Raining on Odinsday

I am stalking through your words, though perhaps stalking is not the right word. I glide through them soundlessly, save for when one brushes me and bursts inside my head. I linger near these the longest, watching the afterglow, like light from distant supernovae, begin to vanish, to coalesce until the explosion is a word again. I am marked, I think, by these eruptions of power. Changed in some fundamental way. Better, for having embraced it.

I'm wandering through your words with purpose, but without aim. Sometimes familiar places and sometimes new ones. It's dreary here today, the kind of day when I set aside most everything in favor of a long novel and a cup of tea. I should be working. There are weeds to wack and holes to dig. Dishes to be done. I should be curled up on the couch with a story and a hint of honey and cranberries. Instead, I'm wandering in your closets looking for monsters and through fields of fireflies. I'm wandering through deserts and old houses with floorboards cracked like fractured bones. Words are stories, and your words are each a story of your life. A thousand of them on your back, and still you are never bowed by them. Brought low by weight and time and miles. I never come here to watch you hurt, but sometimes the pain I see is a sort of euphoria. The ecstasy of creation.

I come more often to see you dance. There is a kind of recklessness to those words. A deep, intoxicating freedom in them that I find brings my tongue to life. It sparks and surges until new songs are pouring out of my lungs. Words of my own stories fluttering by and seizing upon the moment. Nuitari's unseen magic, perhaps. The dark moon hung in the sky and driving us mad.

I come to witness your desire, the way your skin looks flushed with need. The way your fingers wander. I have imagined putting words to you, as canvas, but what I really want is to write you. The way you taste to me. The way you sound. I can conjure the smell of roses on Friday morning, still wet with dew, growing in the foothills of my mountains. I can give you worlds of men and women, fantastic creatures, of war and sorcery and the evil that men do. Stories of redemption and love and pain. But you elude me.

Your gift to me is, has always been, the words. But never the ones I need to write you. Take heed, little muse.

Intrinsically Yours,
-S.R.

Shut Up When I'm Talking At You

All I hear is human noise
You made your own fucking choice
I belong to only me
Silence for my revelry

This world is so loud. Human beings are so much shouting and clattering, the cacophony is deafening. Everywhere a new voice shrieks into existence before being drowned out by the din, effectively silenced by the screaming mass of sound that humanity has become.

Sometimes, I wish you'd all just shut the fuck up.

I'm tired of the trod-upon holding up their hands, with teary eyes, begging me for equality, for rights, for what they know, what we all know, are theirs by birth. Stand on your feet. Brush your face clear. There is no victory in supplication. There is no savior here, no way by which your show of meekness, your humble bowing before the mercy of this established order will lead you into the light. Sometimes, you need to stop crying and start fighting.

I'm tired of civil rights movements. From a white man, I'm sure that sounds terrifically superior, but it's true. I'm sick of marching and speeches, of grand displays of affection and steadfast beleif in the universal application of basic rights. I'm tired of artists and con-artists showing their support for whatever group is the loudest in their weeping, melancholy pleas for whatever simple dignity they have been denied. Shut up, stand up.

The truth is, by marching and talking and litigating, you're putting the power in the hands of the very people who have denied you your rights. If you want to marry, then demand it. Don't wail and bemoan what you don't have. Seize it. Expect it. Take your own power, by whatever means necessary, and then the only one you can blame for its misuse is yourself.

I'm tired of feminism. In fact, I'm tired of any group big enough to have a name, an organization, a pristine ideal that's wasted on a black, twisted mass of miscommunication and corruption. Women are equal. Everyone knows that. Even the bigots and the misogynists know that, whether they admit it or not. In fact, if they refuse to admit it, then pull out their tongues and pull off their dicks and let them wander the trailer parks until they bleed out. Do anything, but do not let them decide your own worth.

I'm tired of hearing about how we should all love one another. No, I refuse. I refuse because I already hate you. I don't hate your skin color, or your gender, or your religion, or your country, or your sexual preference, or the cereal you eat. I hate you because you're a hypocrite of the worst kind. No one will ever love every single person. No one can. Even gods (whichever you believe in) have adversaries. Some will always preach hate, and those are as bad as those who preach love. Stop preaching and live. Stop hawking your fucking philosophies and your bullshit anecdotes. Your lies and your fairytales. Love or hate or utter indifference is based on the individual. In a country that exemplifies individuality, why are we painting such an all-encompassing portrait of unrealistic feelings? Shouldn't we embrace the idea that each and every one of us can decide on our own?

I'm tired of gossip. All gossip. Just shut up. If your life is so dull that you need to leech your enjoyment from the lives of others, I think you're technically some kind of succubus.

I'm tired of complaining, most of all. Your horseshit First World problems or your horseshit Third World problems are a poor excuse for conversation. When did discourse become a contest of who has the shittier life? Let's end this little contest and bring the level of public discussion back up to something approaching adulthood, shall we? Besides, listening to all of you brainless mutants and your endless prattling means that I have the shittiest life. There, I win. Game fucking over.


Outrageously Yours,
-SR