A Devil's Fate
00:40 æt 6.8.11
So I've lived here for four years now, and I'm moving this August. I'd like to note that not a single friend was made, temporal or buddy alike. The longest amount of time I ever stayed in any high-school class was one semester, once, in History and Religion where I liked debates in order to stir up the pot. Everything else I was often too sick to attend or psychologically unwilling anyway. I went not to a single dance, club, or meeting.
So what did I do? I sat here and thought for myself for four years. Undertaking all that crossed my mind, thus developing in a way I scarcely see others still in school do. I've seen my train of thought evolve from exposure to whatever crossed my way, not what I was given for homework. I deem my ideology of four years ago as childish, and no not in the sense of "oh god I can't believe I thought those glasses were cool lololol", I mean in politics and philosophy and morality and scientific understanding and rationality and humanity and existence as a whole. I've matured far more than what I see around me.
How is "The world ain't perfect" or "You just gotta do it", the answer to anything that can be fixed? And yet that is the mentality I see, and it's driven me to a state of intellectual laziness whereby I just don't give a fuck, with a fiery passion. And all I see is restriction, from when I was corrected for colouring in Jesus the wrong shade of brown, up until earlier this year in a grade 12 class where I got a reduced score on my poetry homework for not exactly representing the picture on hand. And now because I broke off from the herd I'm deemed insufficient, not based on what I did by myself, but what I didn't do like everybody else. This place I've lived in for the past four years has both shackled me and set me free.
I want to teach people. I want to dedicate my life so that others can better understand their own, and learn as much as I can along the way. That's a life worth living in my own books. If you happen to agree to me, that's great, and if you don't agree, then all to ya. What's truly important is that you take from this. Take from it and run. So welcome to the dark side, my friend. It's our job to screw in a few lightbulbs.
Labels: personal
Gilden Blood
11:40 æt 22.7.11
Sat upon that gilden ground in morn, to whom aye they sang, off at blood and bloom for whose blood ruled those slain. A blood trickling to and fro spread deep within the branches, a snap in one from the castle's tree gives another chances. For a brother apart, of rights but nay land, to cut the vine and take his hand. The king then strook his weathered beard and took to quill his frights most dear.
Hence that night they stormed wherever to, told of tales by their brew, of him the king behind their shields but nary atop the mane. Beyond kingdoms of walls and those of thatch, whence the moon shines bright across the day, like a roar of might of pawns at nay. The young were stridden, as the old done bidden, away from their kin and kine rode smitten at becoming lore to be written.
Daybreak brought brittle, shattered blades and broken helms of thoughts laid away. His brother ran the blood, across his sword, past those of times' mud. Oft with shed, as often is, for the branche's buds whose lives were bled. And lore they were, to whose will rung high, the king upon his gilden ground, soaked in their blood and took of his sigh.
Labels: poetry
The Day Burns On
10:31 æt 21.7.11
A fleet as the day burns new. Beneath the weighing sky a shadow is born, bidden to see and be seen with ages' pass. Alight with smite, driving forward the clock of it all, to the edge of its wringing and build, reckoned from the crumbling amidst the mortal stone. Halted is what little there is to take. Each breath, every step, from wake till dusk the darkness inches forth, thus fleet is wiped amongst eaten shades. Tainted by whom bids to see. Scorched from the land and hearts set aflame yet to ash. Corrupted and yet our memory pure we stand, we await the dawn of all. The night is forgotten as the day burns on.
A wee shred of Anglisc:
þær wunaþ begeondan ūs nanwuht.
nanwuht þe fram ūs belifeþ þe tō geblandan.
geblandon gīet scīr ūrum gemynde bēoþ standende.
standende wē abidaþ þāra ealla dægræd þær.
A fleet as the day burns new. Beneath the weighing sky a shadow is born, bidden to see and be seen with ages' pass. Alight with smite, driving forward the clock of it all, to the edge of its wringing and build, reckoned from the crumbling amidst the mortal stone. Halted is what little there is to take. Each breath, every step, from wake till dusk the darkness inches forth, thus fleet is wiped amongst eaten shades. Tainted by whom bids to see. Scorched from the land and hearts set aflame yet to ash. Corrupted and yet our memory pure we stand, we await the dawn of all. The night is forgotten as the day burns on.A wee shred of Anglisc:
þær wunaþ begeondan ūs nanwuht.
nanwuht þe fram ūs belifeþ þe tō geblandan.
geblandon gīet scīr ūrum gemynde bēoþ standende.
standende wē abidaþ þāra ealla dægræd þær.
Labels: poetry
