Pursuit of Dust

Uh, hey blog.. 
Today I write for you, blog! A journal entry of no fictional nature...  

Ever have those days when you think,

"what the heck do I even have going for me?"

Well, 4am confession time, I can't get away from that line. Glances in the mirror remind us [or i guess i'll speak for myself] that I am the embodiment of that thought. That string of words creates a meaning that hangs like some aged wooden sign at the back of my skull.

It's always there, and when I shake my head around to try to get the creative juices flowing, it swings through that hollow cranial cavity and hits me right in the temples.

Basically I'm burnt out. I hate to sound like a hypochondriac -- but I have anxiety issues; something I never thought I'd have to deal with. But it sucks me dry, it absorbs all my emotional energy. Instead of throwing my mental energy into composition, it gets eaten by this parasite-- this filthy anxiousness that never ceases quivering. Time is its parent.

Apart from that, I'm watching my nature change. This shouldn't be a bad thing, this should be a healthy thing. Not in this case. The way I'm seeing it, I'm falling backwards. The anxiety has taken away my confidence, even in the way I interact with strangers/acquaintances or respond to new situations. I'm more and more reminded of my 14 year old self, and that makes me wretch.

I can't afford to fall back towards the type of person that says nothing. One that has an opinion but doesn't care to fight for it. One that tip-toes around the intimidation of peers. absolutely not . I want to bring something to the other members of humanity.......

and say "hey, look what I have to offer.."

Problem is, assertiveness requires a shell filled with confidence behind it; a person rich in assuredness and faith in their ability. 

(don't mock my visuals, i haven't written in a long time) . 

Right now, I feel that shell is empty. My body is empty. I can put on my confident face or attitude for a time, but after a short while I'm exhausted by the weight of trying to carry a dense personality with a shivering shell that asks,

"what the heck do I even have going for me?"

I've let it all go. I've dropped all that I was originally offered. I'm scared to touch the piano for fear I'll have retained nothing. I'm afraid to start a painting, for fear a) i won't finish b) my piece will be boring - it will be the same offer I always bring to the table. immature. meaningless.

I pick up my pen to write and I'm appalled at what comes out. It's dry. It's lifeless. It's boring. It's immature. It is foolish. 

What have I to offer? What the hell do i even have going for me? 

Motivation? Skill? Intellect? Pft. Things I used to hold dear. Things I thought I could associate myself with.

Nah, it's a hoax. We train ourselves to live up to the hoax; the invisible image that paints us as what we want to be. We then paint ourselves, but we are not the embodiment.                                                                                    So fuck you.

At least not those of us with nothing more solid to stand on than an empty shell.

Empty of motivation, empty of energy. Empty of skill, empty of intellectual ability. I'm not an artist, I'm not a quick thinker. I'm just someone. Someone who's run dry of paint with which to create the image of what I want to do. ya, to be.

what do i have going for me? i sure as hell don't know. What do I have to offer? i sure as fuck don't know.

I'd like to end this on a positive note. To run off in a trail of dust, wherein sits a whimsical phrase discussing my turn around - my pursuit of motivation.

But I can't.

Not yet.

Ya, not yet. There's a strand of hope. Stringy little strands. ... lol.

I will admit that I take for granted a lot of things in my life. I love my God and my faith,  And I love my other half. still a keeper. 

Look at a situation, and find something positive about it. Search, and change your perspective. Find that hidden, glowing aspect. cling to it.

You don't need an entire string of pearls to see the value in just one - washed with salt water ...

And if that's what it takes to keep your head above water, then its purpose is endless.

Hate.

I feel disgusting. 
In the sense that i have no creative productivity, yet i swear my subconscious is demanding i find an outlet for, 
i dunno. whatever's going on up there. 
But for now, i'll just keep posting old stuff. better than nothing. 
This is a description of Hate. 

In the beginning it is small, perhaps even insignificant as it clings to the breath it seizes from the attention we give. 

Seeded by lies and fed through hypocrisy, it grows in resemblance to ignorance.

Masked in many different auras, its subtle yet rapidly burgeoning smog will engulf and possess even the most innocent and angelic people.

It is heartless,

It is vicious,

Yet its evil has become commonplace,

Blending and concealing its destructive capacity within our societal norms.

Seeping through us, it has caused an unhealthy bleed of human ethics and common sense.

It is our condescending glances,

Our swift lashes of the tongue,

Our assumed intelligence,

Our blatant ignorance.

Symptoms, subtle but toxic indicia of a decaying respect for humanity,

It destroys us,

And we don’t seem to care.   

Never Let Me Go

Hello no one,
It's been a while, lady no-one.
So this is a more recent piece, I think it was composed last summer >_>
I hope to really get back into this in the summer; I'm done my semester at this point so technically my summer is now. I'll have to get ambitious.
I know for now this stuff has a juvenile air to it, but give it time, we're all growing.
I hope whoever's lurking out there likes this; or at least reads it.


     Evan's thoughts swirled around the edges of his brain, following the motion of the whisky in his shooter.  The alcohol buzzed down his throat and sent its echo throughout the rest of his body. He blinked as the dim lights that illuminated his corner of the bar buzzed and blurred. He lifted his glass slightly and brought it back down to the scarred counter top, the noise beckoning another filling. Evan liked the people here, they didn't cut him off. They didn't care.
      Almost as soon as the thought finished drifting across what little consciousness was left, a rattling motion shook the far end of the bar. His gaze panned from right to left. 
Evan lifted the glass to his mouth. 'This is who I am.' The phrase came and played through his mind as if it was a ghostly broken record, returning every night so that it wouldn't be forgotten.  The phrase propped Evan up, gave him identity. Purpose. That's why he came here every night. 
     The far end of the room rattled and shouts rose up. Evan felt hot breath drift towards his neck as the bar-girl approached him, again. 
     "Look at them going at it over there, same thing every night..." She said in a whisper that slithered through her lips.   "Why can't they just take it outside..." 
      Evan turned to watch her speak. The enamel of her teeth glowed in the dim light, contrasting deeply with her darker complexion. She turned to face him. He pulled his face back.
     She brought her body closer, bringing her elbows together as she leaned over the countertop.  
     Evan's vision focused on the cascade of vodka that fell into his shooter and then blurred again as he leaned back and shook out his hair. The words coming out of the bar girl's mouth seemed to slur and tangle in his fingers.  
      He left the shot and nosily got up from his seat, ignoring the ongoing susurrations of the bar girl. This scene unfolded similarly every night, and every night Evan just couldn't be interested.  Not since that night. 
     Chairs screeched and screamed as he slid them out of his path. The other customers filling the bar with smoke and natter remained completely unfazed by Evan on his jagged route out. 
     He reached what had to have been the door as the bartender offered a goodnight.  He mumbled something of a response as he stumbled outside into darkness. 
     The chill of the September night immediately slipped down his throat and woke up his bones; he shook his head again as he waited for the blur to fade. 
     Emerging from the blur she appeared. The ghost he had created. She was his hindrance. No matter where he was, no matter how much he drank, she would always find him. She followed him into the bar, and she sat silently beside him as the other girls offered favours. She would follow him outside as he lit his smoke, and she would follow him home. 
     How he wanted to hold her, to take her in his arms and never let her go like he had done before. He wanted feel her again, run his hands through her delicate hair and prove to himself that she was still there, comforting him. But all he felt of her now was the cold disappointed stare of her invisible eyes. 
     Evan wanted to claw out the sting in his eyes, claw it out and then rip the memories and mistakes out of his brain. 
   But instead he was left there helpless, a victim to the painful infection of regrets. The air around him stirred and flew past him, painting tears across his face.


- Vox Sententia 

You Must Keep Going

Something I whipped up tonight, amongst untameable taunting of the mind. deep, i know.
But this is the first poem I've done in a while, and if I'm not mistaken one of only two or three I've ever done...
There's some intentional patterning in there.... Let me know what it makes you think..

Crumble Stars 
And all that was beautiful


Memories cascade as tears from the heart, 
Falling black unto the earth


Descend O Stars, from your impossible height, 
Fall one by one upon empty houses
That were never filled ...


Huddling in assurance of dusty scenes, 
Memories fight the chill 
Of cold words ...


Burning houses devour ambition and value, 
Where in was stored the wealth;
What wealth


Burning stars ignite the memories, 
Suffocation comes from worry's black smoke. 


Crumble Walls, 
And all that was beautiful


Save
For
Your
Embrace. 

Desert Paradise.

Hey to no one who's listening. You're a great audience. >_>.
Anywho here's a poem I wrote, one of the first pieces I've done in this basic type of poetic style, but I do enjoy it.

TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK.
please :)
and hey! if you like it, why not read the rest! In fact, why not subscribe! you'd make my heart sing...

Let them live like nothing matters,

Let them live like Vegas Pollyanna’s, basking in the short lived glory of cheap thrills and endlessly burning cigarettes,

And leave me in my desert paradise.

Go ahead and get caught up in the allure of easy [and easily lost] money, highs, and love,

Just let me swim in sanity.

Gleaming lights, pretty pictures, loud music,

In this I share their infatuation,

But in their delirium,

I do not.

Let them become entangled in a Hollywood web that glows of fame and popularity,

But leave me in my desert paradise, to dally in the sands of time.

With them I’ll live in the moment,

But in the face of foolishly wasted episodes,

Let me leave them, just let me abide here,

In my desert paradise.

Call me dull, call me lost, call me foolish for inhabiting the outskirts of town,

For dwelling in my distinction from the often unwise conformity of the city,

And it’s bright lights…

But it is out here I live my personal joy, 

Loving humanity’s people,

But standing strong in my ways,

Here in the vastness of the clear sky, dust, and endless possibility.

Here in my midnight desert paradise.

Their attraction is obvious,

The pull of the crowd into bright muggy rooms,

Fuelled by the rush of pushing your luck,

But for me, the room is too easily explored.

Remember I live for joy as well,

I also breathe in experience,

But the air is so much clearer out here,

Clearer than your smog,

Come out, to the original creation of night,

Come out and see the view,

A clearer view of all life’s capabilities,

Here in my desert paradise. 

Acceleration.

Hello lonely internet. Anyone out there?? Either way, if you do pass through, wait up a second and give this a read, perhaps even a comment (I would be ecstatic). This one's from I think my last year of high school.. I think it's still worth reading though,, just a little snap of fiction....

On the bench he sat, waiting, watching. Hurriedly the passers-by crossed his vision, but he was only interested in one type, he saw only one. With eerie rigidness he waited, his glazed eyes paying no homage to the glimmer of the moonlight’s reflections. Slowly he lifted his scarred arm, gripping the cold metal shape in his jacket pocket. Satisfied with its reassured presence, he returned his hand to its place; folded nicely with the other upon his lap.

Steadily the crowds diminished and left the streets lonely and still, minus only the seemingly ominous presence of a man on a bench.

 He sat unfazed by the growing desolation of the dark, he waited. He had only been in the muffled silence for about an hour or three, when she came. As she approached the pool of light that seemed to drown the streetlight it flowed from, it was then her fate was set.

With a silent swiftness he arose; drawn by the victim and its scent. Without so much as a blink, he soon fell into identical step with the delicate creature. His heart pace accelerated to a rate much higher than it had been while he had waited; he watched with a greater intensity, but the glaze over his eyes remained. As they walked and as he watched, his senses absorbed every aspect of his surroundings, and of his prey.

As if sensing the burnished stare drilling her open, she shivered heavily under the chill of the night, while her augural follower did not.

With almost inhuman steadiness, his pace accelerated in potent silence. The unconsented duo continued in their soundless scene with no one but the streets for an audience.

Coming closer, his veins tensed and bulged, his senses fed off her trembling aura. The alley was approaching; they were drawing into his lair.

   A final acceleration of footsteps and a swift transfer of movement from pocket to throat brought the swallow of the darkness, and they were gone.   

The Wretched

Alright kids. I see the growth in profile views, I'm not asking you to join or subscribe or whatever you do here, but FEEDBACK! I crave it! ;) Anywho, here's another piece I've grown fond of, also written this year. Perhaps partially inspired by Nine Inch Nail's 'The Wretched'. The song and the piece go together well, if you care to look it up :) You may have noticed in the last piece (be you that faithful, which so far is doubtful. So scroll down.) That the spacing is not standard. Lately I've been using keyboard punctuation, spacing, and bolding to add emphasis to certain pieces. I don't really know how that started, as I rarely compose a rough draft on the computer. This piece I did on paper but with the same symbols. All words are in caps to allow varied interpretations of where phrases could end and begin. --- > here's submission number two ---


Like Wind We Rush <---> We Depart
^ Who Can Be Content ---> To Believe This 
Life
      Is Our Last ~~~> So Wretched
                                                      We Crawl, 
                                        Through The Filth That 
^Overflows --> Out Of 
                             <-- The Gutters Of This Earth -->
Claiming Lives ~ Of 
                                Our Lovers, Our Children, 
Victims Of 
         ~~~> The Wretched, The Wretched <~~~  
                       <--- SIN --->
That Inhabits < OurSouls >
Deeming Us <-------------> Dooming Us 
                      Finite
[ Happiness ] Turned To Dust <---
And Those About To Drown ---> Be They
Humble <--- Enough ---> Wise Enough
^ Will Look Up And Shout ^
       S A V E   U S


O Holy Night ---> ---> ><>


And This 
          <--- The Wretched, The Wretched --->
Night
        Shall Be  
                ~~~>   Transformed
Into The Holiest 
Of Nights --- As We
Fall 
Fall On Our Knees ---> To Finally Hear ^ 
The Angel Voices --->
                                And Salvation
---> Becomes Ours 
                  ^ The Wretched ^
Washed In The Blood ---> Their Eyes
Opened --->
                   Reset --->
As Jesus Is Made 
     ---> Our Lord <--- And 
Life
      --> Becomes Eternal
And All The 
   ---> Evil <---
And All The 
         ---> Wretchedness <---
Of This World ~~~> Of Our Making <~~~
Lies
        --------> Defeated . 

The River Styx

Alright, so this will be Vox Sententia's first submission. Wish me luck!
I was hoping to upload these pieces in chronological order, but then I realized that if i did that, my first submission would be from the mind of a 15 year old. There's no way I'll hook helpers if I start with immature pieces like that haha.
So this is something I composed a couple weeks ago, not necessarily one of my favourites, just from an image in my head; kind of  a representation of sin or destructive lifestyles. Anywho, I hope you like it, PLEASE comment!

Water swirls at the base, slowly creeping up the wall as the torrent thunders from underneath.

It is engulfing the room bottom-up with a greedy heavy darkness.

It is bone chilling and stings your heart as its many tongues taste the setting, the next victim.

You have fallen carelessly and stumbled across the hatch, searching for thrills or perhaps escape. You laugh as you peer down the hole, into the darkness, and nothing responds

                                                                        You feel nothing but assurance.

Unknowingly, almost unconsciously, you continue to toss down the pieces, pieces that drift into the darkness and are consumed by hell fire

                                                                                      But out of your view –  

Eventually you turn to depart, to look for light, but you no longer hold control.

First the rush sweeps across your feet, and as you turn your face distorts in horror as black icy water spills out from the hole and across the ground.

    You wonder if you should panic.

The water flow increases, and the rush of the darkness paralyzes your muscles as it strengthens its icy grip.

It is a torrent now, conjuring a voice that roars and groans as it twirls and churns to fill the far corners of the room.

Waves stir the air as earthly familiarities are shredded, their echoes of fleeting happiness left only to drown in the dark.

Your body temperature plummets as you lose the desire to flee.

You cannot differentiate between the darkness and your morality.

The weight of such darkness crushes your spine, your confidence, your hope.

                                                                                                  

                                                                                                And you sink.

It was through just that one opening, your soul was claimed.

So far gone, there is but one hand with whom you are in reach.

Here, set bound and lifeless on the floor of

                                                     The River Styx.

Overture

Hello kids! 
I'll first introduce myself as a simple no one. Perhaps one of these days I'll find myself an admirable pen name. 
Vox Sententia, translates from Latin as 'Voice of Thought [opinion, way of thinking, or meaning]. Last semester I took a music history class that carried us through the working of the Gregorian free chants of the medieval era. It was beautiful; exploring the rich emptiness of melismatic acapella, the text delivered in one of the purest of the earth's languages... 
I've always had an interest in Latin, the root of our English language. It has a glorious ability to capture the essence of a grand and magnificent thought in the simplicity of one or two words. That's genius. 


As is mentioned in the 'about me' section to the right of this post, my thoughts are a mess. Chaos. But take note, I also mentioned that I came here to write. The majority of Vox Sententia will consist of my literary works, with only the occasional un-thought-out post of rambling. But I will try at least to keep those entertaining as well. 


My goal I suppose is for my writing to somewhat represent the Latin language. I hope that my every written word (or, for the most part) will reflect deep importance in weaving the whole. I have brought myself and my work here so that I can turn my chaos into meaning, into organized sententia. Your job, as a reader, is to help me. 


Cheers, 


Vestri Socius.