Memories of Night

Mass Suicide

2009-06-12T21:24:00.000-07:00

The local news is forecasting a world of hurt.
Children are screaming and crying for their parents as these streets bleed the colours of personalities.

There is nothing here anymore, nothing save the memories and the hopes that maybe one day we can live like we once did. The times have changed and those who have been far to ignorant of the world at hand keep themselves to a suicidal hand of oppression while the others who have always sought to never be placed along side the standards of a social structure turn their backs to face the a world mixed between war and peace.

With each step in technological advancements we step back in our own human evolution, slaves to automatons while our gods have turned from omnipotent otherworldly creatures to anything that can promise to bring us instant gratification.

The local news is calling for a storm of chaos and pain, senseless surrender of our own identities to a falsified ad campaign that say "Just be you." with their logos blasted into your skull.

Why should anyone have to kill their own people when the people can do it themselves?

A bit of Bloody Love

2009-06-11T23:59:00.000-07:00

Where were the days when you told someone you loved them that it made the world blurry and time seemed to curl away like wispy smoke trails?

It seems like more and more in this day in age that term we so call "love" has now become something so regular and misused, overwrought with bland contempt. I speak from the mid level boots of a darker soul, if that. I like to think of myself as a connoisseur of the finer things in this colourful life, such as the grass bending to the will of the wind on a midnight's walk through the long forgotten cemetery, or the way the sunlight glistens like a knife from atop the church's spires.

Indeed, if then the term for our worldly lusts and devout sacrifices for fleshly pleasures could it then not be said that this is not "love" for such and idea has now become a fleeting fantasy shall we call that "romance"? And whom better to know that than the one's who call the nights that bleed the fog or swims in ponds with willows to over see them. Surely we call out from the graves not only in our hearts but that of our souls, for just a little bloody love.