Room For Nothing

                                                                                            by my crappy phone camera

I was tidying my bookshelf. I rearranged them by their genres; classics, thrillers, horror, children's books, biographies. I methodically removed all the books and wiped out all the dust on the surfaces. I then replaced them in a better, tidier order.  In the end, there was one whole unfilled compartment. I had more space! I looked at it and thought what I should put there. I was at once excited by the prospect that I could get more books to fill this space. But this excitement subsided as quickly as it came, giving way to a pang of guilt. I have so many books that have not been read. For me to fill this space with even more books would be excessive. The reason I was tidying the bookshelf in the first place was because I did not have enough space!

Now there is an empty space on my shelf. The spaces to its left and right are filled with books, this space in the middle lay barren. I stared at it and felt uneasy. How did I end up with the empty space smack in the middle, not the compartment to the left or the right? The empty space seemed wrong. A compartment should serve a function. An empty compartment on the shelf seemed unclean, blasphemous even. Space is provided to me and I put nothing there? The emptiness just did not make any sense. Other compartments being filled to the brim with books. Why should this compartment be empty? What made you so special? What made you different from the rest? Did you not know that you serve a purpose? To hold things, to keep things in order. This compartment had the tenacity to be empty? If I have an empty space would that mean my life is empty, that I am living a hollow existence? What the hell am I thinking? This is not right, not right at all! The longer I stared at the space, the stranger and more uncomfortable I felt. The roaring voices continued to pound at my mind.

Why? Why? Why...Why Not?

Then all at once there was silence. I stared at the empty compartment. The gaping hole stood out amongst the other compartments filled with books. The empty space that is not filled, does it yearn to be filled? No, it yearns NOT to be filled.  As I continued staring transfixed, calm came over me. Again I asked myself, why is this space empty? Why do I not use it?

But it IS being used, for emptiness. No, not emptiness. For nothing. It is my personal room for nothing. Things will always fill spaces. It is altogether far more difficult to keep spaces empty than it is to fill them. It is totally my choice for it to be filled or not. This nothing space is escape from the encroaching stress and incessant noise of life. It is space for possibilities. It can be anything I wish it to be. It is space for new things and experiences. The room for nothing is my liberation, my freedom. I had room for nothing, so I need to make room for nothing.

...Snowman...

With You Always

                                                                                                                            graphic by Zhban4ik

 
I know you love me. I love you too. Maybe you do not know me well.  But I am sure you feel me. Do not be jealous because I am loved by many. I love you as much as the others. Perhaps I should explain better. I shall share with you a little bit about myself, knowing a little of what I am perhaps would help you understand better what I am, love me a bit more for it.

The young ones come to me when they watch scary movies and later when they cannot sleep from nightmares. They look for me under the bed, in the closet, outside their half shut windows. I love children. They are so innocent, so easy to please. Just a little effort, half a shadow or an ugly face, and they are terrified. Lovely, my most appreciative audience.

But you grown ups, oh you silly bunch. Don't think I have forgotten you. You try to put on a strong face but deep down inside I know you feel it. Simple thrills don't do it for you anymore. All the more pleasing for me to be a little creative. The deep lingering feeling when you don't know what lies behind the door. The drip...drip...drip of the faucet late at night when you know there is no one around. Well, that's not quite true. I am around. You walk slowly and quietly towards it. As if that would make any difference. Okay, I will play along. After all, there's much fun to be had in the anticipation. Then you shut the faucet tight, it yields a little and the dripping stops. You turn and get back to your business. But just as you turn, it starts dripping again. Oh what lovely. What ever could it be? You know you shut it tight, heck you just fixed the damn thing several weeks back. You look at it and it stops. You stand there silent listening some more. Then what do I do? I come out of the faucet and strangle you to your watery death, watching your eyes bulge with more and more white and you skin turning purple. You struggle all over in spasms. Or do I emit a sharp edge and slice your throat over and over till your skin is so exposed, there is no more skin, only a lovely crimson patch. But no. I do not do any of those. Don't doubt I can do it, because I can. But  like I said. I love you. It wouldn't be any more fun if you simply just died would it. No, just having you think those things makes me happy enough. Oh, you really love me too don't you. Why else would you think what I would do with you.

You embrace me when you are uncertain, not knowing the future, when they question intentions of others. Oh I am always there for all, cradling you in my arms. Just accept me, I will always be there, whether you like it or not. Even if you don't love me. I will be there.

Hear me out. Let me profess this love to you. At night, I hug you. Some nights lightly, some nights real tight and snug. During the day, I know you are busy. So I keep quiet and let you go about it but when night comes, I will come to you again. I gave you your time, it's not fair you do not tend to me even after your busy day. On your way home, you look to the left and to the right. What are you looking for? I am there always with you. When you walk the dark dingy street, I will walk with you. Along the side walkway, the light brush of the bush which grew astray. It sent a shiver through your arm and down your spine. I felt it too! It felt lovely. I know you thought of me then. You look around, you couldn't see anyone. But you really should know, I was with you.

Oh, sometimes you are so silly. Which makes me love you more. What I love most about you is sometimes you surprise me, you delight me even though I do not even try. Calling me at the most unexpected times, though I am always happy to oblige. I will always come running without fail.

So fear not....I mean do fear. For I will always be with you.

It Comes

The blood, the blood,
A bleeding heart.
The scream, the scream,
A terrible cry.

Knock on the door. Don't let it in. Please don't let it in...

All Is None, None Is All

There is nothing. More there is none. But then again, more there is. More of everything, everything which is nothing. All things are nothing. And nothing is everything. The man is gone, there is no man. The man is all. None is all. All is none. All is the man. Darkness is gone. Light is absent. Where is the dark? Where is the light? Seeing all dark and feeling all light. All is dark. All is light. All there is, is light and dark. Where is the hot? Where is the cold? There is no warmth, there is no chill. Heat pulls into grasp and cold seeps in in equal measure. No heat no frost, constant relativity of what is. What is not. What would be. What would not be. The man is gone. What to do now? What to not do? Nothing to do but everything else. For the man is gone. Was there the tiny man to begin with? Yes, because you know him. The man is nothing and the man is everything. And so this is truth, and  this is lie. He is thesis, he is antithesis. Tiny man. Giant man. I am the man, he is the man, you are the man, they are the man.  All are no man.

Mister B. Gone

by Clive Barker

Just finished this book just now. Took me about 6 hours to finish. It is as a very good story and a very interesting idea.

Firstly it is a book. And what is important is that it is a book. There is a demon trapped in this book. If you open it, you will find Mister B. the demon, He will ask you to burn this book and read no further. If you read on it is at your own peril.

What he treats you to is the story of his life and how he ended up being trapped in this book. But be warned, this book is all things evil and by its end you may be as corrupted as Mister B. Mister B. has a very interesting story to tell. If you would like to wager your life, do read it...

Transparently Opaque

by the flux

Eyes wide open staring into space. I cannot see anything, blinded by the constant stream of nonsensical thoughts. The incessant white noise, barraging my mind. Thumping, thumping. Clawing on the walls of my chalkboard skull. My eyes strain even more to see, to not see. To have clarity, to know nothing. I breathe for it to be quiet. Please be quiet. Breathe deep. Silence please. Silence now. Silence with eyes wide open. Frozen in a moment in time where past and future do not touch me. Is this voluntary or am I pushed to the edge of sanity? Frozen on my own volition or am I paralyzed by thoughts. But at least there is silence. Silence even for a little while.

But it is just a little while. The little creaks on the edges. The mind it plays tricks again. The walls break, the silence break. White noise come flooding back again. Flooding through, flows of the duality. Duality which sustains my condition. Duality which slowly killing. The past nudges me to recall, to feel the misery again. It says, "Do you remember? You made a mistake. You failed." The present it has nothing to say. It is silent. Then the future continues on, "What do you do now? Where do you go? Consider. Consider. You must consider! Your end will come, you world will crash. Be careful. Please consider." The present again says nothing.

The present, it will never says anything because there is nothing to say. Past speaks of the past what has been and cannot be altered. Future speaks of things to come which may or may not come to pass. Still, the screaming duality has left me here. Immobile and eyes wide open. Void of motion, of action. The present has no voice, I have no voice. It has given up. Have I given up.

Out The Room, Standing Straight

                                                                            by shutterbug13




Small cracks in view, streams of white seep through. These streams of light, they thicken, they strengthen. And reaches and stretch, till it touches the man. Then it breaks a loud crack. A crash and a boom. Then there is no chair, there is no room. The man he stands, surrounded by white. The light blinds with not a spot of dark in sight. Cold it is not but neither is there hot. It is the more the lacking of cold than there is warmth. The man he begins to walk, in his new found freedom from the dark. He walks on and on. Walks ahead and sideways, upwards and down. There is no difference, there is no change. He might as well walk in circles or straight. He slumps down to sit on the white floor, finding he sits on nothing at all. He stands up again to see where he is. To hold right the top of the peak, of what is a peak. He looks around to where he does not know, there is no place to go. He bows down and looks at himself. The light now seeps into his skin. penetrating his being. It goes deeper and deeper, brighter and brighter. Till it hurts his eyes, his bones feels to shatter. He lies on the ground, motionless now. But what orientation is he in the light. What he thought walking might as well be drifting, for he realize now there is no floor, there is no ceiling. So motionless now he is, no point for moving. He slumps there waiting, end of this feeling. Brighter there is none, the blinding light is all there is. Emptier there is none. He missed the room and chair he sits. Endless space, Blinding light. A tiny man.

In The Room, On The Chair

Graphic by ikiz

Sitting on the chair, he sits on the chair. He was on the chair sitting. The chair is in the room, the room the chair is in, he sits on the chair in the room. It is dark. He feels the cold on his skin, prickling cold. The hairs on his body standing, the cold dank and thick. The cold it wraps around him, the dank it touches him, very much gripping him. But again, it is dark, very dark. His eyes wide open but he cannot see. He waits for the darkness to settle but it never does. It penetrates deeper and deeper, darker and darker. All he knows is this. He is in a room, dark and cold. And he sits in a chair. He reaches forward from the chair and it creaks. The path of hand trying to grip, only grips the thin cold air. Then the darkness thickens again, folding around even denser. And pushes him into the chair still. It grips him harder. He can no longer move, move he no longer can, held hard in position, motionless in pain. The cold in his flesh now. The darkness in his blood now, pumping through his veins. He rocks gently back and forth, the chair a pendulum of creaking. The cold now grips the heart, and cold liquid pumps more cold. He sits there waiting. The dark is all there is. Darker there is none. The running cold is all he feels. Colder there is none. In the room, in the chair he sits. Silent now. All there is, there is none. In the room, on the chair. A tiny man.

Unknown Quantity

Trapped in pitch darkness
Desperation causes suffocation
Any confinement shall wilt the kept
Till it is pitiful and broken

In the confines to keep it safe
Stretches and pulls
It is stuck, it cannot grow
Only serving poison to the soul

Though uncertain fear roams in freedom
There is blissful liberation
For the false will be known and fade away
And the true will return always

Alas a short lived comfort
Dread returns in full force
Gripping immobile
Wrenching cold sweat

Cannot be kept nor sent away
It is always present
To confound further logic
Disregard only feeds its growth

I have no malady
If you do, tell me more
Only fear of the unknown
Unquantifiable quantity

End of the Dream

I had a dream, the dream that ended all dreams. It was bittersweet but momentous and affecting. This is the end of that chapter, and I shall begin work. It needs to be fulfilled, for better or worst.

My Walk Along The River

by Gary the very important person.

Shut up. Please shut up. I am on holiday. This is not the time nor the place. Look at this beautiful place. Look at the river and the boats. Let's not think about anything else and just appreciate the beauty. How beautiful. How wonderfully the river reflects the afternoon sun... I wonder what time it is back home. Must be just after dawn there. That reminds me I better call Mark later and make sure he sends the proposal off today. Or is that tomorrow. I better check my calendar. Oh, I left my organizer back at the hotel, better go...No, No, No. On holiday. Focus. You are here to relax. So relax damn it. Okay, let's just sit down here on the bench and breathe. Deep breaths, deep breaths. There we go. Peace and quiet. I did not drive 8 hours just to be concerned endlessly of work. Smell the fresh air. How perfectly crisp and clean. You'd never get air like this back in the city, no siree Bob. I bet Jim and Daisy never tasted air like this. I will go back and tell them about it. How wonderful it is. I should call them later this evening. Better still, I should take some pictures and put it up on my blog. Then everyone would know how great my holiday is. This has got to be one of the the best holidays I have ever been on... Stop this Gary! Enjoy the moment, enjoy the moment......
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This is not working. I need to call Mark about that proposal.

the obsession

for everything

From broad strokes of imagination,
I am your monster, your horror.
I am you and you are I, one and the same.
You created me, now you will never rid me.
Your need was my hunger,
Now my want is your order,
Don't deny me, no reason trying.
You will never rid me. Never...

Peculiarity

by the regular person

Peculiar things happen to peculiar people. Sometimes peculiar things happen to normal people simply because these normal people do not know that they are indeed in themselves peculiar. When you are peculiar you are not likely to think yourself peculiar. You would think the person who is not like me that is peculiar. So by that definition everyone is somewhat peculiar simply because you are not exactly like me and I am not exactly like you. Indeed what peculiar things happening to me might not seem peculiar to me but would seem absolutely peculiar to you. However there are people that fit perfectly the definition of peculiarity for both me and you, for some people are just too darned peculiar to be normal. That is all the people out there staring peculiarly at me.

the messenger

for the infinite

Little castle wings turn to let loose silent dove. No, she lies. No, she flies. Yes, she dives. She dives. She dives...Then she rises. She rises. She rises. Swift a spins. And turns. And turns. And disappears...

Follow the dove. Flutter little wings, wisp an apparition no little too soon, no little too late. Just in time she arrives. Exact time, exact place. Tender sweet cooing clear and crisp. Not comprehending yet understanding. Return whence you come to your infinite seclusion.

She soars to yonder whilst the rest slumber. Stopped  a sudden by the sharp, strong and wicked. Wringing her neck, she struggles. And struggles. Free you are no more. Gasp for air, gasp for life. She dies. You die. All of yourself dead. Rejoice, rejoice for she is dead. Dead as dead.

Alas no end, for end. Rebirth, reborn, reincarnate. She returns living sure as death. For what once alive cannot truly perish. Again she flies. And dives. And rises. And disappears...to hers infinite seclusion.

I do not Comprehend

of  limited headspace and logic
 
What?
Why?
How?
Who?
Where?
I don't know...But I feel like bashing your head in to find out.
Not that it helps, just makes me feel better. : )