The Adversary

The design is simple. They hope. They lose hope. They falter. Only to gain hope again and subsequently falter. Some never lose hope. Those are the lucky ones I suppose. It is a crap-shoot as far as I am concerned. Some are saved, most aren't. The decision is left to no one. I simply swoop in like a vulture to feed on the carrion of humanity. The weak. The wounded. The ones that can no longer muster the necessary strength to live amidst the decay of their consequences.

Why do I pick them apart, like a fresh carcass. Because I can. Because I want to. I am arrogant. You are beneath me. You reside in the pit of what is most hated. His imperfect creatures of such fragile nature. I pick each and every one of you apart with my claws, with my teeth. I leave you naked and distressed in the gutter of your own despair. Your arguments, I turn into vessels of violence. I penetrate your innocence with my acid-coated tongue. You fall. I break you further.

He fights me at every step, at every corner. He has his vision of what the world should look like and I burn his blueprint, only to have him create a new one. His table creaks. He drowns in his own tears. He gives you hope. My words gain strength in the restless noise and wanton desires of your humanity. Your meek nature poses no challenge. He watches your cities burn. He watches while your loved ones cease to exist in the most random of events. Yet you pray. And you visit his house. And you hope.

I remain. The unseen puppeteer. Your unsung hero is slowly fading away. I am keen and I am cunning. I wallow in the greatness that is your necessity to destroy one another. I wallow in your hypocritical nature, your so-called acts of kindness. I know the truth of what keeps you up at night. Your fears are the sweetest of dreams.

Go ahead. Put up your decorations and spend as much money as you possibly can on gifts for the mockery that you've made of his birthday. Pile them up real high under the tree. Maybe then he will answer your prayers. I will continue to watch it all unravel as I pick you apart piece by piece.

The Unsung Hero

The unsung hero sits by the darkness of the kitchen table. Smoke wafts from his lips reminiscent of a midnight ritual in some godforsaken place. He watches the night and lingers to hear its calling and its desires. He understands its retribution. It is a song meant to be heard by those unfortunate souls who have yet to cross the edge. The ones which have sat at that same table and have contemplated many things. Thoughts remain adrift and sudden movements dance gracefully as if guided by an unseen puppeteer of rare and exotic talent.

The night in all its simplicity provides him with uncanny fortitude of spirit and cunning. His palms heavy with stains from years of turmoil. His eyelids paint the picture of a man physically broken. A man whose gun rusts away, coated with the salt of vitriol and wasted years. It has been his companion through episodes of melancholy and trepidation. Everyone else is no longer here. The table creaks with solemn sighs of weathered storms. It is his foundation, however brittle it may be.

Moonlight's glow bathes the barrel of his gun in a silvery streak. He holds his head in his hands, his hair long and disheveled. The look of a man that has witnessed loneliness for far too long. He longs to ease the pain but must remain keen and cunning. He must breathe and remove himself from that caricature that sits by the darkness of the table. Relentless must be his pursuit of air. His tears like molten silver etch themselves on a visage long eroded.

In some far-away land, his song plays in old villages and older spaces. The unsung hero rides again in silvery light. The table no longer creaks. The rust and heaviness washed away by the rivers of overflowing dreams. Those wasted years so familiar are like a knife penetrating his side. He rides beneath moonlight's glow. The unseen puppeteer moves about like a wraith. Tales of woe and lamentation are carried off by winds of storm. The unsung hero is once again keen and cunning.

How Deep is the Ocean

Notes from the Stark and Decadent Desk:  It is dark, it is gloomy. It's time to start thinking about where to travel come 2014. Revisit Paris? Shack up under palm trees and steel drums? Hike Mount Everest? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. 2013 was...well ..is still...a banner year for travel. Took several mini-trips around the continental US and then tore off the bandage with a fury not seen since Brando danced his Tango...Paris beckoned. 

I guess that sort of trip whet my appetite for more International type travel. I long to see architecture and castles and surround myself in centuries-old customs. Perhaps a blend of both the ocean and the old world... somewhere in Western Europe. Away from the Vikings... 

Travel is as vital as oxygen. It is the proverbial pressing of the eject button to somehow escape the routine, the mundane aspects of our day to day. I want to get lost again in some city's streets and stumble upon empty bars and street musicians. I want to ride on the waves of its ocean and plunge into its depths and have it plunge its knife deep in my heart. So very deep that it will always stay with me. 

The need to be elsewhere is of utmost importance. It must be fulfilled by any means necessary. We cannot afford to languish under solitary roofs and meander soulless streets and stick to empty companions. Life is so much more than this. 

How deep is the ocean you ask...? Its acceptance perhaps weak and weary at time. I guess it depends on the individual and how far they are willing to go to shake off despair. To cleanse the rust and dust off familiarity. It is within familiarity that we fall victim to shallow shores, drowning us in its shallow waters, continuously scraping off the luster. It is as deep as you want it to be. Swimming lessons not required.