A Scribe of Soul

My soul at heart, with a creative twist. Shaken, not stirred.

[ascribeofsoul]

There isn't a feeling in the world that equates to that of not being good enough. Studying hours for a test and not doing well. Not good enough. Not being invited to a party. Not good enough. When that girl you've had a crush on for months doesn't know... or care. Not good enough. When your boyfriend or girlfriend who left you. Not good enough. When your brother doesn't pick up the phone. Not good enough. When your father left you in a fatal car accident. Not good enough. Chasing your dreams, but falling short. Not good enough. Don't you see? None of us are good enough. None of us are as successful, fit, happy or healthy as we want to be. So what do we do? All we can do is look each other in the face, smile, realize we aren't good enough, and keep each other a little company in this life of ours that is essentially in tatters.

[ascribeofsoul]

This sense of loneliness is fucking consuming. Greater than any hunger, thirst, or sexual desire. It can swallow you. Ruin you. Define you.

[ascribeofsoul]

My Only Masterpiece

I once heard that a man could be an artist. And when I say artist, I mean generally; a man can be an artist of food, pastels, words, notes of music… A man could be an artist with a masterpiece. And depending on the man, there could be many, many masterpieces. One life punctuated by countless works of art, all beautiful; all containing a piece of his soul. And the same man who said that any man could be an artist also said that very few men harness their talent, their creativity and their souls in a way that result in a masterpiece. In fact, very few men even create art. And so I began planning my first masterpiece. I looked at it from every which angle and each possible perspective. I even tried to illustrate it through multiple mediums. I tried to describe it with words. When that failed, I tried to describe it in a different language. Again, I failed. I tried to paint it. Only to face failure. I tried to sing it. And failed. And as I faced failure again and again and as I tried again and again, I came upon a realization; if I could complete this masterpiece, it’d surely be my only one. I certainly wasn’t capable of creating two masterpieces. I was a normal, average man. With one life. One masterpiece. So I began thinking. For years, I’d lay awake in the darkness, listening to the breaths of people around the world; those labored from the fat man who smoked too much. The tiny little gasps of lovers who only had one purpose. The cries of children who’ve witnessed an evil from their own minds they never thought capable. These tiny little muses, over years and years helped me mold the masterpiece. But for now, it was just in my mind. And at first, I molded a lot. But towards the end, my creation consisted just of tiny little adjustments. Millions of tiny corrections. And eventually, it was ready. It was now that I realized what I’d done; I’d found a new medium. A completely undiscovered, uncharted medium. A medium that had many artists, but no appreciation. No common value. No true fans. I realized that I had treaded into the deepest inky waters of human emotion. I had finally discovered how to be an artist of death. People often search the internet for ways to kill themselves. But that isn’t creativity. It’s imitation. It’s laziness. You can’t find a tutorial on painting the Sistine Chapel. You can’t find a tutorial on sculpting David, or writing your favorite song. Because creativity is something that engages your soul. So I engaged mine, and found my creation. The goal was not to create something new. Because nobody can create something new. My goal was to create something different. And in the end, perhaps my masterpiece would only affect me. Perhaps this was the key to completely unlocking my soul. Perhaps no one else would think of it as beautiful. No one else would see what I’d created. But an artist doesn’t create for others. An artist creates for himself. So when I woke up in the middle of the night, feeling restless, sensing the realization that my creation was complete, I began to paint. I drove to the beach, with the moon high above. The winter winds were sharp. Which was perfect. And I walked out onto the beach, my feet unable to discern the difference between the white sand and the whiter snow. They both crunched underfoot, though I couldn’t remember how each one crunched differently than the other. But it didn’t matter now. I undressed. My pale skin reflected the illuminate of the moon. I took a step. My heart beat steadily, as it always had the past years. My feet fell in line with the beat; a soldier marching to war, a convict marching to the gallows. Bum-bum. Step. Bum-bum. Step. Bum-bum. Step. I inched into the dark water, and shivered. But as any soldier would, I kept marching. We don’t go to war voluntarily. We go because we have to. I got deeper and deeper, step by step. My feet came off the bottom, naturally, and I began swimming. Strong strokes to the beat. A perfect oarsman- Bum-bum. Pull. Bum-bum. Pull. Strong strokes. Good distance. And the base layer had been painted. Good color. Good foundation. But now, the subtleties. Bum-bum. Pull. Bum-bum. Pull. Breath. Bum-bum. Pull. Bum-bum. Pull. Breath. Constant and steady. Rhythmic. Consistent. Perfect. I slowly lost feeling in my toes and my fingers. I felt the cold creep up my skin, slowly but steadily. Like a glacier, gently consuming everything in its path. Unforgiving. Unstoppable. Beautiful. I stopped swimming. I floated on my back, feeling my steady breath control my buoyancy. Breathe out. Sink. Breathe in. Rise. Up and down in the tide. And people will ask, “Why not use a gun?” “Why not swallow pills?” Why not this. Why not that. That’s because these people don’t see the beauty. They are blind to the serenity of a cold, slow death. Because in this manner, I’d become hypothermic. I’d lose the ability to use my arms. And I couldn’t swim back. I’d be forced to think about my decision. I’d be forced to accept my masterpiece. And I did. And my vision faded to darkness, and I didn’t know whether it was the sky or the water. I didn’t know. But I felt the water in my mouth. I tasted the briny sea, a taste I used to love. A taste that I loved more now rather than then. And I knew it was close. And now I floated, with no breath for buoyancy. Just a gentle sinking, punctuated by my heart. Bum-bum. Silence. Bum-bum. Silence. Bum-bum. Burning in my lungs. Choking in my throat. Darkness in my eyes. Beauty on my mind. Bright, vivid and incredible strokes across the canvas. Beautiful notes from my instrument. Words flowing out of my pen as if the pen was merely an extension of my mind, an appendage. The finishing touches on a cake, frosting just so. Perfection. Beauty. And as I drowned, I remembered the saying. “A man can be an artist.” I’d chosen to be an artist of death. One life. One masterpiece. This was my masterpiece. And yet… My only masterpiece.

[ascribeofsoul]

It's funny how most of us are never satisfied with where our lives exist at the present moment. We're always looking to the future; or to the past. But either way, we're looking elsewhere. We're gazing off, unable to be truly content with what's in front of us. As if you're on a road trip, not to enjoy the road trip, but merely to get somewhere. As if this life is simply a utilitarian way to get to the end. And like a road trip, sometimes you look out the window and enjoy watching the breeze blow in the fronds of the wheat or the corn or the trees or the grass or whatever may be on the otherside of your compartment. And, like a road trip, you can't wait 'till you reach the end. Some days I'm looking out the window. Some days I'm waiting for the end. But either way, we're never truly taking advantage of this seemingless endless journey across miles and miles of asphalt that we call life.

[ascribeofsoul]

All, I've written a story, about an old man who faces the end of his life. It's about 10 typed pages long, so I won't post it here. If you are interested in reading it, message me and we'll work something out. Make the world a better place today. -C

[ascribeofsoul]

Tbt to when I got baptized, 22 years ago today.

[ascribeofsoul]

When we first began an excursion together hand in hand against the wind against the world we were in love. We grew apart as we grew the world constantly testing our ideals beliefs morals. Soon enough we were barely holding on merely fingertips grasping hold where they were once interlaced a strong bond of love. Like one of us was hanging off a cliff. We were both hanging off a cliff like two different cliffs for two different people. And we fell. Off the cliffs, and out of love.

[ascribeofsoul]

This hope that maybe one day just maybe I'll be in love, again like we were when we were young. But it's just that: only a hope four simple letters unlike love four unattainable letters. So I sit here into the profound hours of the morning writing poems of relationships I'll never have. My mother always said I have a good imagination. But she doesn't even know the half of it.

[ascribeofsoul]

I was a crusader a man seeking the truth the fight the war. Adrenaline coursed through my blood through the highways beneath my skin. The high the rush these constant worthless exploits. Only to wake up with blood on my hands the friends around me, gone; and no one to save me from the certainty of uncertainty. Nothing but memories hauntings of worthless exploits.

[ascribeofsoul]

They used to say the world was flat. But of course, everyone knows that. They also said that the world was covered by a bowl, a semi-sphere of protective film. And they said that there were holes in the bowl. That at night, the fires of Hell would rage beyond the porcelain, and we would see them. To ancient man, these were the stars. And for the longest time, I always wondered how the purity of the stars could be created from the hellish anger of fire; the brutality of flames. But I grew to find that the purest, simplest, most lovely parts of this forsaken life are founded in the anger of fire within the brutality of flames. Which is so distinctly average; the best things in life are forged from pain. We've all heard it before. But before I met you, I never really believed it. It just didn't hit me 'till your departure forced me to look at the stars.

[ascribeofsoul]

I went backpacking a few weeks back. Excited to get away, I'd packed my stuff the night before so I could leave right after work. It sat near my front door, beckoning to me to just pick up and go. To leave. To desert the walls and hardwood floors and clothes and technologies and material properties that bind me to this civilized world. But I waited. And right after work, I packed my car and drove. I was to drive far out of town, and it seemed as if the leaves changed colors in the fall air the farther away from the city I got- as if the toxins from the metropolis were stunting the growth of the leaves, preventing them from continuing on in their natural lives; who would have thought humans and leaves were so much alike. And I got to the trailhead, the air cold on my skin and my heart warm in my chest. And I began hiking. I walked past signs telling me where to go, what to be weary of, what to do and what to see, how to behave in emergencies. Various warnings and heedless cautions. I never looked at them. I was better than that. And I hiked and hiked and hiked at a near sprint- desperate to escape the confines of my true life. My head was down as I blazed through the woods, my trail brighter and hotter than the reddest of the autumn leaves. My head was down and my breathe billowed out in front of me like a ghost, a continual reminder of my everlasting commitment to this life. And maybe five or six miles in, I stopped for a break. I'd reached the edge of a ridge, and I looked down upon the staggered mountain tops around me, crested with golden crowns of red and yellow and stubbornly green leaves. And as I stared about me, I saw something under those leaves which had given in to fall early. It wasn't natural, but man made. And as I approached, I saw that they were converse shoes. And I looked deeper, and saw a boy. Or what used to be a boy. Covered in leaves, in the clothes of a summertime child, perpetually trapped in the dog days of summer. On his wrist, he wore a watch. A light blue Timex watch, where the second hand was a plane and the minute hands were clouds and the background was blue. Calm and gentle, like the sky beneath which he slept eternally. And his watch was still ticking. Because no matters what happens; whether you're out and about or you're in and solitary or you're dead or you're alive or you're in love or you're depressed- time, this human conception of the way the world changes around us- goes on. And though the boy had been gone for months, the world didn't notice. It continued on in its infinitesimal wonder and glory, never skipping a beat or slowing the march for anyone or any one thing. And so I laid down beside the boy. And went to sleep. Hearing only the gentle tick of the boy's ceaseless timekeeper.

[ascribeofsoul]

When I left the house after eighteen years, I brought my small twin size bed expecting to sleep alone. Forever.

[ascribeofsoul]

All I am is a ghost. I'm not a being. I have no heartbeat, no emotions. Blood hasn't run through my veins for years. Thoughts haven't touched my mind for generations. I'm only just a ghost- there, but not. Present, but absent. And when I walk down streets and across roads and through shops and stores and restaurants, people see me. But they don't register me- I'm just a fleeting image crossing through their field of vision. I'm just a spirit in a body. I'm here, but I am not. And when you kiss me, you feel my lips. And when you hold me, you feel my skin. And when we make love, you feel me across every inch of your beautiful body. But when you kiss me, there's no warmth. And when you hold me, there's no heartbeat. And when we make love, I'm just a shell of a being. A soul trapped in a body that won't let me free. You feel me, but you don't. Because all I am is a ghost. Alive but dead.

[ascribeofsoul]

Because apparently Nirvana and 50 have so much in common. #whattheactualfuck

[ascribeofsoul]

It rained this morning. It rained hard. For hours and hours the heavens and gods and demigods and clouds cried, mourning the loss of summer and the dawn of fall. You always loved the rain. I could see you in it this morning as I gazed out at the drops settling on the grey concrete. You were running around and dancing and signing and being the little kid you always were inside. And it stopped raining. And you were sad, for the rain was possibly one of your favorite things. No, it was your favorite thing. You loved everything about the rain, from the smell to the feel of it on your skin- like sweat but cooler and fresher and purer. Now it's just stupid puddles, you'd say. And I'd try to get you to see the beauty in the stupid puddles. You always said they were ugly, black pools of tears which were once beautiful, scouring the ground like the spots on a cow. Well maybe they're there for a reason, I'd say. As if they were there to remind us to look at ourselves and each other from time to time- if only for an instant as we were reflected from their surface as we walked by. They're just ugly, you'd say. No. No, it can't be. Surely one has to hold something beautiful. One has to have love or passion or emotion in its borders. Surely not all puddles are ugly. And I was right. Because you and I and our conversations and our love and our kisses and nights and mornings and afternoons and evenings are all reflections. They're simply scenes in my imagination when it's dry, and held within puddles after rain. You're no longer dancing in the rain, but rather in the puddles. And so now I love the rain. Every time the heavens cry, I don't. I don't cry because now, now I can see you in a place other than my mind. So I walk slower now, looking at every reflection, watching every scene, feeling our love. And the puddles do indeed hold something beautiful. I always knew that. But you never did.

[ascribeofsoul]

Haiku

How can I tell you that I never miss you when you star in my dreams?

[ascribeofsoul]

Haiku Friday

Not even water can wash away this sense of being alone.