#9.30.14

[technobladelibraryliveblogs]

“Fire. Hot. Scary.”- Technoblade (2014)

[technobladelibraryliveblogs]

Techno is now on fire. How? Neither he nor I know.

[technobladelibraryliveblogs]

Techno: There’s a lot of death over there.

Techno: It would be a shame if I was a janitor. 

[technobladelibraryliveblogs]

Look! Techno has an army of mooshrooms! :D

[technobladelibraryliveblogs]

Techno: I know all I do all day is murder children for coins but I’m not a liar.

XD Oh Techno. Never change.

[technobladelibraryliveblogs]

Ooo we’re using scout today instead of armorer. Fun fun.

[technobladelibraryliveblogs]

No predictions lol. Let’s see what happens.

[detonating-doll]

Motion Sickness

                A heart beats. It sends blood to the dripping canals all over the body. It is the timepiece of fear and lust and rage and insanity. Yet, it cannot sing so that the fallen angels can play along. Or maybe we just can’t hear it.

                Somehow, I’m still here, even with my heart in my head and my hand in the air. I’ve tried to coddle the infection, but the sunlight doesn’t shine on the floor. There’s only a tiny speck of light burning in the hole I’ve created, like a miner searching for rubies. Except he never finds them. But I’ve found a song that before could never ring past the cathedral doors of my chest so that the whole world could hear what I really have to say. But now the song is here to forgive and grow its bright eyes.

                The song is not a beat; the heart lies perfectly still, as if maybe it knows that the mind is what truly kept me going all along. The song is just a pounding of heartstrings, each with its own tinge of sin and late nights. This song is only the first in a trilogy of lovers taken back by what they find on my bookshelf. Even with this gaping hole in my chest, the heart still has songs to sing about people I always wish to know.         

                I still have my hand reaching towards God and his judgments, yet the faces of the crowd don’t realize that I’m here with a weeping ode to be heard. They continue, with their heads ducked and their cheeks on fire, writing my eulogy. They once sensed my anger but cannot lace my sober apologies and drunken slander between their fingers. The melody still hasn’t stopped, still releasing the score of backseat symphonies the heart has written for a year. The faces all have their own music boxes, wound up at birth, in their pockets, so maybe my heart’s hymns will never be heard. Except I know…

                So to you, my only reader, my visitor in the foyer, I hope that this song suits you well, as it spins like a broken record. I hope your house next door suits you as well, along with your knack for easily forgetting people you’ve known, but not the places you’ve been. I know you’ve contracted a grudge like I’ve contracted a heartbreak. This time the captain goes down with the sea because we never had a ship anyways. This heart has a song, and I know you’re the only one who hears it too.