It shimmers still
All things perceived
In the prism of your absence
It shimmers still
It shimmers still
All things perceived
In the prism of your absence
Piercing through the sadness
Like trying to shine a light through the madness
But all that comes is blood
Running down, making tracks
A wreckage embroiled on skin
With maps of violence
Filling the silence
Our skin has been shed
this is how it accumulates
like dust on books
inside all the days
and years spread
and every time we scream
it’s wasted breath
because in our voice
our sadness can’t be contained
It simply runs wild
Within our veins
too powerful for outside
Much too strong for us inside
The tears are never enough
for the accidental goodbyes
the shock & horror
always there, always filling lungs with empty
This is how it accumulates
Till we’re undone
one with the dirt
no more synapses producing hurt
We romanticize heroism. It’s in pretty much every story there has ever been.
When someone dies we stick a ‘heroism’ narrative onto their story. We tell people that person was great and their strength in the end was ‘impressive’ and ‘inspiring’
The more I hear this stuff the more I realize It’s empty.
Not only does it hold up an image that no one can live up to.
But It’s not even true. No one chooses to be ‘heroic’
I mean think about it! If a child has loads of surgeries what do they get told over and over? “Aw you’re so brave! I don’t think I could have done that!” Yes you fucking could.
And I’ll tell you why, because you have no choice in the matter. It’s not heroism. It’s lack of choice.
Do you think when I was a kid I was stoically sat there like, “Oh it’s just another heart surgery, but I can make it. I’m tough stuff me!” No! I didn’t have a choice. Things were just done.
Heroism is the biggest myth we’ve told ourselves.
Many people have turned away from old myths about gods and the like.
But no one it seems, is able to, is ready to, leave their hero myths behind.
Even as I say that, I find it hard to detach myself from the idea of heroism. I can think of characters in stories that I’ve admired and still can’t help but cling to an admiration of. Certain people come to mind. And it’s hard to let go and say, “Actually this heroism stuff is bullshit.”
I get it. It *feels* inspiring, at least in the moment.
But it’s an empty myth. We repeat ad nauseam. But we’re also trapped into it.
I don’t think a story can exist and be interesting without some heroic element involved.
Can we ever move beyond heroism?
And as a paradox, could the bravest most heroic thing we ever do be to move on from heroism myths?
All these thoughts swim
Till they run
Words become undone
The thoughts gone
But the feelings remain
Without a name
And then a new thought
Falls into view
Only to fall away
Before you really knew
And the feeling grows
But the words, you do not know
And you wonder
The letters of the thoughts
Once upon a time, there was a herd of sheep.
And that herd of sheep walked over to the fence of another herd of sheep.
And the sheep that had walked over to the other herd said, ‘Bahhh!’ in a mocking tone and then said, ‘you fuckin’ sheep!’
And they continued to ‘bah’ in mocking tones.
All the sheep in the herd that was mocking the other said the exact same things.
They sounded the same because they were the same.
They accused all the other sheep of fear-mongering about a virus all while spreading fear of the ‘commies’ and Bill Gates and the ‘new world order’
And the vaccine will be worse than the virus, don’t you know?
Unless of course, the whole thing is a hoax.
And masks can you make you ill, depleting your oxygen levels.
But they also don’t work to help contain the spread of a virus.
And the other herd said some of the same things as each other too but that was because facts don’t change no matter who bah’s them.
The herd that mocked don’t know they’re sheep. Which makes them the winners at being the biggest, bestest sheep!
Follow who you may
But don’t tell us you’re the ones wide awake
You’re still following what another shepherd says
Underneath we’re all the fucking same
Smiling under skin
That bears our shame
We’re all sheep
That the androids dream of
In their sleep
We tattoo and mark or shame
The things we cannot say.
Water gushed from the tap and into the bottle.
Drews gaze fixed on the steady stream, mind blank.
He awoke from his trance when Drake’s voice hollered from the living room, ‘How much water do ya need!’
Drew blinked and peered into the bottle, astounded by what he found he shouted back, ‘Oh my god, I think this bottle is magic or somethin’
Drake leapt up from the sofa, ‘Ya what?’ he padded into the kitchen, his face scrunched up with scepticism.
‘Look at this!’ Drew shoved the empty bottle in front of Drake’s nose. ‘Look there!’
Drake took the bottle from Drew’s hands and peered in. ‘Ya mean you’ve…’ Drake threw the bottle at the sink and leapt to turn the tap off, ‘Ya mean you’ve wasted all that water for nothin’?’
‘I ‘eld that bottle under that tap! I’m tellin’ ya the bottle never fills up!’
Drake rolled his eyes, picked up the bottle. ‘Ya probably just got a crack ‘ere.’ He said as he turned the bottle in his hands and felt around the plastic for any cracks or holes.
Drew leant on the fridge, arms folded. ‘Go on and try and fillin’ it up!’
‘For fuck sake, Drew! I’m lookin”
‘I’m tellin’ ya it’s fucking magic, Drake!’
Drake trailed his fingers all around the circumference of the bottle feeling and squeezing for any weakness.
Drake shook his head still disbelieving, ‘Ya jus’ t’ out ya head t’ know ‘ow to fill up a bottle!’ he slapped Drew n the back of the head, ‘ya dumb git.’
Rolling his eyes again, he held the bottle under the tap and switched the water on.
A few seconds ticked by, Drew getting angsty on his feet.
A minute ticked by and the water still poured out of the tap, and the bottle remained empty.
‘Wha the actual fuck?’ Drake spat.
‘But look!’ – Drake pointed to the bottom of the sink. – ‘No water is leaking out of the bottle and down into the drain! It makes no sense!’
‘Maybe it’s bigger inside than it is outside?’ Drew offered up, palms out in question.
Drake scoffed. ‘That’s not fucking possible.’ His knuckles turned white as he gripped the tap and turned it off. ‘I gotta call Bill!’
Upon stepping into Drew & Drakes squalid flat, with a smirk on his face, Bill started, ‘Well, well what we got goin’ on with you guys this time, eh?’
‘We got a magic bottle is what we got!’ Drew said.
Drake waved Drew’s words away, ‘It ain’t magic!’
‘So why you got all excited and called me up?’ Bill asked.
‘I want your take on the situation.’ Drake started toward the kitchen, motioning with his head, ‘Come on!’
Bill followed and looked at the plastic bottle, ‘so why is it magic?’
‘It’s a bottle that never fills up!’ Drew said excitedly.
Bill did the same as Drew had done and ran his fingers all around the plastic, looking for any holes or cracks.
Finding no fault, he shrugged his shoulders and turned the tap. ‘Now let’s see,’ he muttered to himself.
The sound of the water gushed between them while a cartoon played out on the TV in the living room. Bill turned the water off, put the bottle down and tilted his head, ‘Well,’ he pursed his lips, ‘I’ll be damned!’
‘See! It doesn’t fill up!’ Drew rocked back on forth on his feet with agitation and excitement.
Bill scratched his head, ‘it makes no sense.’
‘Or it’s bigger on the inside than it is outside!’ Drew repeated
‘That’s impossible!’ Bill baulked
Drake put the kettle on and leant against the kitchen worktop, ‘It’s not the…’ an idea occurred to him as the hum of the kettle resonated in his ears, ‘A watched kettle never boils!’ he beamed suddenly.
Both Drew and Bill said in unison.
‘y’ know that sayin’? The one where if you watch a kettle it never boils.’ Drake skidded toward the sink and placed the bottle on the drain before turning on the tap. ‘Now turn around and don’t look!’ Drake checked that the water was aiming at the right spot to land in the bottle then turned around.
‘Well, that’s one theory out the window!’ Bill said.
All of them stood around the sink, looking down at the bottle.
‘I’d swear I was high If I knew I hadn’t smoked anything t’day!’ Drake remarked.
‘And I never smoke anything and it ain’t filling up for me either!’ Bill added.
Drew asked, ‘So if it’s not a magic bottle, what is it?’
Drake and Bill looked at one another than at Drew.
‘Don’t have a fuckin’ clue!’ Drake shrugged.
Sitting on the couch tired of trying to figure it out the TV kept their attention until adverts interrupted the cartoon.
‘you know what it might be?’ Drake asked casually.
‘Magic?’ Bill asked.
Drew grinned, ‘I knew it!’
‘What if it’s a physical manifestation of a metaphor!’ Drake beamed.
‘A metaphor for what?’ Bill slid to the edge of his seat, his car keys dangling from his fingers.
‘Life,’ Drake replied. No longer beaming with enthusiasm and curiosity, he slumped back on the sofa. ‘Life,’ he repeated through a deflated breath.
‘It’s magic is what it is, and I stick by it!’ Drew sat back and folded his arms.
With a sudden movement, Drake lifted himself off the couch and threw the remote at the TV.
The remote hit the screen and the picture went fuzzy over a perfume advert.
The trees bared all and the woods collected the debris of life. Feet left their prints and the Robins remained the last birds singing. Clouds cast shadows so as to smother the light of day. A murder of Crows cawed their raucous cries and the world looked and felt like the end. But it was worse. Days and nights merged without an end in sight.