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It’s All Relative

“My old friend, how have you been?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “I saved a fae. That’s about it.”

We laughed. Charly took my hand and kissed my fingers. He was always a sweet gentleman. “And how goes the world?”

I smiled at the kindness, but shook my head at the question. “The world is a mess,” I replied. “It’s different and devolving, but what can you do? They’re just mere mortals.” He nodded in agreement. “Besides, I’m more interested in how you have been. How are things here?”

He drank his tea the same as he has always taken it, a lot of grey with a bit of Earl, just a sprinkle of a fingernail or a hair to add flavor to the cup. “You’ve been gone a long while,” Charly said to me. “It’s been quiet. There hasn’t been much that has changed.”

“I think it’s good not much has changed.” I drank my tea, sweetened with a bit of honey. I didn’t drink tea like how I used to. Everything tasted better sweeter. “Even I haven’t changed that much. I’m still running away from things.”

We laughed and he shook his head. “Is it always so hard for you?” he asked me. “You deserve some bit of happiness in your life.”

“I’m working on it,” I replied. “I’m just impatient for things to get to where I want it to be. It’ll get there, eventually. The hardest things are the kinks,” I told him. He leaned in to listen. “There’s just a bit of annoyance.”

“What annoyance?” he asked. “It’s hard to imagine things irking you.”

I laughed. “Try becoming human. Everything is an annoyance then.” He chuckled. I wasn’t sure if he was ever human. From the moment I met him, he had never been to that world. “I think I’m stuck,” I began again. “It’s like a loop that keeps playing over and over again.”

“Tell me more,” Charly inquired.

“Remember Anna?”

He nodded. “How could I forget?” he asked me. “She’s still married to our best friend.”

“Yes, him.” I paused for a moment. “When they met, the three of us were dark and corrupted, terrible and horrid in our ways.” Charly grinned. He knew exactly how we were. We weren’t kind by any means. We killed and plundered and did such evil things, it was a wonder as to why we all were able to retire quite peacefully and safely in this world. “Well, when Demonico met Anna, she was sweet and innocent and unblemished. A spoiled princess she was. He was smitten from the moment he met her and he wooed her with words I’ve never heard from him ever.”

“Are you still upset about that?” His cheery brows twisted with concern.

I smiled and shook my head. “It was long ago. I’ve long moved past that now.” He nodded and I continued. “Well, the annoyance was exactly that and them and how it just replays even now. Must we all be sweet and innocent and unblemished to be protected? Sometimes I yearn for that, just someone to say they’d save me, even if I never required rescuing. It’s just the comfort of being loved enough that someone would that makes it good to hear.”

“I would save you,” Charly said.

“You did,” I replied. “And I thank you for it.”

He gave me a smile and I smiled back. He saved me long ago when my home was burned to the ground. There was nothing left but ashes and a trail of slime which led into the waters, back to from where they came out of the deep. They were beautiful with their jellied bodies and flashing blue and red lights, bio luminescent in the darkness of the night. I should’ve said something. I should’ve warned someone. I was a helpless brain dead fool who couldn’t remember herself, let alone the generations she lived in that small coastal town where everyone she grew to love grew old and died, leaving her behind.

“Anyhow, it’s different this time. The annoyances aren’t much now, only sometimes when my mind becomes frantic with frustrations and fears. I will wait to hear him say the things I want to hear when he’s ready, when he means it, and when it comes from him and from his heart. It might actually work this time, this happiness thing that eludes me so much. I might have it and I hope I do.”

“I hope you do too,” Charly told me. His expression was the same, a bit soft and sharp at the same time, but he was happy for me. “I am glad it is working out.”

I nodded. “It is working.” I was happy about it working too. Another thought came to mind. “About the fae,” I said. “She is mine. I don’t think any harm would come to her and she should very well stay out of trouble, but the moment something happens, please give me a call. I am keeping one here following her in twilight, but you know how faes are. She understands that the moment she disobeys, she will be under lock and key and a prisoner. I doubt she wants that as faes love their freedom all too much, even if it’s only an illusion.”

“There hasn’t been any accidents,” he assured me. “Mayfel will be fine.”

“And if you ever need gold, you know where I stash mine.”

He laughed. Charly didn’t need gold, ever. We all retired handsomely with enough to last us until the end of the world and beyond. “Thanks,” he answered with a smile. He paused for a moment. “Must you go so soon?”

I nodded. “If I stay longer, you know what will happen.”

“You eat the food in my fridge?” He grinned and I laughed.

“Yes! But no, really. My mind will drift and I wouldn’t be able to hold consciousness in the other place.”

“So lose consciousness,” Charly said to me. “It’s okay for you to relax a little.”

“You don’t know my life,” I replied. “Relaxing is an understatement. Losing consciousness is an understatement.” I laughed. “I have to go. There are many, many things I should do that I’m not doing. There are things I need to find again, old gods I need to be friends again with and so forth.”

“Old gods?” He wasn’t sure if I meant what he thought I meant or if I meant something else entirely. The latter was the correct one.

“The ones that can’t kill us,” I told him. “We let them be what they are. They don’t know what we are and I like it that way.”

He nodded in agreement. There was something freeing about not being noticed. “I’m sorry about not being there for you,” he told me.

I smiled and shook my head. “It’s past,” I said. “We already spoke of it.”

“I didn’t hear you.” He felt pained.

“I know,” I comforted him. “I don’t hold it against you. When I died, I didn’t die, I simply faded into the ether. He thought I died. Silly old gods and all.”

“I’m sorry you were alone.”

“Don’t be.” I got up and walked over and hugged him. “I was lonely then. I wasn’t alone.”

I despaired at the time. I was foolish and hurt at the time. I was suicidal at the time. But nothing happened. I died. He believed I died. And I sat there watching him turn back to his millions of constructs and all his human subjects whose potential apparently was greater than mine. I was glad he didn’t see me cry. I don’t remember how long I was crying. Through blurry eyes, there was a hand and I reached out for it. The man with the green eyes. He came to me when no other heard my cries.

“I’m not losing consciousness anymore,” I informed Charly with a laugh.

“Does that mean I’ll get to keep you longer?” he asked with a smile.

I shook my head. “No, it just means I have other things to do. I’ll see you soon.”

“Come again, Chao,” Charly said to me. I nodded and made a mental note to come again soonish.

 
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Posted by on November 30, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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The End of All Things

“It’s been a long time since I’ve held a sword, Charly.”

“Then you shouldn’t keep your sword waiting,” he replied.

Chao shook her head. A sword was the end of all things. A taste of blood required more blood and Chao was no longer the same. She didn’t thirst for blood nor mischievous fun. She was mild in manner and always had been, but without Charly and Demonico to slay by her side, there was no point in slaying at all. A game was only a game when there were players to be playing.

“Do you remember what it was like, that first night?” Charly asked her. “I remembered I took you from that forsaken port town and gave you a life of your own. You held that sword in your hand and it danced with you, slicing elegant patterns in its wake. You were great at the game, even much better than Demonico.”

She ignored the mention of the other. She had seen him recently and had used nonviolent ways to set him free from some sort of entrapment. Surely it wasn’t any of Charly’s fault. Demonico had probably been wandering realms when he was caught. The creatures who caught him were ferocious hunters. It took Chao, Angelus, the second Angelus, Shaar, Six, and Five to take down a single entity. Demonico was trapped underground with a horde of them.

Where was Demonico now? Probably home safe with his wife, Anna.

“I don’t live by the sword anymore,” Chao told him. “I live by kindness and goodness and all the things hoped for that are unseen.”

Charly laughed. Kindness and goodness? What was Chao now, a saint? The thought lingered in his throat as a deep chuckle that he couldn’t resist holding down. “Did you forget what we were?” he asked her. He cocked his head to the side and stared into her deep cherry eyes. She had forgotten, or have tried to forget. It was there, her old self, a fading light like a dying star. He held her upper arms and laid his chin against her left shoulder. “We are the darkness that creeps, silent and still, choking all life in our path. We are the heroes that heroes only dreamed to be like.”

His whispers made her shudder. “You don’t even make sense,” she told him. “You and Demonico may be darkness, but I am not and I will refuse to become that which I once was.”

He lifted his head to look at her and frowned. “You loved the blood.”

She nodded. “I did. I relished it.”

“And not now?”

“I loved it too much. The killing. The torture. The fun. If I started again, I wouldn’t stop.”

“You’re afraid,” he said with a smile, confident that he had found out why she changed. “You’re afraid of who you really are.”

Chao shook her head. “A sword is the end of all things. I’m not afraid for myself or of what I might do. I’m afraid of all the ones in my path and that also means you.”

He bit his tongue and released her. “I’m not in your path,” Charly asserted. “Demonico and I are the closest of your friends. You would not hurt us.”

She reached out and touched his cheek. “You and Demonico are indeed the closest of friends that I have.” She paused. “But I have hurt you both and I will again without regard because that’s my true nature. I hurt worse the ones I love.”

Charly resigned his imploration with a smile. “Then perhaps it is best that you do not wield a sword again.”

“I resist the temptations,” Chao said. “When I give in, I normally sleep it off instead. I’ve been good.”

“So I won’t see you again?” Charly asked. It had been too long and she never came by often enough as it was.

“Oh, you will,” she told him. “It’s hard to resist temptations.”

 
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Posted by on May 14, 2015 in Ongoing Story Progression

 

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How the Man with the Long Hair Turned into Mr. Grey

Something I wrote back in 2008/02/04. It’s part of a story.

***

The day is clear and beautiful as dewdrops still clung to the blades of grass trampled underfoot by the man who walked carelessly along the unmarked path in the dark woods. He is tall and slim – not skinny but pale, as pale as the creamy surface of the moon that sometimes could be seen in the sky during such a beautiful day as this. His long hair fell right below his waist, tied in a ponytail braid without a source of a tie. Loose strands of hair framed his angular yet long face. His eyes are a dreamy deep chestnut tinged with goldenrod streaks. His thin lips curled into a grin as thoughts of joy danced through his head.

He walked towards the edge of the dark woods, towards the village but not close to it. His destination is somewhere different than neither the quaint shops of arcane and modern delicacies in the midst of the village nor the huge architectural wonders of the city. He took a turn and walked forward, up a grassy hill that sloped more like the side of a deep cliff instead of a small rounded bump. He soon reached a modest residence that stood alone at the top, its white columns holding together two stories of which were painted bright white but had aged to an almost dirty speckled white where some patches of the house were covered with more dirt than the rest. The house had no windows visible and no entrances or exits save a door that stood in between two post classical columns.

He stepped up to the door and slightly raped three times, pausing to speculate whether the owner is home or not before lifting his hand to rap again. Suddenly, the door opened and he peered into the dimly lit home as his hand paused in mid air, waiting to rap again at the door.

Another man, a taller man with blonde hair and flaming green eyes looked at him nervously while tapping an irritated foot against the hardwood floor. “Yes?” He asked, raising an eyebrow in question of the man on his doorstep.

The first man mumbled a few words audible only to those within an arm’s reach and the owner of the residence opened the door wider and allowed him entry. The door shut behind as the first man walked inside with a smile, his mouth chattering and continuing on the conversation.

It is nearly dusk now and all around is quiet. No noisy beetles or chirping crickets abounded. The very beginnings of stars appeared overhead along with the moon to light the way for travelers but the house stood motionless. Then the door opened and the man with the long hair walked out, a look of satisfaction plastered on his face as he dragged behind him a huge mahogany box. The door shut itself as the man past and it once more stood still, resembling a sleeping giant.

The man walked the same way he had come and through the dark woods he ventured. The night sky changed the shadows of the woods and an eerie dread replaced the look of happiness on the man’s face. He is nervous now, glancing around at every stir within the woods; beads of sweat started to form on his face as he walked forward. The soft click of a tree branch or an old tree limb that cracked underneath the weight of a passing critter stopped him in his tracks. He stood still and cold, with the passing of the breeze, as a statue in the middle of the dark woods. His eyes scanned his surroundings, terrified of what he should find. A moment passed. Then more and more time passed and no creepy shadow came to pester him. He moved slowly and walked, his pace quickening as if he is silently being chased by some unseen presence.

The edge of the box hit against an ancient tree as the man stopped and from behind the tree, pulled out a shovel. The moistness of the dirt made it easy to scoop out and pile beside the roots of the tree. The rain the night before drenched the earth and made it easier for the man to dig deep and fast. It didn’t take very long until he dug enough and seeing that, he laid the shovel against the side of the tree as he shoved the box into the hole. It hit the bottom of the hole with a thud, a soft sound that barely could be heard but was rather felt by the swaying of the contents inside.

Reaching down, his fingers gently clasp the silver chain and ran it through thumb and forefinger, feeling the smoothness of the chain. His fingers stopped momentarily to outline the detail of the charm before he caught a glimpse of green.

The man with the green eyes stared intently at him, those bright green eyes flaming with anger. The man with the long hair bent down over the box with a casual grin. He bent down closer into the box to unclasp the necklace and as he did so, the man with the green eyes whispered something into his ear. He shrieked back from the box as if in pain and the flames within the green eyes of the man in the box burned into the depths of his soul. He gripped his head in agony and fell onto the ground, gasping for air.

It was a moment before it all faded and the man with the long hair stood up once more. He took the necklace and stuffed it into his pocket, a silver necklace with a silver charm. He laughed at the man in the box. The man with the green eyes was tied at the wrists and ankles with heavy rope. Although his mouth was not gagged, he did not speak. He only stared with unblinking eyes.

The man with the long hair spat into the box three times, took the shovel and poured dirt back into the box, starting from the foot of the box and working his way up to the face of the man with the green eyes. As he lifted the shovel high in the air, heaping full of rich black earth, he grinned at the man with the green eyes – those flaming green eyes which were all bright and vibrant looked back a lifeless and dull green, cloudy and weary. The man hesitated before tipping the shovel over to pour dirt on top of the man in the box. He heaved dirt back and forth, filling up the box and soon, filling up the hole that he had dug. He patted the earth with the backside of the shovel once his task is finished and smiled to himself; a hand deep into the inner reaches of his pocket, fingers intertwined with chain and charm. He threw the shovel behind the tree and spat three more times on the freshly buried grave. Satisfied, he began to walk away from the grave, the box, the tree, and the memories of the man with the green eyes. He walked farther and farther until it all disappeared behind him, nothing more than a forgotten memory that is too forgotten to be remembered.

He walked until he reached the edge of the woods and saw the shadowed outline of the village ahead. Stepping forward, he is thrown back into the woods by unseen hands. His body throbbed and convulsed until he is so distorted that he did not know which arm was where and which foot was there. The pain spasms down his body from head to toe in great waves of anguish and he cried out horribly. His eyes burned and he longed to dig them out of the sockets if he could find a way to signal a hand to will itself towards his face. Tears ran down his cheeks and his endless screams of agony went unheard.

When it was all over, he laid in a heap in the woods, a meter from the edge of the village path. His head was bent underneath his back, broken oddly to one side while his legs twisted and curled here and there. His arms were twisted in unnatural positions and his eyes glistened with tears as the chain in his pocket is still clutched safely in one hand. Death is only a small thing but for him, the necklace had brought him more than death; it brought him the loss of his freedom.

Those big brown eyes rolled back into his head and as the whites appeared, his eyes closed on its own. His body stiffened and his mind ran away to dance with the nymphs of the distant waterfall. Death took him, in those clawed hands, and carried him away on threads of wispy blackness.

A moment later, the man with the long hair blinked. His fingers slowly – and painfully – lifted his legs from on top of his arms. He managed somehow to untwist himself, to bend into place what was bent out of place, and to snap his head back into its rightful position. He muttered as he sat on the cold earth; holding both his hands before his eyes, he tested each finger to see if they worked.

Cursing, he got up and walked towards the path again, towards the edge of the village. With one foot brushing the outside of the dark woods, in mid step, he is thrown back with such force that he landed somewhere that he did not recognize. He cringed at the sound of something broken as he hit the dirt floor. He found himself okay although he is not spared the pain from impacting the earth. He bent his foot back into place and reconnected his spine, muttering curses into the darkness. Somewhere in the night, he could hear the man with the green eyes laughing at him. He cursed the man with the green eyes and tried to find his way back to the edge of the dark woods. He began walking, only to find himself amongst moving shadows and nothing more. He came to the conclusion after several attempts that he is lost; not only lost but damned as well.

 ***

It is past dark now and she worried about him. She sat upon the white loveseat, her legs tucked neatly under he tiny frame. She sips freshly brewed hot tea made from the pink and purple tea flowers that bloomed on the top of the still lake, nestled in the woods, hidden behind rock and waterfall. She brought the teacup to her lips, two fingers resting on the tiny handle, and took a sip or two. The hot liquid warms her as it passed through her throat. She sat still; the only movement came from the steady lifting of the teacup.  Her eyes glance out the living room bay windows often as she hoped to catch sight of him walking towards her front door. Her long black hair hung down her shoulders and spread itself upon the brocaded loveseat.

This is not the first time that he has been late but he has never been this late before. She thought back to their last conversation and was lost deep in thought when there came a knock at the door. Time had passed and it is late morning when he arrived. She got up slowly, deliberately, and set her teacup upon the saucer that rested at the edge of a thick cherry oak table. She did not rush but glided towards the door with a smile on her face, thinking of how she would hug him instead of scold him for worrying her so. She is happy enough that he is safe and sound.

The door opened and she looked at him a moment, a bit confused and a bit bothered by the way he looked. His clothes carried dirt in almost every crevice and fold; somewhere along the way, he needed a shower badly. The smell of damp earth clung to him and she guided him upstairs to use her bathroom instead of turning him around to go home. When he finished and came downstairs with the new clothes that she had set out for him, she set out a second cup of tea for him on the table. He found her sitting on the sofa, her eyes smiling at him while she sips hot tea from her own cup.

He sat himself down beside her, not too close and not too far. He thanked her and took a big gulp of tea, a bit clumsily of manners, before whispering to her. He whispered of things unknown, things that made her eyes grow wide with fright. She caught herself before she screamed at his words. Her voice fell to into a broken whisper as she asked him where he had been and what he had been doing. He shook his head at her then fumbled with something in his pocket. She drew back from him, anticipating whether she should jump out of harm’s way or whether she would faint at what he brought forward.

With sad eyes, he withdrew a thing from his pocket, holding it in a closed hand; he held it out to her. She strained to see inside his hand but she could not see past his fingers and she longed to see what it is that he would show her. His fingers opened, palm up, and she saw a shiny thing in his grasp. Tears filled her eyes and she clasped the shiny object in her own palm and recognized it to be her own. She couldn’t stop the tears and she fell against the loveseat sobbing. Her hands still clutched the object, pulling it towards her heart as he leaned in to hold her and comfort her. Through tears, she drew away from him and bid him to leave. He hesitated before nodding his head low and showed himself out the door.

She lay on her side against the cushions of the sofa, her legs drawn up towards her chest, pressing against the hurt and pain. Her sobs softened to quiet whimpers. She could hear him leaving, walking away from her house back into the dark woods. She did not move. The day passed and morning came but she had neither gotten up from the sofa nor did her daily chores around the small house. She can hear the garden whisper and scream for her but she did not answer. She can hear him back again, on her doorstep, steadily knocking and she still did not answer. He left after seeing that she would not come. But the next day passed the same way. The same voices heard, the same knocking, the same screaming in her ears. She drowned the noise out with her own crying, coming from deep within her.

The house felt empty and she felt alone. Lying, she found herself escaping into dreams – dreams of now distant memories that faded too fast for her to grasp a hold of. Even in sleep, tears rolled down, wetting the expensive upholstery as she wandered away from reality into the space in between. She did not venture outside, nor did she venture into her garden where the weeds took root, overtaking her crops. Wild vines climbed and settled themselves over her house in tight overlapping rows. For a year, everything stayed the same. For two years, no one has seen a trace of her. The flowers that once grew in her garden and filled the yard with a sweet fragrance shriveled and died underneath the thick carpet of weeds and vines. Three years passed and she is forgotten; time passed and it continued until the dark woods swallowed her home and her garden. There is no presence of anything inhabitable as the woods reclaimed a part of itself that had once been infected but now healed.

***

Ameggo, that charming child with the curly brown hair, stared up at Maeroleez and grinned. His master is happy and as long as his master is happy, he too is content. They entered a home in the middle of the dark woods and as soon as the door shut, he could feel a change in the atmosphere. Ameggo stopped talking of his adventures with his only friend Keera and watched silently at his owner.

Maeroleez stood quiet by the door for a moment and when he turned around, Ameggo – frightened by the gleam in his eyes – backed into a corner of the house, crawling underneath the ragged quilted cover that he slept with. The man came swiftly and grabbed the child by the throat with one hand and held him up against the wall. The child struggled but he could not free himself from the tight grasp. He dared not try to claw his master’s hands if he valued his life.

Those big amber brown eyes welled up with tears as Maeroleez tightened his grip around the child’s neck. Ameggo pleaded and begged but the man only lifted him higher, laughing, watching the child struggle to no avail. Ameggo watched as his master’s other hand balled into a fist and struck hard against his own left cheek. Pain swept through him and Maeroleez, watching him in pain, the big teardrops streaming down his face, only made his want to hurt the child increase. The man felt stronger, more powerful than the child who desperately tried to free himself from his owner’s clutches. He hit Ameggo again and again, each time, the child cried out in pain, satisfying the man’s twisted lust.

He slammed the child into the far corner. Ameggo hit the wall with a thud, sliding down, hitting the wooden floor with another loud thud. He watched as the child whimpered and curled himself into a ball in that corner of the house; soft choking sobs came as he walked towards the child.

His hand touched Ameggo’s shoulder and the child jumped back afraid. In a pleasing voice, he coaxed the child into his arms. He gently rocked the patted the child’s head.

“Hush now.” He whispered as Ameggo clutched tightly to him, still sobbing. “It hurts me so much more to hurt you. I have told you before not to destroy her things. Please listen dear Ameggo. Hurting you hurts me so much more and I don’t even want to hurt you to begin with.”

He held the child and rocked him until he stopped sobbing.

“You’ll behave this time, won’t you?”

Ameggo stared into those deep brown eyes, a different color from his own. He nodded his head in agreement.

“Good.” Maeroleez smiled a wide smile at the child. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat!”

 Ameggo smiled too and swallowed the last of his tears. He believed every word that was said to him. He forgot the pain and the hurt; he traded the hatred for happiness as he followed Maeroleez into the kitchen. All the while, Maeroleez chattered in laughter and Ameggo laughed along too.

 

 
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Posted by on December 5, 2014 in Stories, Unfinished Stories

 

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Perfect Timing

I’m watching 2 Broke Girls and in the last episode of Season One where Max and Caroline attend the gala in hopes of cornering Martha Stewart to try their homemade cupcakes, Max meets Johnny as she’s coming out of the bathroom. He tells her that they’ve gotten far in their careers to be able to attend such a high class event and she responds that they haven’t gotten far at all (in their relationship). She asked why and he said, “timing, I guess”.

It reminds me of how important timing really is, not only when it comes to relationships, but to everything. If we were just a bit early or a bit late for some things in life, our lives could’ve been totally different. And I’m not talking about being early or late by months or years, but merely by hours or days.

Back in high school, I was tricked into meeting a guy named Jay. He was a super skinny tall white goth kid who did indeed live in a creepy house with an energy vortex of some kind (you can feel the energy when you’re there–it was crazy, but real). He had a hot roommate who was Irish and had freckles and red hair…but that’s a different story. Anyhow, Jay was this pretty awesome artist and I was expecting my friend Will to drop me off at home, not take me to someone else’s house.

I met Keera for the first time at Jay’s house. She was tricked by whoever brought her there as well. She thought she was going to the movies. Instead, we both ended up at a house with a bunch of horny teenagers and neither of us cared one bit for them or the hormones. And since neither of us did drive and had cars and could leave, we were forced to stay and meet.

It was by perfect timing that I happened to find Will and reminded him that he promised he’d drop me off at home that day. He was literally about to leave when I found him and if I had been a couple minutes late in getting to him after the bell rang, I would’ve missed out on Jay and Keera and my life would’ve been different. Neither Jay nor Keera attended school where I did (Jay was out of school as he was in his mid twenties) and neither one of them lived anywhere in the city I lived in.

A few minutes late, and I would’ve never had stories that spanned three books about the Otherworld and all those who lived there. I would’ve never had Demonico or any of those characters and all the crazy that came with it.

How much of our lives is purely coincidental? How much of it is actually perfect timing? Timing is indeed everything.

I once worked with a guy who had the coolest name I’ve ever heard of: Zebediah. It’s not a common name. We’d call him Zeb for short. He played baseball and he’d always invite me to his games, but I never wanted to go. He wanted me to see him play, but I wasn’t ready for any relationships. I always turned him down. He was a great guy: funny, smart, old fashioned–perfect…but the timing wasn’t. I honestly can’t imagine what life would be like now if I had said yes back then and just accepted his offer.

Life itself is a series of perfect timing. Everything actually works together, whether for good or bad, to control our lives and move it in a direction that has purpose and meaning.

It’s like hurricane Hugo of ’89 or some time way back in the past when I was still a single digit in age. We had this gigantic tree right next to our house and it was so big and so strong that nothing could move it. That night, it actually crashed into our house and smashed everything. My mom, being scared alone with young kids in a storm while my dad worked 3rd shift, took all of us kids and packed us into the living room where we slept on the floor. We actually survived the gigantic tree crashing into our house and smashing everything into bits. Hugo wasn’t even a bad storm and normally, my mom wouldn’t move us all to the living room, but the tree went right through my baby sister’s crib. If we had all just gone to sleep that night like normal, we would’ve all been dead or in the very least, hurt very badly which would’ve affected the rest of our lives. I would’ve probably never been able to write stories that needed to be told.

I know for a fact that my life is a bunch of hit and misses–anything and everything from good and bad luck, to the people in my life or those who have been in my life, to how I’m even still alive today.

A few minutes sooner, being unbuckled in the back seat of my best friend’s boyfriend’s car and sitting right in the middle with a giant gap that I easily fit through when we hit head on with a car that suddenly made a left turn, I would’ve flew right out that front windshield window had time not literally slowed down enough so I could see what was coming before it happened and brace myself by spreading my arms and legs wide and holding on to the back of their chairs. There wasn’t time to actually put on a seat belt. To be honest, I wasn’t even paying any attention to the front of the car. If time hadn’t literally slowed down, I wouldn’t be here today. And as crazy as that sounded, I actually survived a horrible car crash that put the driver, who had on a seat belt, in a coma for five days. He was hurt that bad. The entire front of the car was totaled. And to make things worse, it was Mother’s Day. Christina’s boyfriend took us shopping to get presents for our moms. I was sixteen.

For some reason, we normally only look at relationships in relation to timing. If I met this person sooner, they would be with me and not someone else. But perfect timing in fact determines every aspect of our lives. Perfect timing determines who we meet, what we do, how we do it, who we affect, who affects us, and basically everything in our lives is measured by a timeline we cannot compute into mathematical equations.

A few minutes later, and I would’ve missed meeting Michael who is the most amazing person I’ve ever known. He adores the hell out of me (literally, although he’s Asatru? I forget.Whatever his religion is, it isn’t Christian) and I adore him right back.

A few minutes later, and Shaun would’ve committed suicide.

Our lives are measured by time. That time, however, isn’t linear. Time isn’t a straight line. It is a messed up web of perfect that I haven’t even begun figuring out yet. Everything in our lives is perfect timing, even when we cannot see the perfection in all the imperfection of things gone wrong and things gone right.

 
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Posted by on October 29, 2014 in Diary

 

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The Reality of Watchers and Guardians and Everything Else in Between

For people who don’t know, I live a rather crazy fantasy life, one not really of my own choosing, but one that kind of just fell on me. I’m thankful that’s not literal.

I don’t indulge in the whole supernatural/new age/occultic/paranormal thing. I actually avoid it all unless there’s pressing matters that requires I must absolutely do something and can’t ignore. Today, I want to talk a bit about my weirdness and the things in it.

My crazy recurring dreams was the gateway drug into the madness for me. It’s common for people to have one or a few recurring dreams. All my dreams are recurring dreams. And that’s not normal. I was always afraid to sleep. And it wasn’t just the dreams. In waking life, I was immersed in an invisible world from as far back as I can remember, one where even my parents who were shamans (and still are), couldn’t understand and relate to. Apparently, the things I’ve experienced, aren’t normal to them either (shamans communicate with spirits). It made me feel more alone than ever. And in my quest to fit in somewhere–between the world of the living and the world of the invisible, I started to try and understand what was happening to me and why.

When I met Keera (whose name is actually spelled, Ke’era), I never knew she’d enlighten me a bit about my dreams and introduce me to hers, a world I called the Otherworld, and of the inhabitants who live there who have been in my dreams as well.

We were good friends. I thought we were. She thought I wanted them, that world and those things there. I didn’t live there. I was alive here. And I wanted to fit in here somewhere. It felt so good to have someone who would understand what I was talking about who wouldn’t look at me like I was crazy and who could actually say, “yeah, his name is Charlie”. For all the mistakes we’ve made in our friendship, she was my best friend for a long time. I don’t know where she is now or what has happened to her. I dream about her sometimes, but like in real life, she’s never there.

The Otherworld is a place that exists. I don’t know where specifically. I wrote our story–mine, actually, or whatever the thing there that looks like me and takes my name’s story. The woman with the long black hair.

For a while, Keera and I didn’t have names for them. They were named what we saw them as: the man with the ponytail; the demon; the woman with the red hair; the cursed man; the man with the green eyes; the short creatures; the lady who lived in the lake; etc. As we got more involved in that world and in them, we were able to know their names. Sometimes, they’d have normal names. Other times, their names were so creative, it sounded made up. Domonico/Demonico; Anna; Ameggo; Deltro Clearstone; Lorenzo; Charlie; Charly; Will; Maeroleez; Stephen; Carmelia; and of course, me and Keera.

How do you communicate with a world that isn’t here where voices are whispers on the wind and the entire world seems to exist within your own head? Keera and I used to call the Otherworld (she called it the OtherPlace) a shared delusion between us. It was shared schizophrenia and in a lot of ways, that was definitely it. I could infect her world and change it. And in the end, I ruined what was once a beautiful and happy and calm place for her by knowing its existence, by being a part of it.

Things got darker. And more terrifying. What used to be a quiet day relaxing in the trees for Keera in her dreams became nightmares, trying to run away from Mr. Gray, the cursed man. They became dreams of being locked up in mental institutions and having bombs strapped to the backs of others, having heads blown off with guns. And the violence increased.

I’m sure that if she could take it all back–letting me in and letting me know about her secret place–she would. Just like I would’ve taken it all back for the five years I was obsessed with finding myself and that place being a clue and what seemed like a lifetime wasted. Keera and I both have our regrets, about that world, about each other, about our past. But what’s done is done. All we can do now is to pick up the pieces and move on.

Demonico haunts me. I call him my best friend, because I can’t get rid of him. Right now, we’re not really on speaking terms. I’m actually not on speaking terms to any of them from that place, from that world. When I need him, he’s here. I guess that’s what counts. It’s a long story, one that spanned three books and I shortened to two: Beyond the Gates: Otherworld and Beyond the Gates: Darkworld.

I don’t really know what Demonico or any of the others would classify as. I call them all Watchers. Being a Christian, there’s a lot of blasphemy in my life, but aside from that, there’s also a lot of valuable insight.

What is a Watcher? In the world of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, a watcher is someone who guides and teaches the slayer in her job and duties. A Watcher is sort of the same thing. Many people have said that Watchers were once the fallen angels who came to earth and watched over the world of man, who took mortal women for wives and taught them magic and such things that mankind didn’t know of. In essence, both are true. A Watcher guides. A Watcher is a fallen angel. A Watcher teaches mankind magic. A Watcher is a nicer name than demon. Demons are fallen angels as well. So Demonico, whose name was once spelled Domonico, is actually in fact, a demon.

Contrary to popular belief, demons aren’t always the nasty, horrible smelling, violence feeding, murderous entities that they’re depicted in movies and television and books. Nope. Most demons are in fact, rather useful, rather truthful (to an extent for their own benefits), and rather nice. Yeah, I said it. They’re rather nice as in character wise kindness. After all, being mean and evil and murderous isn’t exactly a popular decision if their main purpose isn’t to kill, but to damn forever so they wouldn’t be alone when all that wonderful Judgement Day thing comes. Point is, it doesn’t matter what religion you are or what you believe in. Watchers, demons, guardians (yes, they have many names), and pretty much the majority of the invisible world exist whether you want to believe that they are real or not. Your acceptance of their existence isn’t needed for them to exist. They are here whether anyone believes or not. They have always been here.

Demonico wasn’t the first and he surely wasn’t the last in the multitude of weird things I attract. Why? I don’t even know. The next was Angelus. Another made up name for a dying god who isn’t dead and has more followers than probably the biggest church in the state I live in. Another Watcher I didn’t want.

I can’t even remember how Volk and I got to talking about Watchers and demons and such. I’m quite certain half of it had to do with my arrogance and his intelligence. He’s pretty arrogant too. He offered his Watcher, Angelus, to me. I declined. Never ask me a question where I can say no because I’d say no. He sounded so distraught. We were awesome friends. And yet, Angelus imposed himself on me. In the end, I was marked and part of the team. Yay. I sound so enthusiastic about getting deeper involved in the crazy of crazy. When my entire goal is to be normal and blend in with this world and society, more crazy things don’t help. But it’s difficult to pretend to be something I’m not either and I am not normal.

Angelus dies a lot. Go figure how a spirit can die, but they do. He was a construct, not the actual entity. I’ve had constructs. I’ve made them. Quite easy if you ask me, but then, everything’s been quite easy for me. It’s much harder for others. Do you want one composed of an actual effigy? How about one solid as a golem? Or one that just protects you while you’re doing all that astral traveling? How about one to protect you while you’re awake? There’s many uses for constructs. There’s many ways to make them. The most useful to me, are of me. Weird, but true.

The newest Watcher was Xyr, who, apparently skipped the entire bonding process that would’ve had to exist between me and Jay and instead, imposed himself on me. Again. Recurring theme here, I guess, of things forcing their way. For a weak and whiny girl who isn’t anything special, I get enslaved to being a part of something I just normally avoid.

Like Keera and Volk, Jay was needed to simply inform me of a few key elements that would lead to inevitability, which was whatever Watcher(s) that was attached to that individual. For Keera, it was Demonico. For Volk, it was Angelus. For Jay, it was Xyr.

Oh, and did I forget to mention the ArchDuke of Arcadia which is currently at war with the faes? How silly of me to forget such an important and prominent individual! Argh…the mess, the stress, the dramas…you’d wonder why I haven’t cracked yet and gone to the crazy house. That’s because no matter how crazy everything is, I’m not crazy. I only sound crazy.

Sighs

That’s not even the tip of the iceberg…

It doesn’t make me feel better to know I’m consorting around with demons. That’s the farthest from my intentions. One day, I’d like to return home to where I belong. And that’s not with them. So, right now, I persist in only knowing that there’s a bigger purpose for all of this jumbled mess and it will get sorted out later.

The best thing out of all of this, I think, is that I can relate to a multitude of people out there. Whether that’s the really crazy ones or the ones who simply, like me at one point in time, is trying to find themselves and why things happen to them. Being able to tell someone it’s okay and that we don’t actually end up in the crazy house makes everything better somehow. And letting people know that they’re not alone–that made a big difference to me so it’s good to be able to say it back to someone going through a tough time and letting them know that it’ll be okay. It will be okay.

Or is it all just in my head?

That is the question of skeptics. If someone is close to me, or if I hold them in high regards, then the weirdness in my life likes to leech on to them. I guess it’s a sort of blackmail kind of thing, and I never respond well to such things. Friends of mine have experienced dreams with entities from my part of the sphere, some as horrific as torturous nightmares. A lot of my friends don’t know the weird side of me, so they don’t talk about what happens to them and I’d have to hear it to know it. Even when they do know, they would be equally weird too, so it would seem like something weird they’re going through and not an attack from the weirder things concerning me. To everyone out there who has been hurt, I’m sorry. Maybe half of the reason why I’m antisocial is to keep everything in a bubble away from other people.

Most of the time, I don’t affect people in that manner–in the bad way. The whole nightmares thing was settled. That was a specific individual trying to get my attention and I got it and took care of it. The rest isn’t so bad. Tyesha had dreams of me and her and our four other best friends during college in some giant group orgy with a mystery guy that actually invades my dreams from time to time. I don’t even have dreams like that with that guy! Lol. That was a long time ago. He was a Watcher. And he’s actually not a part of my life anymore. He was only there at a time I needed someone to understand and there was none in this world. I was a child. Hope to a kid is heaven. And I hoped.

I actually shouldn’t affect people much. Demonico, Angelus, and Xyr would never bother anyone out of their own free will and whatnot. But I bother people sometimes. It’s kind of hard not to. When you’ve dealt with Watchers your whole life, you notice it in others. Meaning, when you know demons, you notice them in others and around others. The difficult thing is going up to someone and saying, “do you know you’ve got something dangerous with you?”

It’s hypocritical of me to pull demons out of people, knowing that I have them too and I can’t get rid of mine. Well, I take that back. I’m sure I can get rid of mine. But having more is not something I want. It’s something I have to deal with for right now.

People can tell me, “my daughter speaks to angels” or “my deceased great grandmother watches and protects our family” or “god gave me this gift to help others”. In all reality, what they’re really saying is, “this is what I believe it is”. They don’t know for sure. There’s no guarantee that what they believe is what is real.

When I was eighteen, I used to visit this cute little metaphysical shop. One of the psychics there was holding this two day workshop on developing your psychic abilities. I was invited because I was curious in the paranormal and also because I had been going to that little store for the past two years, ever since I could drive and before I could drive

At the first day of the workshop was this cool hippie looking talkative mom and her much quieter sixteen year old. She talked on and on about how her daughter speaks to angels and how they ask her to help them in their quests and everything. I watched this girl’s mom saying all this stuff about her, being proud to have a daughter who had such a spiritual gift. The girl didn’t talk at all. And even back then, before Demonico, before Angelus, before Xyr, I knew. I knew what they were and how dangerous they were. Yet, I almost envied the girl. When I was sixteen, my mom wasn’t that cool and accepting. My mom just avoided my weirdness and pretended that it didn’t exist. Lol. And all day, I stared at this girl who never looked at me. After the workshop was over, and they left, I gathered my courage and decided to talk to her the next day and ask her what the whole “talking to angels” was about. They never came back and I never saw them again.

Real angels don’t need help from people. If they couldn’t do their job without us, then they wouldn’t be angels because angels are greater and more powerful than us. But, a Watcher, a fallen, would have people believe that they are needed, that they are special. Everyone wants to feel needed. Everyone wants to be special. And they prey on that human desire. Everyone wants to be wanted.

I met a woman by the name of Dr. Morgan. Whether she was a real doctor or not was another story. I saw her reading something about the angel Metatron so I asked her what her interest in angels was. She proceeded to tell me that she was Jewish (as Metatron actually isn’t an angel in the Holy Bible) and that God gave her a gift to heal people.

Now, as amazing as it is to be able to heal people, I had to ask, “how do you do it?” And she tells me that she will be walking down the street and she’ll see someone and she’ll point and say, “you have so-and-so disease/cancer/health problem. You have to take this and this and it’ll heal you.” Those people she points to do have so-and-so disease/cancer/health problem. They follow her directions and they are healed. They come back thanking her for helping to save their lives.

And as incredible as that sounds, I’m still the crazy idiot who have to make people think for themselves. So I say, “how do you know that you just didn’t really curse people with so-and-so disease/cancer/health problem and then cure them because you cursed them in the first place?” Her answer was simple. “Because God gave me this gift to heal, not to curse.”

So I said, “what if the power you are using isn’t from God, but from another source. How could you tell the difference?” She gets angry and declares, “because I’m helping people!”

And I nod and said, “yes, but in order to help those people, you first pointed at random and told them they had something which only you can cure. If you never told them and they never met you, would they still end up sick or would they have gone about their lives never being sick?” Oh, she got angry. “My gift to heal is from God and I know it!” is what she said.

“But do you really?” I asked. “How do you tell someone who’s never known God how to know that it’s God speaking to them or helping them and so on? Couldn’t I just come along and pretend that I’m God and they wouldn’t know the difference? How are you so sure?” Her last answer was, “because I know” and she didn’t speak to me for a while. My point was–how do you know if it’s God or not?

A little old church lady, Miss Addie, once told me that in order to know God, you had to study and learn about Him from the Bible. “It’s the same as counterfeiting bills,” she said. ” There are too many fake bills to know which is real. So in order to tell the real bill from the fake, the people study the real bill so much that they can spot a fake immediately.” And while that’s true and relateable to Christians in the United States where the Bible is widely spread freely, what about people in other countries? What about someone who don’t know God and has never known Him?

It’s amazing how much Christian literature I read and how much of it reads exactly like all the pagan and occultic books I’ve read when I was much younger. While it’s amazing that someone cries out to Jesus and Jesus immediately stands in their bedroom and they become saved…with my experiences and my knowledge, I’d be very wary if that was Jesus or if it was something else pretending to be Him.

After all, Jesus isn’t on earth. He’s not here. And He’s not going to pop up to save anyone. Scripture tells us so. (Look up John 16:7, Mark 16:19, Acts 7:55-56, Romans 8:34, Colossians 3:1, Hebrews 10:12, 12:2, 1 Peter 3:22; also look up 1 Corithians 1:7, 1 Thessalonians 2:19, 3:13, 5:23, 2 Thessalonians 2:1, 2 Peter 1:16)

While it seems unprofitable for demons to “save” people and convert them to Christianity, I question why such things happen and why it would be demonic and not of God. It’s a good thing that people are converted and accepts Christ, right? For a Christian, I’m terrible at my work. I’m terrible at believing. Why couldn’t I just believe that that sixteen year old really spoke to angels or that Dr. Morgan actually has a gift of healing from God? Why couldn’t I believe that the deceased spirit of my cousin who possessed his sister and told his family to go get saved and become Christians as something coming from God? What is wrong with saving people? Isn’t the whole point to convert and save others?

Many Christians will go to hell. I’m sure they’ll be surprised when it happens. Being saved isn’t an automatic ticket to heaven. Most will disagree with me here. Go back and read about the parable of the ten virgins in the Bible (Matthew 25:1-13). Please have understanding. Christians can’t do what they want to do and think that being saved actually saves them to a Just and Holy God who does indeed deal out justice. That is why being a Christian means being ready to die/leave at any moment when Jesus returns. There are many reasons why a lot of Christians will go to hell. Ignorance, mostly. Compromisation of their faith. Absolute rebellion and disobedience. The list goes on and on.

Stop oppressing my faith!” Christians say. “It’s God and I know it.” And then they call me a witch, not knowing I’m a Christian.

Stop being blind and ignorant,” I say. Most Christians don’t even know anything about their beliefs. Faith isn’t blind. That’s something people came up with. People come up with the term “blind faith” in regards to how Christians believe in a God they cannot see. (They also say that love is blind too.)

Faith, it is said, in Hebrews 11:1 is quoted as, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” (KJV–all italics mine.)

Nowhere does it say that Christians should walk about blindly believing that everything which seems good to people is of God. That’s our mistake–in believing that what we think is good and wonderful has to be from God or of God. I know plenty of people who shout out how horrible God is and questioning how He can do such terrible things if He was such a loving God. And now, that has to say something too. Christians shouldn’t just disregard someone else’s opinion about God as merely an “opinion”.

God in the Bible is depicted as many things, vengeful is one of those things. Romans 12:19 says, “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” (KJV–all italics mine.) Jealous is another. Exodus 34:14 says, “For thou shalt worship no other god: for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God:” (KJV–all italics mine.) And Nahum 1:2 says, “God is jealous, and the Lord revengeth; the Lord revengeth, and is furious; the Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies.” (KJV–all italics mine.)

I can keep quoting scripture, but that’s not the point. The point is that our knowledge and our wisdom isn’t sufficient to God’s. So how can we say that because something we perceived as good happened, that it came from God? Earlier, I said that, “Most demons are in fact, rather useful, rather truthful (to an extent for their own benefits), and rather nice. Yeah, I said it. They’re rather nice as in character wise kindness. After all, being mean and evil and murderous isn’t exactly a popular decision if their main purpose isn’t to kill, but to damn forever so they wouldn’t be alone when all that wonderful Judgement Day thing comes.” And I still stick by what I’ve said.

It surprises me how much people don’t want to know the truth. It’s like Cypher said in The Matrix, “If you’d told us the truth, we would’ve told you to shove that red pill right up your ass.” And that’s how people feel about it. Ignorance is bliss, but to how far will someone pretend and keep pretending that everything’s okay?

I don’t know. This isn’t my fight. I can’t save anyone. I can yell at the top of my lungs until I’m blue in the face, but most people won’t listen and those who will, will only disregard what I say for their own truths. I mean, I get it. I understand. Demonico is incredible and Angelus is amazing and Xyr, well, I haven’t tested him out yet, but he’s proven interesting being the only strangely blue thing I’ve seen (aside from Shaar who is blue, but a different kind)–I understand the entire fascination with all of it. And power? Yeah, you’re talking mega watts of power. Angelus can fry people on the other side of the planet. And Demonico can travel worlds and conquer them. I don’t know what Xyr is capable of yet, but having the ArchDuke as a vassal is pretty impressive. So I totally understand why people would rather choose what they have (or think they have) and not care about their future or their soul or anything else. I’m there with all of you. I completely understand and relate.

And yet, it’s so unhappy, isn’t it? Most of us are alone. Most of us are misunderstood. Most of us hurt and hurt deeply. And it’s sad. It’s so incredibly sad. We’re all so unhappy. Power can’t compare to love. And all the Watchers and all the Guardians and all the Fallen in all the worlds cannot ever fill up that empty hole inside of you.

That is truth. And many of us know it. Many of us deny it. Many of us try to hide it. But it’s still there. Emptiness. Loneliness. We try to fill it with so many things: knowledge, power, sex…it’s just not the same.

 

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Memories of the Far Past

I’m so disappointed that OpenDiary.com killed itself and I didn’t get a chance to download my diary that I had kept faithfully every day for a decade or so.

I did manage to find copies of a diary I had on BraveJournal on the Internet Archive before I got all paranoid or something and deleted it. Diaries need webcrawlers to save them. *sighs* It was enlightening to read some of the stuff I wrote, thankfully, which had one save (saved 23 times between Oct 2005 and Nov 2013) which was before my diary ended up deleted by me with a simple message of, “It’s not safe to write anymore”. Gosh, what does that even mean? The things that were so important back then…they surely have changed now. Or have they?

Here’s a long, but interesting one.

Tuesday, September 6th 2005

3:50 PM

Multiple Me

I talked to Miranda a bit on msn. She asked my why I pretended to be nice when I really am not. A very good question. An even better one would be this: Am I pretending, or are you?

I’m not picture perfect. I’m more of a hell’s angel than an angel at all. However, I am both. I am nice but I am also not so nice. I never pretend to be. People only see what they want to see and they only believe what they want to believe.

She also asked why I would write about people I know in my journal. For one, it is MY journal. Just personal thoughts and opinions, silliness and serious stresses. Why would I not write about what happens to me on a certain given day? If it involved me, of course I would think about it and write it down. This journal is public property, owned by me of course, but yes, still public property. Everyone who wants to read can read, and everyone who doesn’t want to read…doesn’t have to read. It’s simple. The reason why I write about people I know is because the people I know involve me. I’m a selfish person. I wouldn’t care for you or yours unless it has something to do with me.

Nevertheless, I have interesting things to write about today! All dealing with my favorite topic – me! ^-^

For someone to read this journal would take a lot of time and patience. Not everything that is written seems to be all one person. At times, there seems to be multiple me’s where I write in different tones and styles and such. very much so like someone who may have a multiple personality disorder. However, this is all me. Just one of me. And is written at different moods and intervals and times and such. Each of this, each entry is a very tiny fraction of me.

So reading this journal and seeing how screwed up it is in writing, you would perhaps wonder at what kind of person I am. lol. My writings are very confusing, my thoughts are sporatic and my methods are frustrating. However, if you ever met me, if you ever got the chance to know me, you would wonder why I write as such when I am not seemingly harmful as such.

I am your average next door neighbor. Short girl, not too much extraordinary in anything. Draws and does artwork pretty well, not great, but average. Middle length hair, not too short, not too long. Nothing wild as hot pink or lime green but a dark burgundy red. I am pretty much a white girl (not white at all but light), not pale but white enough. I need a tan. lol. Chunky knuckles from excessive cracking and enlarged for the purpose of broader surface for hitting things. No temper tantrums. Very calm and laid back. Talks more than most but somehow would have you talking more than her. Nothing special about me. Nothing unique. No tattoos, no piercings (except one in each ear), doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs. Much of a homebody, you would rarely see me outside of my home. I wear pretty normal clothes. Nothing all dark and dreary but nothing all bright and cheery either. I wear pants. Most girls would. I don’t compensate for my lack of height with overly chunky heels (which I cannot run in) nor spiked heels of any length (even worse – think about falling because that spiked end got caught in a hole in the ground). I smile a lot. I laugh, I giggle. I have decent conversations, halfway intelligent at times when my memory doesn’t betray me. I’m cheerful. Nothing dark and depressing about me. I have fun. ^-^

Yet, what resides within my journal, the writings of such unbelievable things, some totally far fetched and some that seems impossible, what words come into play, what twisted imagination, what mood arises and falls like the ocean waves beating against the shore…all of this, none of this…how can any of this – be contained in that simple, normal girl with a normal life and nothing extraordinary to her name.

At times, I am a mirror. A doppleganger. The worst of me is only the worst of you, which I reflect and deal back to you. Whether I am aware of it or not, I do reflect others to them. I cannot explain it any more than that.

At times, I am a catalyst. I drop in at times of crisis, inflict changes, and go about my way. Whether these changes are good or bad, whether these changes are actually my doing or not, I do not have the answers to. I always seem to drop in at times of crisis and something happens, good or bad in someone else’s life that may not involve me personally. (It never seems to involve me personally.)

I am very empathetic. I am kind. I need no reasons for my kindness, my empathy and feelings. I need no motives to be nice. I just do the things I do, make the offers I make, without ever thinking twice of how benefiting someone else will benefit me. I am talkative and playful and I will help anyone and anything that I can.

I am also very cold. I am distant and I am intimidating. I do not talk to people and when I do, it doesn’t go well. I frustrate others and I don’t feel anything at all…emotions or whatnot. I have no motives, no drives, no reasons. I need none to be me. I am most destructive when I am cold and dead. And those who come at me during such times with whatever is on their mind is likely to find that they are not well received. I do not like ill company. I do not like company at all. I am cold and dead and hard. You will not find life in me and you will not find anything kind either. You will not be able to budge me and none of those who have been close to me enough can sense this, without seeing me. One does not need to know me to sense parts of me.

There are two ways that people will take me. You either will hate me or you will love me. But you will never feel indifferent about me. You may not remember me (which is wonderful because I like anonymity) but at the time being, that is what you will feel towards me. One of those two ways.

I am the easiest person to talk to, the hardest to know anything about that’s substantial, and my feet are never on the ground. I am a dreamer. One who is capable of not only dreaming, but bringing them into reality. This one. For all the world to see when the time comes for me to play.

I have different moods and I do get angry but my anger never lasts long and my moods are never present. I am good at hiding and keeping secrets. From you, from them, and even from myself.

I know my strengths, but I do not recall them. I know my weaknesses, but I do not recall them. I know my path, but I do not recall the way. I am aware, but confused. I am alive, but dead. I am just one, but many. I just am.

Why is it that no one ever listens to me? Then they start believing in whatever they feel like and when they fail or when something goes wrong, they turn right back to me and pushes it upon me. As if I gave them a life to begin with. Fix your own damn problems. You have nothing to offer me so don’t expect me to help you. Even if I said I would for the moment because it gave you hope and I merely toyed with you.

I am rude. And mean. And cold.

I am also polite. And kind. And warm.

In Michael’s guestbook, there was a question that I had never seen before. Ever. It said something along the lines of this: “What is your heart made out of?” My reply was simple. Automatic. “Darkness and Light.” That is what my heart is made out of, and that is a part of what I am made out of too.

For all of those you claim to be of a darker nature, for all of you who believes that you are evil and rotten inside…you can never understand because you do not know, that inside of each of us is not just light and not just dark, there resides both.

For all of those who want to show ME the dark side…*grins*…I hope you are ready. For if you fail, I shall show you something you may never have the chance to open your eyes and see again.

I need no motives, I need no reasons. I hide nothing. If you want to know, you would only have to ask. And ask the right questions it must be. Mostly, I help guide you to asking the right questions. But I am open. I am whole. I am here. And I am real. Just as real as you are.

And if you need for me to prove anything at all, then you are not worth my time. For those who know, would understand. And those who know, needs no proof to verify what is already known. ^-^

*   *   *

By the way, I didn’t know I scared Michael at times. lol. I tend to scare quite a few people.

My writings might sound jumbled and my thoughts – incomplete. But I am whole. And all this madness, is not madness to me. ^-^

Sometimes I wish I was nicer. Then at times, I wished I had the courage to walk away in the beginning because I knew it would be bad in the end. Thinking back on my life, I should’ve walked away from many people and many things: from Keera, from the Otherworld, from Shaun, from Jay, from Xyr. Shame on me. But I am learning now. It will be okay.

 
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Posted by on June 18, 2014 in Diary

 

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The Lesser of Two Evils

Mankind has been dealing with morality for as long as we can remember. Is it right to cause someone the same exact pain they’ve caused us? Is it right to tell a lie if it protects someone else? Is this right? Is that right? Our concepts of right and wrong have been greatly flawed, comparing two evils most of the time and choosing what we believe is the lesser one. So what is right?

The road to hell is paved with good intentions” and “No good deed goes unpunished” are two widely known sayings that expresses our inability to grasp the understanding that our own morality is erred. Our perceptions and perspectives are colored by our experiences and our knowledge. Without an actual unbiased outside view of the entire picture and the knowledge and understanding of what the purpose is of such an event or circumstance, we only see in part. We only know in part. We, as human beings, will forever be fallible for our lack of omniscience.

The fact that we have moral implications at all describes an intelligent creature who has the ability to consider the impact of his/her actions/inactions and of the overall contribution(s) that we can inflict upon the future of not only our own selves, but on others and the world as a whole. Because we are capable of such distinctions as to the concepts of good and bad, we should have some sort of absolute moral code as a species, but why is it that our moral code exists only for ourselves and our self-righteousness?

Trust is something needed to build the base of any and all relationships. Yet, how much information do we each require from someone else as our “right to know”? And why is it that we feel such an importance in someone being honest with us by detailing specific parts of their lives with us when we have no intentions of offering up any sort of recompense of trust in return?

I talk about my life often. And everything I write has to do with my life in one form or another. It’s all me: the good, the bad, the ugly, the crazy, the super freakishly crazy, etc, etc. I’m human. I’ve made mistakes. And I don’t care to hide any of it because people will always do one of two things: they will accept you, or they will not accept you. And for all those who don’t accept me for all and everything that I am–you can always leave. I’m not short of friends in any way that I would be desperate to cling on to anyone who expects me to accept them, but can’t even repay the small favor. With that being said, I actually do offer a lot more information to people than what they really should know anyhow. I see no point in hiding things. It’s always easier to tell others exactly how it is so they won’t be surprised later on–or they won’t pretend to be surprised.

I am always thinking, always looking back, always wondering if I could’ve done something differently to help myself and someone else. I always try to believe in the hope for humanity, even when I know it’s hard to be found. And I will always talk about my friends and the people who are important to me. I do less talking of people that don’t matter and I have a difficult time letting go because I don’t believe that it’s right to just give up on others so easily. When I am frustrated, I often talk about my frustrations without specifically naming names. Just because something is past doesn’t mean that it hurts less or affects us less. And just because I speak about something doesn’t mean it has anything to do with that person in particular. It’s more to deal with the thought processes behind such circumstances and events. Most people won’t even look that far down, but it’s difficult for me to not analyze since I’m one of those crazy thinkers.

The lesser of two evils, right?

I was looking at movie trailers on YouTube today to try and figure out something to watch. I looked up Eden and doing a Google search, have found that the woman who inspired the movie and whose story was being depicted for everyone to see–the survivor of a sex-trafficking ring in the United States–is false. Not only that, but another highly profiled woman who is described in NewsWeek as the “holy saint (and sinner) of sex trafficking”, has resigned from her own non-profit organization which is reportedly helping to free children in Cambodia from the sex slave rings. What is interesting about these two women are that they have indeed done some sort of actual help in raising awareness and providing some sort of support and relief for other women, even if their stories were false and the stories of their “survivors” were also fabricated along with straight up lies to further their non-profit corporations and themselves. Does what little good that these women did get hidden by the fact that they shammed the whole world? We are all people, and I can’t begin to judge anyone for the mistakes that they’ve made, but it’s an interesting read on how the human itself will always strive to further itself along in whichever manner that benefits it. I’m sure that sentence is difficult to understand. In simpler terms, it’s interesting as to how far people–as individuals and as a whole–will strive for what they believe is right and good as long as it benefits themselves.

A closer example to home which was very recent: I spent five years in prison for aggravated identity theft and possession of credit card numbers. Anyone can look that up. Anyone can read what my judgment records from court states and pretty much any document relating to that. Someone can pull up my entire life in records and public documents and such things if they’d like. And then, they can all also make their judgments and say their two cents on my past and the mistakes I’ve made. I don’t care. It’s past. If anyone wanted to know why I actually went to prison, all they had to do was ask. Lying gets on my nerves because I don’t remember enough to lie.

Anyhow, the point is–if you’re my friend for let’s say…a number of years (like over a decade) and we’re good friends, then I offer the information to you anyway because one–it explains my disappearance for the past five years, and two–I believe you have a right to know. If you asked for details, I’d tell you details. If I told you specifically what my charges were, then why would I hide anything else? It makes no sense to me.

A used-to-be good friend of mine that I’ve known for the past almost fifteen years, said recently that he backed off from our friendship because he didn’t trust me anymore. He looked me up and linked the newspaper (yes, I’m in the newspapers from back in 2008 so go look it up) and gave me the link. I replied with, “I already told you that” about what my charges were and how long I was in prison. And he actually said, in his words, I quote: “Yes you did inform me of that. What you left out was the amount that you did. That’s where the trust issue comes into play.

Really?

The entire conversation was absurd in my opinion. I had just agreed on him being right that we should amicably part ways in our friendship and he wants to pull this self-righteous bs on me all of sudden because why?

My reply included: “Trust isn’t about, “I’ve got to share every detail of what I did wrong with you because we’re friends while you don’t offer me ANY information about your life at all”. Trust is a two-way street.” And “By the way, my entire restitution was $175.00 You don’t have to believe that. No one did anyways. But you can look it up all you like. It’s in my judgement papers from court. THAT’S how much I did.

I didn’t even bring up how his particular person threatened to find my probation officer (I’m on probation for three years) so he could try to get me into trouble by telling the PO that I was “harassing” him and also threatened to press harassment charges for my emails of which there was only two, neither one was aggravated in any way, and the last one said specifically these words and nothing more, “I hope you have a good life and whatever is your problem, I hope you figure it out and fix it. This is the last time you will hear from me. Thanks for being a good friend when you were one. Take care.

I didn’t bring up all his faults (and he had many) or the mistakes he’s made in his life. Yet, I find it ironic that he wants to be self-righteous and hypocritical on the whole, “I can’t trust you because you told me you were in prison and what for and how long, but you didn’t tell me all the details about what you did wrong.” Yet, all I got from him about the missing five year gap in our friendship was, and I quote, “I have started a new chapter in my life. Not many people will like what I have become.

Really? That’s it?

Like I said, trust is a two-way street. My life is an open book. I generally offer more information than people would care to know. I don’t expect people to be that open about their lives. But I also don’t expect the self-entitlement most people feel they have a right to know about my life that has nothing to do with them in any way, shape, or form. Anyone can ask. Don’t expect me to be kind in reply when you believe you have a right to knowledge I am offering because we’re friends.

It still astounds me. Not only him in particular and his selfish behavior, but in humanity as a whole. What is the lesser of two evils? The fact that I spent time in prison? Or the fact that it’s easier to always see another’s faults instead of our own?

And by the way, if I’m such a hardened criminal and you’re a bad-ass who threatened me–don’t be a coward later on and claim to have your Facebook and email “hacked” and claim you said none of the things that you said to me. Although I learned long ago that I’d rather let God handle all the crappy people and payback, at least own up to what you did say and have some balls to stand up and either admit you’re wrong, or continue to believe your wrong as right. I’d at least respect someone much more if they had the guts to stand behind their words.

We, as human beings, are so damn judgmental of other people. We feel entitled to their lives and all their failures and mistakes, yet, we defend ourselves with excuses and anger when anyone wants to know about our life, let alone what we did wrong in our lives. I don’t understand the trending culture with, “let’s just proclaim everyone going to hell, but we’re going to heaven” ploy. Does it make people feel better about themselves to put others down? Does it make people feel more of a sense of self-worth to know that someone else is doing horribly? Does controlling someone else brings us happiness? We are such backward creatures!

I guess it’s normal. I have plenty of excuses for people who are horrible to me, but I really want them to be better people so I stick around, trying to see them become, in my opinion, a better person to me. In reality, it’s really shame on me because I’ve compromised myself to believe in something that doesn’t exist that I knew didn’t exist.

A friend of mine, supposedly my best friend from when we were young, mooched off of me for a few years and although everyone else saw it and knew it, I defended her and didn’t believe anyone, making excuses for her because she was my best friend. She didn’t work. Didn’t drive. Didn’t own a car. Didn’t have a phone. I did everything in that friendship.  I bought her a cell phone so we could talk. I picked her up and her friends and took them everywhere. Paid every time with no hesitation whenever we went to eat out or to the movies (which was very often). I’d always call. In the two years that I paid for the service on her phone, she probably called me no more than ten times without having to repeatedly be asked by me to do so. She had no money and never even offered to contribute five dollars for gas our entire friendship, but she always found enough money to buy weed, cigarettes, and alcohol daily. We were both sick like hell this one time and I couldn’t even see straight, but she had no food so I drove to the store, bought lots of cans of soup, went to her house, and cooked us soup so we’d feel better. And she didn’t live close to me. She lived 45 minutes away. She’d ask me to come over at a certain time and when I did, she was 98% of the time not there! I’d wait in her grandmother’s house for hours and eventually, I’d leave because I’d have no idea when she was coming back. I believed in the good in her. She believes that I stayed because of the Otherworld–a place she dreams of that I can jointly enter while awake. If I wanted supernatural crazy power things from people, I wouldn’t care enough about them to do anything for them. I tried my best to be a good friend. All those years, were shame on me too.

I wonder sometimes, how people can just think of themselves. Life would be blissfully ignorant without this over-analyzing thinking thing that I do and I’ve always done it my whole life. Ponder, ponder. See how the human being tinkers and works. My life is already so complicated without the legal stuff on top of it, that I find it weird how some people can just stalk others or how some people can play endless mind games with others. My head will explode. There’s already too much going on in there, up there, that I really don’t have a lot of time for family, friends, and people in general.

Maybe if we all looked inside of ourselves and tried to be better people than we were yesterday, the world would be a better place. And maybe stop with the judging and having to be more right than someone else. I do it a lot–mainly when it comes to magic. I’m just the most arrogant person you’d meet on that topic. I don’t go foolishly challenging people to spiritual warfare. I can simply back up what I claim. A small difference in a way.

All in all, if we, as people, stop focusing so much on others and their faults and wanting to live like the people next door, maybe we can work with ourselves, inside ourselves, and realize that the best option isn’t choosing the lesser of two evils. The solution is to not choose evil at all.

(This post has gone off topic often. The cognizance of each individual human being is spectacular. It varies from person to person and no two are actually alike in thoughts, brain waves, patterns, behaviors, beliefs, etc. If I had more time, I’d be a scientist.)

 
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Posted by on June 15, 2014 in Diary

 

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