toys for meager portions of milk, cookies, and cocoa. Oh, this may sound like sweet reward for our toil, but it is torture! We elves are cursed with celiac disease and lactose intollerance! Santa knows this and forces us exist on a diet that keeps us too weak and too busy running to the toilet to rebel! As to cocoa? It is the opiate of the elf masses! It assures that Santa has a work force that is dependent on him for the only substance that helps us to forget our plight.

Oh, how the fat man has begiled humanity with his self-made myth of jolly goodness and love of children! You think Santa delivers these toys to the good little children throughout the world with his sleigh and reindeer because he is the embodiment of charity? No, Santa sells the toys to human retailers so than he and Mrs. Claus can live lives of luxury! Twenty-four hours a day cargo ships arrive at the North Pole to receive crates filled with elf-made toys. Their return final destinations being, Walmarts, Targets, and Amazon Ware Houses!

You may ask why we elves don't fight back or try to escape. We have, but Santa is as cunning as he is cruel. Realizing that we may try to rebel or unionize, Santa introduced us to hot cocoa and many of us became addicted. So long as we made toys, Santa kept the cocoa flowing. It did not take long before most elves lived to be fa la la la fucked up on Swiss Miss powder. Any resistance, talk of unions, or work slow downs and we were cut off and left jonesing for the brown dust. There is nothing sadder than having an elf offer to suck your candy cane for a tea spoon of cocoa. I have managed to kick my habit, not for myself, but for elf-kind!

As to escape? Santa has reindeer for that. You see, elves know something you humans don't. Reindeer eat elves. Santa surrounds his North Pole toy factory with elf hungry reindeer. To step outside of the factory is to invite being torn appart by those antlered devils. Ultimately, we are too cocoaed up and too fearful of being eaten by Donner or Blitzen to put up much of a fight.

So, I write this letter and hide it inside one of the Street Corner Barbies that I make in the hopes that some human will read it and learn the truth. If you find this, please send help. Put an end to Santa's reindeer enforced reign of terror on elf-kind!

I spent my life carrying the burden of my words, thinking I had to shoulder them alone. And then I found this magic place, a place where my thoughts could rest. I thought of it as a journal of sorts, and who cares if the world could read it. But it is so much more. I thought I was screaming into an internet void, but then the void called back. A voice reached out and I thought then, perhaps I’m not alone. So thank you for your kind words, your encouragment. For taking the time to read my thoughts, to send a like my way. It’s such a small task, but you’ve no idea what it means to me. I’m not a person who does sentiment well, so forgive me for the lack of flowery prose. But you deserve to know that you’ve become a second home, this place a sanctuary from my ordinary world. For once in twenty-seven years of life, I believe that this is something I could be--not just something I could do. And that’s because of all of you.

Sincerly,

Nicole C. Westerhouse

This message is for you, and I mean every word:

@sandflea68 @Abcde @ALifeWitArt @JamesMByers @17 @Mnezz @CreativeChaos @EstherFlowers1 @MsH @Jumotki @HawkishUnderdog @AndiLutz @JimLamb @Acadec56 @AndyBetz @Tee_Hi @Noveltunity @stu_andrews @JRose @wetpetals

@IvyBee @lostAlice @isha07 @JSuggs @Brandi333 @Fortbruce @Eril_Alvaro @Bntf10 @demcmurphy @SCOTtFREE @MillieWartinez @Keggruel @WhiteWolfe32 @Whatif86 @Lepakko @AWalk @BrettHemmings1 @sherifmekdam @Amu @nk_prince @thechristo4d @Abramburica @kelsihammons @Fur_Trash

I tell myself it is unselfish

Choosing not to love

Because I know

I cannot hold another's feelings

And my own

And I would cast theirs out

To maintain the purity of mine.

The rhythm of my heart is precise.

It is offbeat. And no man's drums

Could match it.

So I spare them the pain

Of loving me.

It's a kindness.

I tell myself this, and it frees me.

In truth, I'm too lazy to love you.

To chain myself to a phone

To open my thoughts

My home, my bed.

I like to be alone.

I am selfish.

A miserable misanthrope.

Please don't ask me

what true giving is.

I've never known the words.