Pond Scum

I'm sick of hearing, "you can't". It's starting to sound like the mantra of the majority.

"You can't live in a 10 X 10 apartment."
"You can't work two jobs."
"You can't up and move to another country."
"You can't just be a writer."

Why?

"Because, because you can't! It's not that easy."

No, it's not. But I don't want to do these things because they're easy. I want to do them because they're worth it. Because the higher the pressure the more liberty you feel once it's released. Because overcoming the challenge is half the fun. Because proving you wrong is inspiration enough to get out of bed, to run instead of walk, to jump when told to sit. Because in a world where the survival of the fittest has become a mere concept, the only true form of freedom is recklessness.

No, I don't want your advice, no, I don't need to slow down, and no, I didn't ask you what you're doing this weekend, because let me guess; you're going to check out that new gimmick restaurant where they lock up your cell phones because you and your friends are a internet-nymphos that can't restrain yourselves from getting off on hashtags in the middle of dinner.

"But why would you want to leave Canada? You don't realize how lucky you are."

Do you want to know, do you really, really want to know why I hate it here?

Because of people like you.

Because you bore the fucking shit out of me. Because you watch reality TV and shop at Victoria Secret. Because you're in a perpetual state of waiting for the weekend. And when it comes, you tip well, and absolve yourself of a 600 calorie coffee with the singular Hail Mary, "It's Friday!".

And as I watch you sacrifice your body to the gods of the Weekend, smearing the innards of an imported danish over your face like war paint, I can tell who you really are. Because, don't forget, I've seen you on Monday.

I've seen you Monday morning when I'm not important enough to even make eye contact with, when you bitch and moan because your 6 figure salary still makes you get up before nine. And for all of the smiles and gratuity that the weekend brings, that's who you really are.
A fucking Monday.

So instead of sticking around and sniveling about my surroundings, I want to escape. To experience, examine and explore. I've taken enough from Canada, for a long, long time.

I see that you're already comfortable here. You've settled in, calm and complacent. Not looking to leave, to move, to run like a river. No. You are happy being still. You are happy being stagnant.

And maybe it's the fact that I can't sit without shaking my legs, maybe it's because I've moved more times than years I've been alive, but I feel more at home in the crash of the wave than the calm of a lake. And you told me that you're scared of the ocean, but while still water is easier to swim in, it's the one that gets pond scum.


never yours,
LF

Now and Then

Do you ever wake up and feel like anything is possible?

As if anything you decide to do that day is the right thing. The perfect thing. You can make no wrong choices. You could get hit by a car and it would be the best thing to ever happen to you, because it happened today.

You decide to wander around the city where you've live. Where you've lived for years, but now, today, you see the place as a newcomer. A tourist in your own town. Every building beckons, and what better one to visit first than the bookstore?

Everyday should start with a trip to the bookstore, you think.

The small shop is full of staff recommendations and ratings from the internet. Every cover tempts you. They all seem so fucking interesting. You want to pick them up and eat them whole. Digest them all at once. This reminds you that you'll never have enough time to read everything, but instead of bleak, this prospect seems romantic. It means that every book you do get to read is much sweeter. And it's cool, because you get to join the book's club. The story becomes the common denominator between you and a bunch of strangers who've also read it.

There's a woman working at the book store. She talks to you about Thailand and this yoga retreat she just returned from. It sounds beautiful. She's beautiful. So beautiful in fact, you think she may be the most beautiful person you've ever seen. That's nice.

You leave the book store with nothing, as it's too overwhelming to try and pick a book, and it was enough just to look at them.

On the street you notice everyone seems as perfect as the woman did. Flawless. Whole. With their experiences carried on their shoulders, bursting through their eyes and spun into the palms of their hands. Everyone has a million little moments, memories and ideas all caught up in their hair and tucked into their pockets.

And they bring all of these moments into every interaction they have. Everyone who meets you sees you slightly differently. Because when they speak to you, they don't see you simply as you are in this moment. That's how an infant would see you. No, an adult sees you compared to the last person they spoke to, you become tinged with the taste of someone they know who has your same name. They see you with a hint of hatred because your eyes look like their ex-girlfriend's, or they adore you immediately because you said hello the way their father does. Do you understand? When you meet someone, you're meeting their entire life. All of their experiences bundled up and traveling around on two legs. Every interaction unwittingly influenced by all of their predetermined notions and assumptions.

So. Here, you've realized this overwhelming awesome fact. Which you don't really know how to explain, but when you try you find yourself saying things like; "It's like we can't ever really know anyone, you know?" or "When was the last time you cried?" or "I hope I see her again." but in the end you don't mind if you don't. See her, I mean. You don't mind that you'll never see the woman again.  Like maybe she and you were only supposed to have that moment in the bookstore. Just a flash of personality in each others day. A random face that will show up in a dream two years from now. And when you wake up you'll wonder if she dreamt of you too.

That would be ok. That would be good. Because if nothing else, it's nice to be dreamt about now and then. Yes, you think, that would be enough.

Hereditary Debt

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and seventeen

It's funny, they say that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory, but it's the seeing of other people that most reminds me of you. How different you were from everyone else. And -very rarely- I see a similarity. Like today, I met a man that had your mouth, crooked and broken. Gone too hungry too many times to ever leave leftovers on its plate again.

When we kissed I could taste the coffee on his tongue, and knew that he took it like you had, with too much sugar because that was free. A coffee shop favor, sweet charity.

"Dance with me?" He asked.

But I couldn't, because he wouldn't move like you had, and if we did dance, he would stop reminding me of you.

So we talked for a while, and I watched his mouth. It moved like yours. Parting just a bit. Not much to say, and not saying much when it did. I remember, I used to love you like this.

"A soft spoken monster", you called yourself. But you were my Arcadia. The heaven I never thought I could get into.

I still wear your shirt, not sure if I can actually feel you, or am just imagining your skin woven through the fabric.

The tag on it reads;

50% Cotton
30% Polyester
15% Nostalgia
4% Regret
and 1% ....

What is that last one percent? What is the thing that completes the shirt (and by shirt I mean me)?

People always want to touch the pretty things they see, and debt comes hereditarily to me.

Back then, I knew you were yours. Not mine, not theirs, and only fleetingly would I have the chance to take your poverty away.

I scraped off your barnacles while I could. You, so distant, barely noticed when your leeches became mine; your greedy black monkey, now attached to my spine.

I grew heavy with weight, but had a new, impossible, impervious 1%. I had found it in your lips, your mouth, your kiss.

So, the morning you told me, 'I have to go.'
I made too-sweet coffee and said, 'I know.'

And it's funny I guess, in a sort of sad way, that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. Because try as I might, every. damn. night.
I really, can't think what you smelled like.

Creator of Words

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and sixteen

/ I keep putting my hand back into the flame

wondering if I'll ever catch fire/

So who are you?

She asks of me

She asks of me,

the mirrors three

three angles three angels three angler-fish

three curly cue lights on curly cue fish

So who are you?

I ask of her

I ask of her

the murderer

the killer the soldier the warrior true

the one who abolishes anything new

So who are we?

We ask of each other

We ask of each other

our blood and bone brothers

So how can I stop her?

 HE asks the three

the three different words

three versions of me

With fire!

With water!

With forgotten name!

Whispers the feather, onto the stain.

Whispers the heart, onto the brain;

"Stop her you must not,

for she is we.

She is the dear spine,

that ties you to me,

but spinal chords snapped,

she is the one

who tears us apart,

who rends us undone."

Then how can we keep her?

Whispers the flesh

Whispers the young one

Seven years fresh

"To keep her held straight,

you must lay her down.

Gently, alone,

weave her a crown.

Hands, this is your task,

tie it up soon.

Ribbons of flesh,

Weaved under the moon.

Muscles and sinew,

lend us yourselves,

lend us your strength,

your wicker-ous cells."

The spine yes she needs us!

Kneads us all day,

growing us weary,

Making us slaves!

"We cannot undo her,

or selves, fall apart.

We cannot taboo her,

or curse our own."

-heart

But body!

HE cries

She's not even of us!

"Wrong!"

-the heart lies-

"We changed once she loved us!

Souls are not separate, dependent beings,

they barter and wager,

trade parts between.

Like alloys of metal, once fused;

no refusal.

The fusion of love is a permanent rule."

Don't listen-

-brain starts

but heart beats too strong

HE cannot hear brain,

o-ver bloody throng

"Keep her we must,

and keep her we shall"

The pumping red boa

tells the other halves

And HE nods, for though she had left him un-spun

Left him a hero, lost and unsung,

this muse, this music,

his life's inspiration,

she left him a bone,

called 'pure desperation'

"Come back, come back,

my sweet Jezabel.

I'll light you a fire,

remind you of hell.

I'll stick in my hand, and let it catch flame.

I'll bat away bats,

keep darkness at bay.

Scorching my arm

and burning my wrist,

I'll keep you unharmed,

I'll make you my BITCH

No, no! I misspoke,

please don't run away.

I simply mean,

I will make you pay

STAY! I meant stay,

oh my tongue's all a twist!

My mind has been muted,

my thoughts, all a mist.

He struggles with matches

to bring her back.

No wood does he have,

but his cabin shack.

With hair from the witches,

he sparks up a pyre.

Throwing in notebooks,

beckoning, HIGHER!

The pages do fry,

their muse-master spire,

and he burns up their words,

A Love Affair Fire.

His product, his project,

his whole sense of being,

belittled and quitted,

un-requited it seemed.

But just as the last works

melted away,

a piece of ash rises,

like salt from a bay,

and yea here what have HE?

What have we?

HE says

"It's her,"

says the heart

"she's no longer dead."

And red-orange; heat mottled,

a minuscule bird,

a flame-feathered angel,

Creator of Words,

wakes up and blinks her, e-ternal eye.

"Come," coos the Phoenix "It is time to write."

The Hero of Humiliation

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and fifteen

Everyday I hang myself

I nail myself

I staple myself to the wall

Everyday I bleed myself

I let myself

I rub my blood out in the hall

Everyday I hate myself

berate myself

I get out of bed and mandate myself

to update myself

to curate myself

Artist the fuck up and create myself

Everyday I design myself
define myself
I put on my face and outline myself

Everyday I dissect myself

I correct myself

Take out my parts and infect myself

I change myself

rearrange myself

I paint all my organs and stain myself

Everyday I reword myself

martyr myself

Use the strings from the Beats to suture myself

I collect myself

Resurrect myself

My volition in life; to perfect myself

If I fail myself

derail myself

I'll have nothing but a cheap veil of myself;

a shattered bulb 

a melted fuse

a pack of matches burned and used.

No supernova, 

glory,

fame.

No concrete star,

with golden name.

Forgotten, faded,

dusty muse.

Mona Lisa,

cut and bruised.

My blood still smeared all down the hall,

my skin still nailed up to the wall.

My body scarred from mutilation,

mapped attempts at self-creation.

A jagged, 

torn up,

constellation,

The Hero of Humiliation.

Don't we all fear failure's kiss?

For if you shoot 

for the moon 

and miss,

you'll rot away in the abyss.

Reckless Mess

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and ten

Reckless Mess

Let the lightning strike me down

I'm leaving my man and skipping this town,

I'd rather go out in a flash than drown

I'd rather walk lone than march in a crowd.

Here I come and here I go,

hear me rattle down the road,

ain't got no silver

ain't got no gold

but I got my youth and I got my code;

Onwards and Upwards; never plateau

nowhere to be and all-where to go,

I'm chasing the sun

and racing the snow.

Leave me be baby

let lie your woe.

Sleep and you'll dream,

I'll dream while you sleep,

I'll dream in the ocean

I'll dream in the street

I'll dream while the city can't rest it's head,

I'll dream of the day I've earned to be dead.

For the wicked don't rest

and the restful are tricky,

They want what I've got;

but what I've got I ain't givin'.

It's called freedom, high strung,

a quick trigger finger,

Lungs nice and young

and a refuse to linger.

I've got powder for guns,

and frustrations to light it,

a rocket for one 

bad reasons ignite it.

Here I come here I go

while the night is still young,

and the air is still hot with the blood of the sun.

Not one silver or gold

to weigh down my steps,

I'm leaving this town

I'm placing my bets.

Call on my mind

and raise on my body,

I'm deaf and I'm blind

but far from done talking.

Because I'm still blessed with the ire yet fresh,

from my twenty-year-flesh.

Ain't no room to digest 

and reach peace or rest.

I am war, I am leather,

I am risky endeavor.

I am servant and king,

I'm my own everything.

Hear me come, hear me go,

running down open road.

Call me fool, call me lame

call me dumb and insane,

Call me cheap, call me broke

call me lowly and choked,

Call me loud as you can

for already I'm gone, to wherever I ran,

And as loud as you scream,

You're destined to be, just an echo of me.

So leave me be baby

let lie your woe,

You can sleep while you dream

and I'll dream while I go.

Screw The "Divine Feminine"

Be forewarned. I am about to address something that many will see as belittling women. In everything that I say, I do not mean to claim that men and women are the exact same, I simply want to point out some issues that I have with the “divine feminine” myth, in that women are more sacred or holy than men. What I will say requires you to believe in a soul, and who doesn’t hope they are made of more than a few expiring elements combined? I want to talk about a theory I have that souls do not have a sex, but the way our physical bodies influence our souls through chemical reactions that induce certain emotions and thoughts make us believe we are inherently gendered.

Open your mind and let my theories appall or enthrall you.

Yours recklessly,

Lillith Foxx

If women are the "divine feminine" then how come most major spiritual figures are men?

That’s not to say that men are more divine either, I’m simply pointing out that the evidence doesn’t allow for women to be held in a higher regard. You may think; but women can give the gift of life! They carry children inside them and give birth to humans that weren’t there before. Tiny little people walk right out of them. Women are like imperfect cloning machines.

My argument is this; when you give a man enough estrogen, he starts to act and react like a woman. No, his body may not be able to carry a child, but he feels as though he could. The maternal instinct is not in us as women, but in us as humans that have a certain hormonal influence. Just like if you gave a woman enough testosterone she would become irrationally territorial and competitive. Acting as if she were a man.

You go!..girl?

The only reason men and women are different is not because our “selves” or our “souls” have a gender, but the influence that our physical bodies (ie; hormones, genetics, periods) have on the way our mind operates. You’ve probably seen by now the scientific explanation of love, how it’s really just a chemical reaction influencing your emotions with the influx of dopamine and tempting pheromones when you look at someone with perfect symmetry and baby-makin’ features. Well that’s the same influence that hormones have on “spirituality”.

I argue that many have confused women’s open emotions with a knowledge of the ether. Females are so persuaded and often downright controlled by our emotions that we see pretty things and get happy, or see someone hurt and start crying because our bodies are telling us to. So that when we have children of our own we know to lay them on a bed of flowers rather than a ball of barbed wire. It’s that maternal instinct that basically rules our lives. Men on the other hand are looking for protection and strength to guard their families. This does not make them less spiritual, their instincts simply do not seem as gentle or peaceful as women's.

Her mom must have been wired wrong.

Women who themselves support the divine feminine ideal are supporting (probably unknowingly) a much larger issue that I won’t fully get into here, sexism.

Claiming that women are in any way more ‘special’ than men, (simply because we can carry babies-which we couldn’t do without men- and which we forget that we are not obligated  to do) totally negates every important stand that women have taken to demand equality.

We want the same pay! We want the same opportunities and treatment! We want to be seen as humans! Oh but we also want to be seen as more delicate, spiritual, intuitive beings than men. Do you see the insanity here?

I used to cringe at the word feminism, (which a friend recently pointed out simply means ‘the doctrine advocating social, political, and all other rights of women equal to those of men.’) because I was so used to the overly-righteous and sometimes straight up misandry from feminist activists that it was terrifying.

We’ve all seen the bitchy feminist character in movies who is usually pushed to the extreme of a man-hating, short-haired, soulless women who get’s cracked on a couple times and when she fails to jump on a dick within the first 30 minutes of the film she’s thenceforth referred to as a dyke. That is NOT equality. She is not your average woman and if our choices for cinematic representation are a dumb, likeable girl or a smart, hard-assed cunt, who do you think most women would choose?

Of course you are not the average woman (if you are indeed of the feminine persuasion), you are strong and independent and know how to download torrents all on your own so you demand a better representation than that. And I agree! But if you want society to give you the respect you deserve, you’ll have to let go of the petty ideals of being a woman. Yes you have boobs, yes you have a uterus, yes you can get dirty as hard as the men, no you may not expect special treatment or a reward for it.

Yes it’s usually tough women who make it in the industry (whichever one that may be) but it’s usually tough men as well. If you’re a pussy you’ll fail as either sex, so stop demanding a gentler hand to shake. This is not meant to be anti-feminine, this is simply anti-divine-feminine. This is for you to realize how unfair it is to rant and rant and rant about adequation, and still support the “uber female”. We, as beings, are born into infinitely different combinations of the exact same material. We naturally have access to all of the same knowledge, tools, powers that be, (or whatever you believe in) energy, feelings, attitudes and dispositions. They are not separated or divided unevenly at birth between the sexes, so why do we claim it to be so?

Obviously 'Mother Earth' is preggers. All the time. But still pretty right?

Think of this; we call her “Mother Earth”, Why? I doubt if there was a spirit of the earth that it would be in the shape of a human, let alone male or female. Do you really think there would be some sort of gender to something that powerful and whole? No. It would be some asexual spirit that gives and takes and keeps things in balance. If it were a mother, don’t you think there would be too many imbalances in the world?  As in no tree could ever die, because what mother would let her children pass away? No, it would need aspects of both genders to be a true god. But because the earth has “given birth” to so many things; animals and rivers and agriculture and such, we relate it to a woman. But there is competition and justice in nature as well. We have simply labelled it female because it’s easier for us to relate to.

It’s simpler to put things into black and white, male and female, hard and soft. The truth of the matter is, life is a kaleidoscope of colours and truths, and we are constantly changing and combining to form certain patterns and words and beings at one time or another, then separating again to become distinct personalities and shapes.

You are a man and I am a woman, if you pull back, we are both humans, pull back again, we are both mammals; farther, creatures of earth, members of our solar system, the milky way. Equal beings who are small samples of the bigger picture. But I am not more human than you, more spiritual, divine; only our physical bodies separate us, together we are yin & yang, but separate, we are whole.

The Deterioration of Our Current Generation

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and six

Last night I witnessed the deterioration of our current generation. Talks of shots and girl's tight tops, which beats are sick, which beers have hops.

A dance floor full of bodies doing nothing more than rocking; simply swaying back and forth letting their bare skin do the talking.

Girls are laughing loudly, flirting dumbly without pride. Boys are softly grabbing, trying hard to get inside.

I'm not under the impression that a club is good for sessions of intensive conversation; but there's a line of crossed digression 'tween a dance or delicatessen and if these young kids don't lessen their completely bared obsession with finding a sex connection I fear loss of life, regression and required intercession so we may stop this great depression and procede with the progression of these young children's ascension to the spiritual dimension.

They owe it to themselves to see there's more to life than spells of boredom bleached by alcohol and music loud and dollar bills spent carelessly on swaying wills of little girls who get their thrills all fully spilled out of tight clothes and popping compact coloured pills.

And as I danced to pulsing beat, seeing all eyes know not discreet, feeling an overwhelming stream; an ocean trying to break free, behind the dammed up river beds all dried up in the drunken heads, I felt much higher, even hallowed, for while you're playing in the shallows, I know exactly where I'll be, diving into the open sea.

The Rattle of Bones

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and five

We Will Live Like Smoke

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and two

      We will live like smoke. Free and flowing and forever changing. Shaped by the wind and carried by invisible powers. Love will lift us, trust will twist us, energy will enter us and in the dark assist us. We will be tendrils tumbling smooth. Never captured never controlled. If people were fire, you'd be a pyre and we'd be the sparks in the wind.

      We will live like shooting stars. Bright and surprising and ever-enticing. Burned in your sight so even when you close your eyes we shine. When you sleep we will soar, when you're wishing for more, t'will be us that you see out your window.

      We will live like dragons of old. The legends become us, and we become told. You'll hear of our ventures, 'How daring!' 'How bold!', but your eyes only glisten with the flash of fool's gold. We dragons have secrets to uplift your soul, we can strip off your shackles and let wings unfold. If only you'll listen to tales gone untold, we whisper the truth; You're being controlled.

      Just like the mice who are trapped in a maze, you sense out your prize and move on your way. But all routes have been found, to keep you contained, and though down on the ground, you feel unafraid, if you look up and around, you can see that you're caged.

      Even our paper has lines there to rule us, but essence and vapor have no need for cruel 'must'. So if you find out that the chains are unjust, remember that even iron can rust.

      A word of advice, for those who revoke, do not fear fire, once you've awoke. There's no hidden danger, dagger or cloak; For it is us Dragons, that live in the smoke.

The Spark

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred

“Take my hand.”

“Where are we going?”

“Take my hand and I'll show you.”

“But holding hands makes me sweat.”

“All the best things in life do.”

Mystery. The blistering history betwixt him and I was all of one half hour and twenty two seconds long. His name tag said Mister E, but I knew better than to fall for that one.

“Mister E?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Mister E? And what, you have a cat called Miss Tick?”

“No.”

“Oh, because a cat's not mystical enough.”

“No, because that would be a ridiculous name for a cat.”

And so it went when Mystery walked up to my booth on the sweltering shores of Pontianak. It was the bi-annual TUT, the Trans-Universal Travel convention, and I was there handing out brochures about the newest ESP heightener. How they used to have steroids for muscles, we had them for minds. The conventions were always packed full with wizard-wannabes, Joe Blows who couldn't keep their mundane little fingers out of the interstellar honey pot. And 'Mister E' here was no less a scoffing skeptic than I was disgusted by him.

“If you're not going to check out the product, you're gonna have to walk away.”

“I don't need your product.”

“Sure sure, because you've got all the multi-dimensional intelligence you need, right?”

“I have enough.”

“Then why don't you go set up your own booth on space jumping and leave me in peace?”

“You don't seem in peace.”

“How so?”

“You look warm.”

“Well we're dead set on the equator here, it's hard not to be a bit melty.”

“I'm fine.”

He didn't look fine. Mystery looked like the definition of a psychopath. Like a coked-up werewolf. Long black hair, eyes bright as a punch to the face, bulking shoulders ready to burst through his linen shirt. He was right though, not one drop of sweat on the bastard.

“You're used to the climate.”

“I just arrived from Norway.”

“Oh.”

You should know, the only reason I'm here right now is because my brother got himself arrested. On Europa of all places. No one gets arrested on Europa. It's the most laid back of all the available planets. There's nothing to do but surf and dive there for god's sake. A planet full of water, and he breaks the only law; don't feed the Krakens. In their right mind, no human would attempt this. But my brother having the rightest mind there is, will refuse not to use it to it's full potential.

Now, he is a creative genius. A new-new-new age artist. Ever since space-time was fully navigable by us humans, the really gifted ones have started exploring all over our universe. And where there's new material, there's a million artists trying to make it their own. Meet the New Wave of Avant Garde Impressionism. Meet Jean Luc Warhol. This is William S Banksy. My brother won't answer to anything but We. He says it forces people to include themselves in their judgements of him. 'We are so inane.' 'We just aren't normal.' 'We have NO talent whatsoever.' And so on and so forth. You can imagine what kind of shit he comes up with. This time it was to feed the Krakens different barrels of food dye and film their rainbow coloured ink trails throughout Europa. With a planet covered in water, he figured he'd get a good two, three days of footage that he could loop at the next TIFF, (Terra Interplanetary Film Festival; Terra being another livable planet only the most right minded could reach) but his tentacle-painting was cut short when he was arrested. Indonesia lets in anyone, except Kraken Violators apparently, thus, here I am, selling his shit steroids to fund his next project.

And I get to deal with psychos like Mister Mystery E over here. Not very impressed.

“If you want to stay cool, why don't you just let your mind do it for you?”

He meant magic. I can't do magic. I shake my head.

“What, your drugs don't work?”

“To build a fire, you have to have sticks to work with.”

Mystery nodded wisely.

Idiot.

“You can set fire to almost anything, all you need is a spark.”

“Great, thanks.” I shuffle some brochures around uselessly.

“I can give you that.”

I didn't see him as dangerous before, but now his eyes seemed brighter in a hungry way.

“How?”

“Come with me”

“To where?”

“Take my hand.”

“Where are we going?”

“Take my hand and I'll show you.”

“But holding hands makes me sweat.”

“All the best things in life do.”

And so here we are. Mystery and me. Me and Mister E. This beast of a man is about to take my sweaty hand and show me a spark somewhere in space. This is what my life has become. Following random men through wormholes. Welcome to 2013/1006/6781/All Time and Space that has Ever Existed. We can access everything now. Well, the chosen ones can. You and I are just here for the ride.

Wind. Walls of blowing air thicker than possible. Dazzling lights flash by in watercolour blurs. Inter-dimensional travel is like being the light fractured through a prism to make every hue human eyes can capture. You are blown apart into compounds of original skin; Iron, Carbon, Calcium, Nitrogen, a big bundle of vibrating Star Stuff. You can taste the sounds and hear the sights. Just on the verge of forgetting how it was supposed to look, my body slammed back into shape. 

“Mystery?! Somethings's wrong.”

“What?”

“I can't see anything!”

“I know.”

“What did you do? Where are we?”

“Erebus.”

“Great, where is that?”

“Seven hundred and fifty light years from Earth.”

“I could just be locked up in a basement, for all I can see.”

“Erebus is the darkest planet known to man. You're not blind, you're just not looking.”

“I am looking.”

“With what?”

“My eyes, obviously.”

“That's not going to work here, obviously.”

“Dick.” I shook my head. The ground didn't feel like ground, more of a dense fog. As though we were walking on cotton balls. Standing on this alien planet, we weren't freezing, burning, rotting or suffocating. I've heard how they do this, the wizards. (Let's face it, Mystery was no wannabe.) They have the brain-power to reconstruct the molecules of the universe. All that Carbon and Calcium from earlier? If you rearrange it and force it to vibrate at a different rate, it can basically become anything. 
This kind of atom-manipulation is how we aren't dead. With Mystery constantly sorting out the fibres of space we can go to un-inhabitable planets and travel at speeds of light and see in the dark and keep ourselves cool in the desert. Correction, he can do this stuff, I'm just a hitchhiker, a shadow, a ghost. I'm a vagabond girl in his mind-made world.

If you can't tell, I was starting to feel a bit useless.

I rubbed my eyes and stared into nothing.

“The widest eyes won't help you.”

“Neither will you!”

“You haven't asked.”

“Will. You. Help. Me,” It wasn't a question, it was a threat.

“Sure thing. Close your eyes.”

“They could be closed already.”

“But they aren't, I can see.”

“You're infuriating.”

“Close them.”

“Ok, now what.”

“Now, you sit.”

I lower myself cross-legged, “Like this?”

Silence.

“Uhm?”

“Oh, I nodded.” He laughs.

“Funny,”

“Close your-

“Eyes, yeah I know, I got that part.”

“You sure are cocky for someone who doesn't even know where they are. I was going to say, close your ears and open your mind.”

“Right, right. Open my mind. Close my ears. Then how can I hear you?”

No response.

“Mystery?"

Still nothing.

“If you're nodding again that doesn't even make sense.”

I'm talking to no one.

“Alright then, the hard way we go.”

Can you start something cold turkey?

Just like that, close your ears, open your mind. Breathe in, breathe out. Think about nothing. Keep your mind totally empty. Don't think about Mystery watching you in the dark. Don't think about We in his restrictive laser cuffs. Don't think about why this planet is so black. If Mystery is that powerful, couldn't he have just rearranged me a light? There's probably shit-all to see out here anyways. Out here in space. Where there's no one around, not just for miles but for years. That's a whole other level of loneliness. And if you've been left here, then it's just you and this small pocket of jimmied-up oxygen that will last who-knows-how-long. Completely abandoned on Erebus. In the stomach of the God of Darkness. Sitting on a compressed cloud, closing your ears and opening your mind. Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in.

You know the next part.

Breathe out.

Don't

think,

just

breathe

.

.

.

Slowly, you feel not so forgotten. You seem a bit lighter. Little pinpricks of weight are being lifted off of your head. Shard by shard, crystals are appearing in the blackness, like the remnants of a dream shattered by waking. There's a glimmer here and a shine there, and you don't move for fear of losing them. Eyes still closed, you realize you're not alone. In fact, you're surrounded by tiny gems of glowing light. Fairy dust across the sky. And there it is, the Milky Way, a lifetime away but you can see it in your mind's eye. Sitting here on Erebus, I can see a trillion stars with my eyes closed. It's beautiful, breathtaking, I would give my breath to look at it forever. To feel the energy of the Universe, to know the unlimited potential in each vibrating molecule. This is what humans were meant to do. This is what the rest of our brains were built for. This is raw, awesome, magic.

When I open my eyes, I can see everything.

Mystery is there, and he smiles,

“There's the spark.”

A Better Version of Life

365 Days of Creativity

day ninety seven

You work all night until

the last customer's filled

then you take your dollar bill

and you snort your crushed-up pill

You climb up your windowsill

where you can see over the hill

Just down to the other side

where there's a greener grass that hides

and there's a people who have pride

for they have got money to buy

a better version of life

And you can't understand why,

you were born on the poor side,

doomed to work until you die

stuck in the sand and it's high tide

Because your rope is just too short

and people let you down for sport

and there's no order in the court

so to escape you simply snort

until reality distorts

and you see lights upon the shore

glittering globes that teeter forth

As you gaze up through shapeless wave

you can see the lights do play

all of the images you crave

[Here you are basking on the sand]

[There you are purchasing your land]

[Everywhere money's in your hand]

You could stay like this for days

dreaming of life not as a slave

your friend the Powder here to save

you from a working class grave

but the time's come to misbehave

no more tv's control your brain

no more night shifts to make you strain

no more serving the rich & vain

you've got to get up on a plane

and leave this place for somewhere brighter,

travel to Paris in the summer

go to Thailand and Guatemala

Live in Japan and California

any place that you've never heard of

should be a place you want to learn of

And when you find yourself, in time,

back to that old hill's divide

you can finally realize

the grass is green on either side.

The Quietest Room

365 Days of Creativity

day ninety six

The room is quiet. Silent. So silent you can hear your organs working. 

If you had any.

Your skeleton sits cross-legged. Your arms hang down to the floor with your bare-bone palms faced up. The ceiling above you is moist; little beads of wet gather and drop into your open hands.

Each drop is a soul which rushes through you on contact. You see, but you don't learn. You hear, but you don't understand. Almost, you catch a name, but the rush is gone.

Forever you sit in the underworld. Absorbing souls as they drip beneath the earth. Feeling each life pass through you, wanting for one of your own.

You are Lucifer and God.

You are The River Styx.

You are the edge of the Universe and the end of Time.

You are all that is left when there's nothing left at all.

Soon the souls will stop dripping.

And silence will be all that you have,

No organs to keep you company

No souls to misunderstand,

No heartbeat to flutter wildly

No more wet in the palm of your hand.

Turn off the Lights

365 Days of Creativity

day ninety five

Fucking in the dark because you could be anyone. 

I could be anyone. Two anonymous animorphs moving 

in a twisted pile of lithe limbs and hot breathe. You are the

 Marquis de Sade. I am Madonna on the rocks. 

You are Gaia, I am Nikola Tesla. Our touch static. Ecstatic. 

Ecstatic addicts acting frantic in the deep sheets of each other's

 heat. Noiseless poise-less loyal-less coils; hot&high and never 

flickering only f u c k i n g f u c k i n g feeling love and hate

 and other things you can only feel when someone else is inside of 

you. Thrilling angry unfulfilling like killing things that don't 

want to die. Our sex like masturbation because

 in the dark you could be anyone. 

I could be anyone.

Do Not Try To Tame Me

365 Days of Creativity

day ninety two

I am not your girl to impress

              your dame to undress

              your damsel distressed

I am not your woman to woo

              your skirt to pursue

              your pigeon to coop

I am not your trophy to claim

              your lion to tame

              your habit to break

I am not your star to adore

              your island to shore

              your song to record

I cannot be branded and chained

              traded and slaved

              whipped and ashamed

I refuse to drop to a knee

              kiss on your ring

              battle or sing

I deny your title of king

              for what is a king

but a clown wearing mink?

I am not the 'divine feminine'

              for that is a term

              made up by men

'Lesser' or 'greater'

'better' or 'worse';

nothing but labels,

inaccurate words

Man or a woman,

bird or a beast,

nothing but bodies

by lifetimes are leased

              For people are humans

              no more than stars are just flames

              we are not our genders,

                              bodies, or brains

              you are a soul

              a brave entity

        who re-enters this world

            to learn endlessly

This is the Sound My Mind Makes.

I hate commitment but I'm addicted to tattoos.

I'm simultaneously narcissistic and self conscious.

I do not judge individuals, but when viewed as a group I can hate on a grand scale.

I never, ever feel bad for the 'tragedies' in the news, whether it be a tsunami or a suicide.

Even when I'm outwardly excited for something I'm always inwardly expecting it to fail.

I check out women more than I check out men, and not just from jealousy.

I think stripping is an art, but prostitution is a shame.

I don't think men objectify women, I think women objectify themselves. The only way to escape remarks on your physical appearance is to ruin your beauty and free yourself from sexual appetites.

There is nothing more beautiful than standing up for what and who you believe in.

If you're not growing and changing, you might as well be dead.

I do believe in something, but it's not God.

I want to escape technology forever, yet I check Facebook everyday.

The best way to earn my respect is to not care if you have it.

Family, friends, and flames are important, but never forget that you came into this world alone, and that's how you will leave it. Do what makes you happy, whatever it is, no matter what anyone says along the way. Never let anyone hold you back or dismiss your priorities. Don't be afraid to fuck up, and don't be too stuck up to say you're sorry. Help your friends and love your family, but fuck em all if they chain you down. Find your passion and live the fuck out of it, everything else will follow.

onwards&upwards

-foxx