huanwasagoodboy

[huanwasagoodboy]

little pieces of time, like glass. like glass. Like glass in the throat, like the glass we drink from deeply, thirstily, greedily, spilling down the side of our faces and staining our chest, a locked chest, once, now open. Open, and hiding its contents more. Open and flaunted and never seen, covered up by gazes, gauzes, gauze-covered eyes staring openly and never seeing the once-treasured secrets laid out over the unlocked chest, drinking deeply of the sight of glass all laid out carelessly, in pieces, in time.

[huanwasagoodboy]

give me the number. I can work with the number. I can think about the number. I can plan and change the number. I can hold the number in my head and rotate it around. I can forecast, plan, prognosticate with it so please, give me the number so I can know. give me the number so I can find my box

[huanwasagoodboy]

There are words in my nose, in my ears. I can't breathe for words. They make the air thick, they burn my nostrils. They clog up the air behind my eyes. They make my fingers rattle across the desk. They squeeze the base of my skull. They crawl across my shoulders. They climb between my teeth. They rattle my feet and crush my wrists. They pry at the bottom of my brow like some great lever, some pronged tool. I'm sick with them. Sick to them. Sick of them.

[huanwasagoodboy]

Where would the weight lie if not on the body it bears? Or rather, the body it allows to be borne. Your heavy gaze is behind your eyes, but I only know it from the irises, from the wide bars of iron and oak that are unwittingly stolen from glances, from rods and cones robbed and caught.

Even if you cannot name me, you see me, and that is too much to bear. I'm glad to not know you, shirk, because I don't want to carry a name with your weight.

Then you pass and the burden does not slip, it will not slip even with the line broken till there are walls around to snap the cord that keeps me tied to heavy eyes who probably never saw me at all.

[huanwasagoodboy]

a home. a body. a home. Boxes both. The body is the outer bound of the self. It is the point where who we are can press up against the glass between "I think" and "I am." It is the container, too big for us, too big. We think the mind is large because it is a world, but it's a world as a magpie's nest. We store there what shiny baubles catch our eye, slowly drained of context, muck and grime and the detritus of time accumulating till the dirt, the dirt, the dirt and the erosion of a world without context mutates them into a form that is divested of purpose, of origin, of the ur-source, the root, the point, the shining pinprick. The mind is smaller than the body and so it bounces and slides around within it, it ricochets off the wall and squeaks slowly across glass.

Must a home be bigger than a body? I don't know. I don't know. What is a home? A place to which we return? But if we never return does it remain a home? Does the sailor tasting their last meal's salt lose their home with their life? I don't think so. A place to which we try to return? No. No. A place to which we hope to return? Maybe. Maybe. I don't know. Are you a home? Is the taste of butterscotch and the smell of pine a home? Are bright eyes in the mirror a home?

My mind rattles through my bones, but finds no answer inside or on the glass. I wonder if it feels at home.

[huanwasagoodboy]

White trees. White snow. Crimson vines snaking up. Red path. Red path. Silver steps. The low hum flaring with each step. Boots on stone. Heels on stone. A hill. An apple. A white tree with a single red apple, alone at the top of a hill. Slow breaths at the base of the tree. A coat. A coat. Earrings hanging by red cheeks. A silver-gray sky hanging low. Green stars. The wind that rustles through the coat sounds like metal under a red apple, a white tree, a gray sky, and green stars.

[huanwasagoodboy]

It doesn't look cold outside. There's snow on the ground. The trees are bare, barren, bearing snow on each bough. There are no singing birds. Still, it doesn't look cold outside.

I press my hand to the windowpane. It feels like ice. My hand is numb after a minute. I see the sun outside, shining from the west already, at a frightful angle for this young afternoon. Still, it's so bright that I cannot help but wonder how the glass is so cold.

[huanwasagoodboy]

There's going to be coffee in the morning. It's going to be cold in the morning. It won't rain, but there will be clouds. I'm sure the sky will taste as crisp as the first sip of water in the just-post-dawn haze. I'm sure the paper will smell as clean. I'm sure the soup will be as warming again, that the pepper will be as sharp. I'm sure. I'm sure.

I'm sure everything will be there in the morning. I'm sure. I'm sure. I'm certain it'll all be there in the morning.

[huanwasagoodboy]

Do you hear the noise that is drowning us? Sometimes I'm afraid I don't. Sometimes it fades into the background of the trillion ticking clocks, gates sliding open or shut, switches clicking and light rushing, the relentless flow of bright, sharp words across stone, stone eyes, stone ears and faces and hearts. Not tongues. Those move with the flashes, spilling out lifeblood on already soaked earth, dirt inundated with lives unlived, dreams pressed into thin mirrored shapes, left there in the ground to break themselves into sharp fragments for unwary or uncaring feet, eager to further flood their new home, to make for themselves a new baptism, a hyssop-wrapped meal left for a chimerous thing, god and wretch and apostle and altar in one, mirrored inside and out, reflecting and refracting till every moment is swallowed by its ancestors who are saturnine in appetite if not mien. The face is not grim, you see. The nymph is as bright as its river in the morning, and it shines on us as our lungs drink.

[huanwasagoodboy]

There is a kaleidoscope whirling its way through a wide window left shyly ajar. The cold does not manage to push the warmth from my cheeks. The gray brightens the colors borne on leaf-winds, Midas-brushed or moss-stubborn alike. The lazy light grows lazier still, but even this descent smells of rich earth and mornings to come.

[huanwasagoodboy]

Back out of the blank-walled barn, that space of work made sterile, screens subsuming sweat, silence swallowing sound. Stumble down the highway, boxes in boxes, boxes in lines in rows attracting and repelling like magnets, poles flipping with lights as lamps flip on and eyes shine in the half-dark, the powder gray shroud flickering with the static of half-lived days, buzzing with the not-quite-quiet roars of the little pieces of ten thousand lives pouring out of exhaust pipes. They flicker there, bursting, and you're left with an empty, monochrome taste as you wonder about the pinpricks shining above that you wish you'd had the chance to miss.

[huanwasagoodboy]

do you guys ever think about what sort of insane shit pliny the elder would be saying if he lived in the pokemon world. like we know he thought that asbestos was good protection against magic and that basilisk venom could travel up a spear and kill the man who stabbed the basilisk that way. i want to know what he'd think about a slug made of magma that's as hot as the sun. i want to see his protections against electric type attacks made of rhydon horns. i want to see how many remedies he could concoct for every day maladies from sitrus berries and mudbray pee

[huanwasagoodboy]

news is looking pretty good lately

[huanwasagoodboy]

Choking on yesterday's air, tomorrow's air, incapable of breathing in the day, the hour, the moment in front of me. My reflection smirks and makes clock noises to mock me. Words instead of words. Words between myself and words. Words within and without.

Take a deep breath. Drink some coffee. It's Tuesday, and things aren't that hard.

[huanwasagoodboy]

Suian thinking they’d be better off if the Dragon were a girl is so funny. Like Suian, babe, I love you wholeheartedly but you would not have an easier time with EGWENE AL’VERE as your prophesied savior I promise. Sure you don’t have to worry about her going insane, but Egwene is so stubborn she’s resisting an empire that’s spent a thousand years perfecting indoctrination. Egwene once threatened a full-fledged sister because she blamed her for Nynaeve’s death. Egwene would say “I am going to get a good grade in ‘being the prophesied savior who will either save or destroy the world,’ something that’s normal to want and possible to achieve” and then start fucking the shit up of everyone she doesn’t like - INCLUDING everyone she doesn’t like in the White Tower. And keep in mind, her best friends are 1.) Nynaeve al’Meare, human embodiment of the “I’m a healer but…” meme, and 2.) Elayne Trakand, the heir to the throne of the most powerful country on the continent who knows Egwene for two days and then is so ride or die for her that she tries to follow her out of the Tower and then starts attacking the “women who enslave channelers” crew with a stick. You would not have a chill time with a Dragon!Egwene au I promise you that.

[huanwasagoodboy]

The sun is shining and the air is still warm and heavy. The fingers of frost however are creeping, creeping, shaking off their languor and dragging themselves forward into the edge of daylight. The leaves, unpatriotic as they are, have begun to quit en masse, falling to the ground Midas-touched to rot into next year's soil. Soon the wind will poke and bite and grind. But today - today it still whispers while we while away the day.

[huanwasagoodboy]

Love him tho