A Copy: Recycle

Nothing I could say, per-say,
But I can barely speak.

Crystal wrap- I taste the plastic,
And desperation.

Swollen and garbled,
The sentence structure of delusion,
Laughter and fever dreams
The glistening allure of the ideal, surreal.

Humility, I feel humility
For all the thoughts that I dream
For all the concepts I deem new,
They are all the same.

Everything I say, has been said,
What I think, has already been thought;
My dreams have joined the myriad
I am the recycling bin.

What then do I truly possess?
Naked I enter and leave.
Worse still, all I accumulate,
Is ash.

Even myself
Especially myself.
My journey is recycled.

Even now, all that I find within myself,
Is a mere copy of another predecessor.

Hello, you.
I am the accumulation of my experience,
A basket of collected thoughts and cultural influence.

I read the middle and the beginning,
I wonder, how it ends.



Nothing more complicated than the environment. Nothing more disconcerting than returning to a familiar, yet foreign place. Nothing so disheartening as meeting a familiar motive.

History is strange, in that it repeats itself in so many cycles. If my life were the earth, it has revolved already several times. They say history repeats when you don’t learn, but am I learning the wrong lesson? Or am I just forgetting? I don’t forget, but I must have missed something.

I haven’t met my doppelganger, but I have met several copies of my soul. Each, like a reincarnation, are similar yet distinct. I met a better incarnation, and a worse incarnation, each one precious and each one a lesson.

Nothing worse than staring into the mirror and finding that you are falling behind. Depressing. Yet, I’ve been here before, and I’ve survived. So let it burn, so I can emerge tempered and polished. Keen and focused.

Today is a day to blast Disturbed, Demon Hunter,  Deathstar, Dead Poetic.

D-day it is.

Sawing Apart Heartstrings

I stand here at the beginning
And wonder how it ends
The stars are silent and still
The sun is gone.

I knew and did not know
That you meant your words
That you didn’t mean what you said
That you spoke both lies and truth

I suddenly feel the pain
That first stings, then escalates
I finally see the tip
Of the knife you slipped through my ribs

I thought my white shirt had finally bloomed roses,
But this viscous stain…
Merely my fatal flaw
Of oblivion to what seemed so obvious to you

Who knew -no, I should have known
Hindsight always makes me so wise;
Mistaking your ambushed thrust,
For a loving embrace.

Perhaps it is my foolishness,
My delusion;
Did I carelessly assume
Your heart to be synonymous with mine?

The mirror and I and two dry eyes,
Would this be the final we walked and spoke side by side?
Aye, would that I could forget,
Would that I could remember that precious fold and wrinkle of time.

Metal never felt so cold
Or a breath so frigid
Than in that moment when i removed my ring
And signed that paper.

I stand here at the end,
And wonder at the beginning.
Why did you speak?
Why did I respond?

{All I ask, is that you cut me clean,
If you are to wound me;
Finish it all,
And finally, finish me.}

Yet I’ve never heard a ripple
So quiet and still.

Based on interpretations and visualizations of portions of "Cha Seok Hoon's" emotions from "Temptation" season 1: episode 9.

Trust ~a fragile thread

Trust is a delicate flower,
Blooming throughout the year
In installments, hour by hour,
Devoid of hate or fear.

In miles of faith, through thick and thin,
A promising to stand, by your side,
To protect, to listen, to cherish as kin;
To have your back, remain for the ride.

You wrote your creed, established a bond,
Joined your souls together as one;
You whispered silence, a topic so fond,
Who knew this end had only begun?

Trust grows delicate flowers,
Viewed by some as a fragile con;
Destroy in seconds, build for hours,
Continued structure, careful recon.

Take away the t and trust is rust,
Eroded, slashed and compromised;
Safety net or web, covered in dust,
Giving you a truth, or a series of lies.

Broken trust is like ink,
Designed for harmony
Yet this severed link,
Screams in stained dichotomy.

Conditional Tombs: A Scenario

In nature, the predictor-prey cycle implies ultimate consumption, balance, and recycling.

Yet nature creates humans, who don’t know diddly squat about balance. In fact, for much of their existence, the human race spends most of its time running amok and creating chaos out of order. Entire species become extinct, other species become overpopulated, and the translocation of species have resulted in rampant pandemics on foreign soil. History is riff with examples of how humans throw the whole system out of balance.

Not merely content with throwing Nature into disarray, the human species specializes on self-eradication. This, combined with an innate arrogance and narcissism, ensures that each delineated unit within the species turns on itself and others. A tiny organism decides it is most important, it is ruler, it is the boss.

Except… each of these organisms claim to be the Boss, so obviously, the last organism standing must be the ultimate BOSS. At first, each organism fights one on one, then the idea of sending representatives is born. Before long, whole armies are in contention over this title, nay, this throne.

Damn the consequences. Damn the costs.

(So, how does this play out?)

Who cares that the last man standing implies there will be no one to rule? Who cares if this organism decides to relocate to more fertile lands to wreak its havoc? Who cares if this organism succumbs to the same fears and short-comings made noxious in history. The fear of death, of being overshadowed by offspring, of being forgotten by history -the list goes on.

In the end, the only adversaries left are fear and death.

And what then? Never die?

Excellent, and once this organism has outlived the world, the galaxy, the entire universe, what then?

What is there left to conquer?

Does this organism then turn on itself?

It’s possible.

So maybe this fearful, eternal organism without home or life will finally succumb to the end.

Because, even vampiric gods want to die eventually.

When Honor trumps Loyalty

Life is too short,
A ship with no port;
And I’m too tall a man
To stand next to you, silent and complacent.

I see beauty in your eyes,
Yet that same beauty disguise
Your darkness;
Life’s too short and the night is too dark.

24 hours in a day to make them count,
24 chances a demon to route;
I gave you a day to throw it away
But my honor remains sullied and stained.

Your temptation is palpable
Yet your tale is a parable,
All my love can’t seem to fill
The needle marks in your arms.

Tracks of time and tales of salvation,
Not an excuse for condemnation;
My words don’t seem to reach you
And I can’t die with you.

Life’s too short and I can’t stay,
Sadly I must be on my way,
I pray you find meaning and rescue
Before you burn alone.

the Galaxy can contain us, but I can’t contain you.

The reason why we don’t connect, is because I don’t live in your world. I don’t like your world, and I refuse to let you drag me into your reality.

My reality is carefully structured, and designed for maximum efficiency and optimal enjoyment of my life. The foundation was laid over many years and is still in the process of creation. And I like my universe, just the way it is. If I don’t, I adjust it, tweak the settings, increase some levels and reduce others.

I like some of the realities from movies and tv shows. The good ones are constructed with care, the writer pens the words and the directors paint the scene. The actors assume the identities and the soundtrack immerses the second and third senses. Suspension of belief convinces the remaining senses, and the world pulls me into the most crazy puzzles of human motivation and expectations.

If realities were cardboard boxes containing projectors, biographies are the equivalent of someone inviting me into their cardboard box, and connecting to mine. We all own boxes that we carry and share, in overlapping spheres of realities.

Your box is full of pain and loss, of conspiracy and emotion. Your projector replays the moments lost, caresses and symbols of meaning and portent. The lens always stares into yesterday and what could have been, of flowers and sunshine, of thunder and rage. Cardboard soaked in sweat and fog from a thousand mutterings and sighs, condensation dripping down the walls in moist claustrophobia. The expansion and compression like a womb at birth, in time with your breath, creates a toxic pressure and constrictive environment.

Your box, flipped upside down, catches acid rain. Filter the acid from the rain and you have one part good and one part bad. But you, you embrace the entire, unfiltered batch that stains your eyes and corrupts your projection film.

The reason why we don’t connect, is because I don’t live in your cardboard box. I don’t like your reality, and I refuse to let you drag me into your caustic world.

Identity #1.2: The Strait Jacket of Your Embrace

***Spoilers: If you read Shamo (manga) by Izo Hashimoto, there are slight spoilers on the story-line. Also incorporates my interpretation on character motivations.

I recently finished reading a manga (Japanese comic) called Shamo where the mild-mannered main character, on track to a life of success at a top university, suddenly kills his parents in cold blood. Multiple questions are raised surrounding the motive behind his uncharacteristic break, and the recurring motif in response is how parenthood can go wrong. How sometimes, the parental urge to protect and love crosses over into dictatorship. How parents view their children as the potential for opportunities that they missed, and how parents guide their offspring into pre-destined paths with all the persistence of a compactor cramming them into the mold of “ideal”.

This resonated with me.

Continue reading Identity #1.2: The Strait Jacket of Your Embrace