"The concept of genuine perception does not refer to one's insight regarding a single category in isolation, but rather, our true perceptional abilities are only illustrated when we are able to brush the delicates shades gleaned from that insight on to each and every thread interwoven into the colossal canvas of everyday life.
Each new shade enriches and ages our frame and gradually the colours will blend together to reveal the rare hue of empathy."
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
"A Mingled Yarn"
She spins tales of gold, they say. She spins them around her shapely form until, like a mingled yarn she emerges, dazzling and secure, delicately clad in her cocoon of comfort.
Her fingers weave in and out of the threads as her head gently tilts to one side. A smile plays upon the corners of her lips and she draws the young man closer to her, somewhere across the ocean the bright glass eyes flicker shut. Somewhere in a darkened room a candle burns and the scent of jasmine floats in gentle curls over the glowing embers.
They say she descended from an angel. They say that those that look upon her cannot gaze for too long..they say her innocence makes them fearful and their fear makes them run. It is she who makes them run.
With naked footsteps pressed into the lush ground she wanders out towards the water.
The heart of the city pulsed and blazed. Lights, music, the streets of life. Never a dull moment. The cosy cafe on the corner of the street was dimly lit from the inside, the smell of roasted coffee wafted out on to the open road.
It resembled a mansion...one of those old mansions that was set out in the French colonial fashion, but there were so many rooms, and there were the tunnels too...And the lofts and the balcony's, the cracks and the loose floorboards, a single chair in a red room, an old chimney.
"Its complicated Officer", he said dismissively as he chewed noisily on a particularly tough piece of meat that kept painfully reappearing inbetween the rather crooked rows of his tar-stained teeth.
"There was a girl who lived in these parts some time ago, but I guess now only the roses would know."
"The roses?" The young officer frowned at him and handed him a serviette to assist him with the remains of his masticated meal that clung in clumps to the wiry hairs of his unkempt beard.
"They grow outside the white house on the fields and they seem to be changing colour" he replied.
Her fingers weave in and out of the threads as her head gently tilts to one side. A smile plays upon the corners of her lips and she draws the young man closer to her, somewhere across the ocean the bright glass eyes flicker shut. Somewhere in a darkened room a candle burns and the scent of jasmine floats in gentle curls over the glowing embers.
They say she descended from an angel. They say that those that look upon her cannot gaze for too long..they say her innocence makes them fearful and their fear makes them run. It is she who makes them run.
With naked footsteps pressed into the lush ground she wanders out towards the water.
The heart of the city pulsed and blazed. Lights, music, the streets of life. Never a dull moment. The cosy cafe on the corner of the street was dimly lit from the inside, the smell of roasted coffee wafted out on to the open road.
It resembled a mansion...one of those old mansions that was set out in the French colonial fashion, but there were so many rooms, and there were the tunnels too...And the lofts and the balcony's, the cracks and the loose floorboards, a single chair in a red room, an old chimney.
"Its complicated Officer", he said dismissively as he chewed noisily on a particularly tough piece of meat that kept painfully reappearing inbetween the rather crooked rows of his tar-stained teeth.
"There was a girl who lived in these parts some time ago, but I guess now only the roses would know."
"The roses?" The young officer frowned at him and handed him a serviette to assist him with the remains of his masticated meal that clung in clumps to the wiry hairs of his unkempt beard.
"They grow outside the white house on the fields and they seem to be changing colour" he replied.
Monday, November 3, 2008
"Trainspotting"
Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future.
Choose life.
-John Hodge
Choose your future.
Choose life.
-John Hodge
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