What sounds better?
Far along the open channel,
The future held its breath,
Waiting for today to live,
And tomorrow for it's death.
OR
Far along the open channel,
The future held it's breath,
Waiting for it's time to live,
And the next day for its death.
I feel like the first one sounds better, but the second one makes more sense in a logical way in my mind, what do you prefer?
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Just felt like writing things till something useful came out...
In the span of a single moment one could change that in which they are. In one moment you could decide to be the person you want to be, and no one could stop you. who you are does not depend on what your job is, where you live or what circumstance your life started and continues to be. You are exactly the person you let your self be, some are too scared to be that person, too scared to show their face, spending a lifetime afraid to be alive. We shut our selves out, afraid of what others think, afraid of disapproving glances or unhappy remarks, from the same people too fearful to show their own identities. A wall has be risen in front of each of us, told that we cant be what we are, that we are what society says we should be. We are afraid of ourselves.
funny that one does not hear the voices screaming from the past telling us beware. funny that we do not head the calls that tell us what is to come. we blindly walk forward finding old walls rebuilt, mistakes once razed to the ground, should we just peer back wed find upon facing forward again but rubble in our wake.
listening to piano music soothes my mind, though maybe only a little. the thoughts never cease tumbling through, this, and that, work, people, places, things. A river bubbling up, always speaking in the dark telling me so much, but nothing helpful.
Setting eyes upon land for the first time in months was the most welcome sight ever, though the hell they left behind coming to the new land was nothing compared the the one that raged in their hearts, would they ever see their home again? He did not think so, home was no longer there, the cherry blossoms burned, the house chard, the well boiled, and the bodies decayed. Their old life was dead, buried with the mounds of corpses the revolution brought. That night stood out so vividly, burnt upon the backs of his eyelids every time they shut... the night of flight.
Flames rose from the city, wood crashed and splintered joining the chorus of swords, some hitting each other, others rending flesh bringing in the screaming vocals of the symphony of war, conducted by the greedy, performed by the ignorant. The songs would play out the night, into the day, and towards the next evening, finishing to the quiet applause of the baking wood pyres, and the cheering of the mournful cries. Would peace rain once again after the war was over? whether it did or not their mother did not care, because upon that first night just before the fires broke out, and the swords began the first songs of death, she was determined to get both of her sons out. There was a rumor that in the next city there was an American trade ship that was bringing in the newest machines of death, some how, some way she would get them on that ship and out of Japan. Her, and the kids would have never been given asylum by the enemy, the passion of revenge scarred too deep upon the souls of the oppressed, this was the only way.
funny that one does not hear the voices screaming from the past telling us beware. funny that we do not head the calls that tell us what is to come. we blindly walk forward finding old walls rebuilt, mistakes once razed to the ground, should we just peer back wed find upon facing forward again but rubble in our wake.
listening to piano music soothes my mind, though maybe only a little. the thoughts never cease tumbling through, this, and that, work, people, places, things. A river bubbling up, always speaking in the dark telling me so much, but nothing helpful.
Setting eyes upon land for the first time in months was the most welcome sight ever, though the hell they left behind coming to the new land was nothing compared the the one that raged in their hearts, would they ever see their home again? He did not think so, home was no longer there, the cherry blossoms burned, the house chard, the well boiled, and the bodies decayed. Their old life was dead, buried with the mounds of corpses the revolution brought. That night stood out so vividly, burnt upon the backs of his eyelids every time they shut... the night of flight.
Flames rose from the city, wood crashed and splintered joining the chorus of swords, some hitting each other, others rending flesh bringing in the screaming vocals of the symphony of war, conducted by the greedy, performed by the ignorant. The songs would play out the night, into the day, and towards the next evening, finishing to the quiet applause of the baking wood pyres, and the cheering of the mournful cries. Would peace rain once again after the war was over? whether it did or not their mother did not care, because upon that first night just before the fires broke out, and the swords began the first songs of death, she was determined to get both of her sons out. There was a rumor that in the next city there was an American trade ship that was bringing in the newest machines of death, some how, some way she would get them on that ship and out of Japan. Her, and the kids would have never been given asylum by the enemy, the passion of revenge scarred too deep upon the souls of the oppressed, this was the only way.
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