perspective and scale

after the third flight of the day you begin to question how much longer you can avoid deaths icy touch.

it doesn't help that i am penning this while i am a solid 20,000 plus feet above the earth in a winged silver twinkie rocking in every sorted direction.

it becomes increasingly difficult to steady a pen in such turbulent times.

thoughts become clouded at such a distance from solid ground.

it is comparable to breathing through a narrow straw.

the more you struggle to pull those dainty drags of air thorough such a dauntingly thin

pipeline, the head becomes woozy and your mind claws frantically for life.

at this height, while looking down it becomes abundantly clear how minuscule and delicate human life really is.

it is purely a matter of perspective.

perspective and scale.

yes scale.

let me explain.

the easiest way to put this scale idea in perspective for those currently reading this that are residing upon terra firma (solid ground the the layman), requires only a few items.

one: yourself.

two: your thumb.

three: a foreign object.

i.e. a building or possibly an extremely bored and well to do friend.

the options are truly endless.

and last, but certainly not least, distance.

now simply stand or sit, the choice is yours, a hefty distance away from your building, friend, whatever option you have decided upon.

stand/sit a far enough distance away from your chosen item so that its size, in scale, is much smaller than your own.

now lift your right or left hand, whichever suits your fancy, and extend your evolved opposable thumb and cover said object.

it becomes muted.

gone.

covered and non-existent to the human eye.

now, to really understand the fragility of it all, human existence that is, you may also incorporate your index finger of the same hand.

simply place your index finger visually above the top of your chosen object residing in the distance, and your opposable thumb directly underneath.

as if you were holding a tiny delicate toy.

now for the fragility part.

much like a vice, begin to bring your index finger and genetically superior opposable thumb together.

ultimately capturing and squishing the dwarfed sized object of your choice between the two.

feel free to incorporate sound effects of a squishing manner to get the full effect, and simply for the pure fun and enjoyment of the process.

CONGRATULATIONS!

you have now become a war monger!

a destroyer of worlds!

not bad for a high school dropout.

not that you are, but inevitably some individuals participating in this example of human fragility most likely are.

despite what popular belief says, the majority of them can read.

so i am told.

with your new found title of "world destroyer" imagine the view from 20,000 plus feet in the air.

how small and weak building look from such a great distance.

how unbearable tiny and ant-like the human race becomes.

how easy it would be to wipe it all clean in one fell swoop.

how with that one thumb you can wipe out an entire city, colony, race.

this is how some people in history have viewed the world.

how some find it so profoundly easy to rub out what they no longer desire to see, hear, or feel about the world.

and they did this on ground level.

it is all a matter of perspective and scale.

terrifying.

isn't it?

sketches of people who may be dead

life 9

she had siemese cat eyes.

the same crystal blue shade, and the matched cock-eyed stare.

the small beautiful face as if molded by god in the reflection of his angels.

her skin softer than any silk ever spun.

breasts and hips that would make any head turn and any eye wander.

all of this and still unsure of her beauty.

every trip out of those endless white blankets required a robe or sheet to hide this masterpiece.

those small snipets of time it took her to fully cover herself

when i could view her bare and untouched now belong to me.

stashed away for me and only me.

each like a beautiful photograph waiting to be developed for the world to see.

and the only one who needs to see this view the way my eyes have

is the siemese cat-eyed subject in front of me.

just so she can finally see what the world already knows.

POE-try

I sit here in silence.
In a resilant silence against the world.
Shut out and far away from eye's that pry.
This is when I hear an unfamiliar sound, my ears have never heard before.
A heavy tapping on my oaken door.
This is no raven rapping or tapping upon my door.
Just a heavy lumbering never heard before.
I remove myself from this cold floor.
to seek the source vibrating behind my door.
Slow and steady I trace a line across this floor.
To that huge and daunting oaken door.
With a hand upon the icy brass knob protruding from that gigantic door.
Pulling firm this sturdy door glides with ease across my wooden floor.
Nothing.
Nothingness lives outside my door.
What is that sound piercing my ears from against the oppisite side of my door.
A walkway and an open sky.
A trick of tricks upon my mind's eye.
Now I sit arms resting heavily upon my thighs.
I begin to drift away, by and by.
Drifting off into a sweet and gentle lullyby.
Only to be awakened by that unfamiliar sound driving loud behind my door.
Vibrating across this oaken floor.
My strength is gone.
Let this sound and its source rap heavily upon my oaken door.
I will lay here forever more.

hook's

i yet again have found my way back here.

stuck again.

wondering why i was plopped down onto this world.

thrown into this life.

when you are young the answers come easily, if the questions are even ever muttered.

the answers are either handed to you or seemingly soon forgotten.

they say it's not normal to have thoughts and questions and intrigues at such a young age.

they try and distract you with colorful toys and abrasively loud games and uninspired animated films and t.v. shows.

all this because they have no answer for you.

because they can't stomach the questions themselves.

they extend a hand and attempt to idly guide you down a proper path.

the paths they chose, the roads they took.

the roads home that they know to be safe.

where the grass is folded down and over itself and that familiar hardened terra stares blankly at the sky.

the easy way through the meadow.

those oversized hands locked around yours to keep you safe.

blindly leading you through.

never stopping to stare at the rolling hills of the meadow.

the galaxy of flowers sprouting far from the pathway, all placed here for some unseen reason.

you shuffle those tiny feet, kicking at rocks and loose gravel.

if you slow or loose pace they jerk your arm and tell you to "keep up!" and "stop day dreaming!"

never a moment to spare.

to stop and think.

forward.

on and on.

staring down at that path beaten down by an uncountable number of feet, much to similar to your own.

don't break pace you're day dreaming again.

faster now.

the breeze swirling through untamed hair.

faster now.

stop doddling!

the path becoming a brown streaking blur.

faster now.

those flowers seem miles from here.

the path splits and you've lost a grip on their oversized hand.

they go left.

and you, you go right.

and all you see now is the path laid out before you.

never ending.

just a brown blurry river flowing through a open endless field.

faster now.

you can not loose pace.

the flowers are all but gone, but you can no longer see them.

just a brown line and folded over grass.

faster now.

there is no time to stop and daydream now.

faster now.

get your head out of the clouds!

their words spilling out of your mouth.

their thoughts filling your head.

faster now!

no time for lollygagging!

faster now!

no time for anything.

all you see is that beaten and worn ground blurring past your feet.

no time to look side to side and see those flowers and rolling hills.

no time to stop and watch birds glide through that endless blue sky.

just a brown and endless river of tan earth staring blankly at that endless blue sky.

just that beaten down path and bent over grass staring back at those endless starry nights.

just that worn down strip of earth with the best view of that open sapphire sky.

that sky which is only a distant memory to you.

just that path and your shuffling feet.

stop daydreaming.

father time

somedays i wonder what's going to happen to you when it's all said and done.

when that body of yours is all used up and you can no longer fend for yourself.

will you come to me?

will you show up on my doorstep and extend a withered olive branch.

and stare at me with empty glassy eyes and recite your plea bargain that you skillfully plotted and rehearsed a hundred times over.

"i have no one else to turn to."

and

"i thought about you everyday."

and

"i wanted to call but a day would pass into a week.

into a month.

into a year.

and i felt too guilty to contact you at all"

and of course the occasional

"i love you"

thrown in for effect and to weaken the knees.

past full grown, past your prime, withering away before me, still nothing but a child.

grasping out for a tit to suckle and restore your youth.

glossy eyed and at my front door.

and i wonder...

will i care?

and i think about your funeral.

sitting in cold stale air.

people scattered amongst pews, like flakes of dust glinting in the rays of sun.

watching family cry and mourn you lost mortal soul.

what's left of you crammed into a wooden box, on display for all to see.

and i wonder...

will i care?

will i shed a single tear for you?

or will it be a repeat of that day on my doorstep.

when i decided to step back and swing that huge wooden door shut.

blocking out those glossy eyes.

clasping that brass door knob in my trembling hand.

that was my final good bye.

now i stare down at your closed eyelids and paled skin.

my hand is not trembling.

my eyes are not glossy.

you are just a man crammed into a well crafted wooden box to me.

i don't know you.

and i said my last good-bye on a doorstep a long time ago.

a time and a place

on the day you decided to kill yourself.

you began to give a certain importance to things.

to everything.

what used to have no sentimental value or even any reason to pay your mind, now holds profound meaning.

an almost enlightened value.

it now is saturated with importance and value, much like an over absorbed sponge, oozing out details of it's new god like status.

but when all things, great or small, hold the same high value, they will inevitably numb each other out.

an over stimulation, rendering your senses dull.

too much for any mind or spirit to handle.

thus you feel numb and empty again.

drowning in an abyss of over stimulation.

but the flowers they hold new meaning.

a butterfly is no longer just a glorified moth.

it is now more beautiful than any creature to grace this earth.

the touch of another human being is more powerful than any drug.

but it all means nothing.

you are numb.

and dulled down to a round point.

and this is when the decision was made.

that this is to be the day,

you kill yourself.