oceans-s-heart

[oceans-s-heart]

ROBOTS OR DINOSAURS?

? Either?

[oceans-s-heart]

These guys are my kind of creature. No worry, no stress, just floating on ocean currents to their next meal.... I wonder if it could be as good as it seems.

Lion’s Mane Jellyfish

[x][x][x][x] by Amos the eel

[oceans-s-heart]

Blood Warrior

And then she died. I sat back on my heels, shocked and saddened by the tragic turn of events. She had been a beautiful sight, all decked out in her traditional finery, her cloak swirling silver around her shoulders, her dress pure midnight sheathing her lithe body and displaying her curves. She had been doing the midnight services for the moon goddess. Then the marauders had come. They came with swords and knives and maces. They came to steal and to destroy. Innocents ran in a pel-mel fashion as the temple warriors stood and fell. There she stood, in all her glory, the only shield left between the Innocents and the marauders. She raised her arms towards the sky, a petition to the great goddess herself. Trees rose, growing so fast and so quickly that they threw the men they came into contact with far over the roof. Had it been the 21st century, I would have said that she got at least 20 home runs. And then she fell, shot by an iron arrow sent from the bow of a marauding archer. I ran to her side as her beautiful trees were being hacked to pieces.

“Save them”, she begged.

And then she died. I sat back on my heels, shocked and saddened by the tragic turn of events. And then I grew angry. Why should such a great and beautiful person die for such a stupid reason? The sound of swords hacking foliage reached my ears, but it only served to feed my anger. I stood, gently letting her body rest on the mossy ground, as my anger pounded behind my eyes. I paid no more attention to the Goddess’ law of mercy than the marauders that day, I am ashamed to say. The anger that took ahold of me that day turned my sight red and as I tore the marauders to pieces, I knew not what I was doing, only of my purpose, that terrible, terrible urge to kill. When I awoke, the emerald green grass was drenched in the crimson blood of the killed. I was lying on a patch of moss, looking at the underside of the boughs of the only tree that had survived the bloodbath. I looked around. Those that were healers among the Innocents had patched me up, along with the surviving temple warriors. They looked at me with awe and more than a little fear in their eyes, but also with pity. The temple warriors, those that could stand, came over and helped me to stand up on my own two feet (even if I could not remain that way on my own). Standing was painful, the most painful thing I had ever done before that point, I think. All the Innocents crossed their arms over their chests, fist clenched in the time honored salute to the blood warriors of old. The salute had been designed to easily be switched to a defensive stance without taking their eyes of the warrior- blood warriors had been notoriously distrustful and unstable. I bowed my head in respectful reply, but also in shame. I was the first blood warrior in over 500 years, a member of a dead class feared by all, befriended by few, and truly trusted by all. I allowed myself to be gently led away from the main area and through the long, thin tunnel to what had once been the living quarters for the blood warriors. I remembered the history of that tunnel- the walls were so thick as to keep the enemies out, and the blood warriors in. The tunnel was so thin as to be easily defendable- or easily blockable. There was one tree on the grounds, as old as time itself, and scarred by the many weapons of destruction that had touched it’s bark over the millenias. I asked to be laid down at the base of the great tree, instead of ending up stuck inside. They did so, and then left me alone with my thoughts. At first I was sad, and scared of my fate. I did not wish to be a blood warrior, one who was so overcome with anger in a time of struggle that their eyes turned red and they were no longer human, not feeling or caring about the wounds dealt to their bodies, unstoppable in battle, and feared by one and all. But then I realized that now, I could protect the Innocents, and my loved ones, in a way I never could before. No one would have to die like she had. And then something strange happened. The light dimmed, and, startled, I looked up at the sun. It looked like a big, black disk was eating the sun- a solar eclipse. And a voice echoed in my mind.

“You can choose to fear and be ashamed of the curse you have been dealt. Or you can choose to make use of the gift you have been given. It is your time to choose, but choose wisely.” It decreed.

“I choose to make use of the gift I have been given”, I thought fiercely. “I never wanted to kill and destroy, but I would rather destroy my own being than let others harm the people in my care.”

“Then I choose you as my warrior queen, the one the people will turn to when the Dark Ages come. And they are coming. You shall protect our people, and I shall give you the power to do so. Now rest, my chosen one. The eons ahead will be rough, and you must be ready, but for now, rest, and heal, and sleep.” I slept. And as I slept, I dreamed. I dreamed of the history of events that had yet to happen, and I dreamed of the future of events that were long past. I dreamed of the horrible things that were to happen to my people, but also of the peace and prosperity that would come to them. And as I slept, I realized what it meant to be a blood warrior. As I slept, I became a true blood warrior, the last of my kind.

[oceans-s-heart]

Beliefs

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is another day. But it isn't. It's another day, just like today, and yesterday and the day before that. It's a day like the day after it and the day after that. Ad infinitum. But we humans, we puny little know-it-alls think we know about tomorrow, and think that tomorrow is a new day, a different day. But we're wrong. Because tomorrow is always one step away, and every day is today, every moment is today. In fact, all of time could be classified into two things- all the today's that have been and all the today's that will be. Nothing will ever change just because the day magically changed. We must change it ourselves, and if we forever wait for tomorrow, the day will forever be today.

Fashion but not style

The sky is white, white as a blank canvas. The only color is at the edges, where the white fades to a sort of off-white slate-gray bluish color. But for the most part, the sky is white, the white of an empty canvas. It is not the full, beautiful white of snow, but an empty white. Not dull- on the contrary, it is a bright, glaring white. But now color is coming, slowly, creeping and seeping across the white canvas of the sky like watercolors on paper. Everything is faded, except the stark black silhouette of the trees against the sky.

 The sky is blue, faded, bland. It has changed its colors but not its style.

Emotions

Emotions are like the oceans. It takes something very extreme to stir human's true feelings. Many people don't realize that what they feel is merely the surface of this ocean. The surface that fuels the small, petty, everyday emotions, stirred and whipped into a spray by the winds of our circumstances. No, our true emotions are deeper, much deeper, like the currents that live hidden in depths, that move coldly, silently, like predators in the dark, currents that are only disturbed when something really big happens on the surface, something that make a deep impression like love or death, or hate or life.

[oceans-s-heart]

Glass Heart

I sat and watched, abandoned, under my false roof and behind my glass walls. I did not know who I was or what I was, or who I would be or what I would be. I did not know myself, and I did not know, thought I knew but never did, know her. I listened to my music and fancied within myself a change. I was not the same as everyone else, but I refused to believe myself, thinking it hubris or arrogance, and was ashamed. I was different, but in a way I could not know, could not see. I couldn't get everyone, not the way they fit together, nor the way they lived. I gave too much or too little to ever be one of them. But I thought I was, facilitated the release of my responsibility, waited for their help. I was a loner who wanted to do things with others, a person who did not belong but thought I did. Because I could not see the truth. Ma said I was not special. I knew I was not. But I was different, and when you are different, there are not many choices to what you are. Oh, I knew they were all different. They had their separate lives and personalities. But they were like the many, individual pieces of a large puzzle, a larger whole, and I was not. I was in the place the eye does not see, the place where no one recognizes your existence if they can. I did not know myself, and if you do not know yourself, then how can you know the world?

I knew, though. I could see others clearer than I could ever see myself, or anything dealing with myself. I was too strict with myself and too loose with myself in turns.  Even now, I am too self- obsessed. I am not noticed, and so I turn into myself, where chaos reigns and up is down. But I could see others clearly. I knew them better than they knew themselves, or so I thought. But I really did know, knew their thoughts, unseeable though they were. But I did not know myself. So how could I know them, truly know them? I lurk in the shadows, watching the growing things with envy and with love, with pain and with hate. I put too much emphasis on this, not enough on this. Too much on this person and not enough on others. I grow apart, but do not know how, how to release, how to move on. What do I do with myself? What do I do? What did I do to create this, this give and take, this paradigm? Every day, I lose more and more of myself without ever gaining it back, thinking that I am whole, but I am not.

I sit and watch, abandoned, under my false roof and behind my glass walls, trying, desperately trying, to reveal myself, find my silence, find my center, find who I truly am, but no one listens. They do not see, because the glass reflects my wishes, not myself. I was lost, long ago, and I fear that I can never be found again, doomed to always live other’s lives, to be a parasite. I fear I lack the strength to see clearly, to see beyond the lies, the limitations, the illusions, the fears; to truly change. I fear, and I do not deny that fear. I am alone, a loner by nature, and I fear I am doomed to always be so. I am too filled with chaos, too long gone, too lost to believe otherwise.

[oceans-s-heart]

Word Magic

Not that I blame you for not wanting to read or write more than you have to- it's no fun to write while obeying the poxy rules, or read a book you never wanted to, or have to 'take notes' and/or write a report about, or to even "read like a professor", like our teacher wants us to do. I mean, reading like a professor, as they call it (that name just takes all the fun out of it) is all well and good, but only on maybe your second or third, preferably fourth reading of it. And only if it is fit to be read that many times. In fact, don't try to read like a professor at all. Laugh or cry, as the case may warrant, at an allusion, or completely miss it. I can't say I can assure you that it won't significantly add or detract from the story- no one can. Oh there may be rules for the words on paper- cross your t's, dot your i's, grammar, punctuation, spelling- but when it comes to stories, well, you'd be lucky if you can get a basic guide line that may or may not apply. And what is a poem but a story put into verse or form, or sometimes just more eloquently put than normal. Oh, in school we were taught about rules, but anyone in the business knows there is no such thing. 

And if you look hard enough, you will see it too. Not the cold, hard, dry-cut thing defined by rules as it is made out to be in English classes- no, you will see it for the wild, passionate, unruly world it is. It is not nice, this world, but neither is it unfair. What you see if often what you get, and what you get is often more than what you see.

So it is not necessary for you to read like a professor, although it may help in some cases. A person should be able to enjoy a book without having to understand the nuances and allusions, and a good author is able to make it so. Some good authors even able to make an allusion obvious even to those who do not see, know, get, or understand it. It is often best when you read a book, to not understand the book intellectually until you have read it once. Or thrice. I have nothing against a great intellect, or those to which they may belong, and some say that I have a great intellect of my own (if I can ever get my head on straight). But there is something about reading and enjoying a great book and understanding one intellectually that is fundamentally different.

And that is where people who are truly literate are fundamentally different from those who are illiterate. Oh, I don't mean to insult your intellect- not at all. No, I don't mean the denotation of the word, with all it's bad connotations. What I mean by 'illiterate' is that you neither read nor write for fun, and someone who is illiterate is someone who cannot sense the magic behind the words. So by my reckoning, most of the world is illiterate. Not that I blame them.

[oceans-s-heart]

Humans

Humans are limitless. And we know it. It scares us so much that we impose ourselves with rules, give our power to others, limit ourselves to the minute. We tell ourselves that we would hurt ourselves if we ever were to use these powers. “oh, you’d break your own bones if you were to use your true strength”, “your bones weren’t meant to take that kind of pressure”, “your skeletal structure can only provide that kind of support when your muscles are completely relaxed”, “you’d burn out your mind if you were to think like that”, “we can only access up to 11% of our minds”, “these kids have this kind of mental disorder” or “this kind of mental disorder”, “the kid can’t process what we’re saying because of their mental disorder”, “this kid was born with a triple helix so he’s blind and deaf and has so many problems”.

Bullshit.

We can do whatever the hell we please and the only thing stopping us is ourselves. We give responsibility over our bodies, our actions, and our behaviors to others and that is the only reason those people have any power over ourselves. If we were to take control of our own actions, our own bodies, and our own behaviours, these people would no longer have any control over us. They wouldn’t be able to control us. The reason we give our power up to others is for fear of it, and because we fear our own power, we fear ourselves. Because we fear ourselves, we cannot accept ourselves. And for this, we cannot find peace. We fight, we argue, we control, we war, only because we fear ourselves, and that fear festers into hate, and that hate spills over into our lives, our surroundings, eachother. We are making ourselves sick, and that sickness is spreading into our surroundings. Look around. Do you see the dead trees, the sick, the dying? Or do you not even see green? Do you see the people, then? The ones who are without soul, without dreams, or who are afraid to have either? The sick ones, the dying ones, the ones who seek to ignore the problems and distract themselves from the truth? The ones who seek to change themselves into the people they think they should be, not be the people they are? The people who failed and hate the reality of themselves, at least? If you cannot see them, then maybe it is us who are blind, not the child who dared to be born with a triple helix instead of the standard double.

I am not saying “rebel”. I am not saying that everyone is truly afraid. I am not saying that you can kill yourself, or others, then simply will the dead back to life. Not to tell you what you should or should not do, but you shouldn’t try. It is each individual’s choice, and those that die do so for a reason. Ever thought that life may be painful for them, or the old ones have fulfilled their life, and so have no more reason to stay, nothing more to do but move on? Or maybe it is natural selection, and that person would never have lived in the first place? Or if they did, their life would have been a horrible one? We forget these things, and so we take mastery over eachother’s lives, forgetting the reasons for death and seeing it as something to be feared, a loss, a defeat, and not a release, a blessing, a gift, a fulfillment, as it might be.

I am not telling you what you should think. I am not stating these things as fact. I am merely sharing my reality with the world, and am putting these ideas out there to be discussed, thought about, considered. You may dismiss them as insanity, you make take them as the absolute truth. I just ask you to remember-

  It starts not with an action, but with an idea.

[oceans-s-heart]

Damn Muse

I am Muse

I am a knot with no clear ends, an enigma with no clear answers. I am a tangle of feelings and energy, with nowhere to go, no outlet, no end. I burn and churn, a tangle of threads where there should be a tight weave, a pile of stones where should be a wall. I look and seek something new, something intriguing, something I can channel my raw, unformed energy into and form something, anything. I fear what I am looking for is right before my eyes, something I have access to everyday, everynight. I chafe at the boundaries set for me, yearn for free reign, to be able to run without stopping, write without restrictions, learn all there is to learn, and believe whatever I may without need. I am a Muse.

Damn Muse

‘Tis a wonderful thing to have a muse. Or so I am told. Truthfully, I find it annoying. Whenever you want to do something, like write a book, for instance, you can’t. Or at least not the book, or not when you have time. You either end up writing something that hasn’t anything to do with the book (like this), or when you don’t have time, or when your trying to do something else (like a midterm essay. No kid, this actually happened to me). So when do you write the book? One suggestion was to write the book for an hour every day, then just go back to it when I feel like it. Well, that won’t work. For starters, muses just don’t work on command (as much as I would like mine too), and I would not be able to write a word without it. Second, all I would write would be crap (back to the whole, not a single word without my muse). Third, although it might help to stir my muse, I would have to rewrite everything. And that always sucks. No one would want to read my stuff. Heck, I wouldn’t want to read my stuff. So what do I do? I can’t go on as it is now. Neither can I force it. So what do I do.

Madness of a Muse

Boredom without end, without relief, to the point of madness. Bored while reading. Bored while playing, bored while talking, while watching a movie, typing a story, music! Bored. Bored, bored boredbored! What is there to do, there to go, to feel, learn? Nothing, so much as a word. To sleep, a sleep without dreams, for even in dreams am there is boredom. There is nothing new! The same story, same ending, same plot, characters. The same game, same type, same strategy, players. The same music, same style, same tones, makers. The same line, same trap, same loop, life.