But the candle burns alone. It guides us safely home.

In a world passing through my fingers
I still chase the wind....

Subdued and repressed. A son of the vortex in faceless progress, coaxing, tugging, grinding. So elevated, so God. Refit this vessel of confusion to bring the eloquence of the mute. Incorporate this forfeit cause, assimilate and fake it mine. I bow my head and taste the lies that I'm fed, all to claim my reward. Master and servant. One for all and all for none. Ignorant to the distant hymns of chaos, the progressive stand before me. Their eyes fixed in the distance, default to conform to the new.

They animate me. In confidence I thrive. My reign: supremacy. I speak no word unheard. Re-motivate me. I'm all there is to be. An omnipotent being so complete in my diversity.

Ripples race across my eyes. Breaking out in acid sweat. Wills shrivel and crack. Disintegration of my inner self. I find the substance lost. A shed shell of a being of disgust. Done is the cleansing. Complete is the surgery of the soul.

Step inside and taste the shackling thoughts that devour all confidence. Realizing I'm lost. Being no more than a mutt with a fake pedigree. Stillborn soul shaped and molded. I can live an eternity in a minute's time. A borrowed talent filled with copied goals. The carcass of hope lies dead beneath the fabric of dreams. Facing the truth within the mirror of souls- ha ha this is what I've become. Always been in this emancipated state. Submerged, battered and numb. Just a mindscape fit for illusion to make fear into reign and fulfillment of pain. Kneeling in perm The minions of the inside claim me.

Re-animate, me cause I was once alive. Defeat smears out my focus. Consciousness subsides Unmotivated. Beheld by scorching eyes. Infinity stares back at me. The surging darkness coils to strike.

We're the carriers of a new anomaly; Fold, unfold. Bend, shift color. Always turning our backs to the wind. Deaf to the inner voices screaming. Purpose, profit, act only to gain. Blistered tounges from licking greedward. Taste the enemy. Throw up their means. Swallow the bits that fit your needs. Keep your eyes searching in all directions, scanning for opportunities. Off you go. Begin your climb. Aim for the topmost twig of lies.

Put on a shape to pass undisturbed. Pick a color to blend with surroundings. Choose a voice suiting, appropriate for the never benignant purpose. Spin your eyes to read the court. Smoothen your path before the start. Even out, fill the holes with the toxic clay of your rotting heart. A contagious neuro-ego-disease. A virus sticking to liars. We're the self-centered fuel to boost the new strain of fire. Adapting, shifting, lacking opinion. Our numbers exceeding the billions. Everly walking among ourselves down the corridor of chameleons.

Continue through the skein of boughs, navigate to keep you straight on track. Make the right ramification-turns. Conceit will be your allied guide. Climb the hierarchy ladders invisibly, veiled by the canvas of putrid dreams. Every obstacle surmountable to the clouded vision you've conceived. Scan the wall of truth for cracks. Your prey: the secrets hiding therein. Feed upon its nourishing intestines to bring you forth in the "game." With every single step taken on the road of games called success, There's a fee for every lie. The currency: Your dissolving integrity. Will you make it to the top of the tree? Is the fortune there to be found? Chameleons are a short-lived breed. Maybe fate will find you dead on the ground.

Fate will tell.

I've been getting some solid work done in between classes (and during). I'm about 3/4's done with the outlining of the first part of my story, after that just two more parts to go and I can actually start writing.

The story is one that is told in three parts. Each storyline runs somewhat parallel to the others as far as being in the same general world, and each follows a few core events, but they are actually three separate stories that form a complete story at the end. Think "The Sound and The Fury" by William Faulkner.

But I'm having a glaring problem as far as naming a couple of my characters. I guess all the characters whose names have any significant meaning have already been named and now I can't think of anything that fits. Soooooooooo if anyone has any ideas, here's what I need.

1) The last name for a family of three: Wayne, Victoria, and their son Nicholas.
2) The first and last name for a psychologist.
3) The last name for a man named Ahab.

I guess by looking at that, this story looks pretty boring. In reality, I've been trying to tone down what I envisioned in my head. It's exciting enough to keep my attention for the past few months so yeah...

Inevitability and the Dog
Another Fragment
by Daniel Gildenlow, Dec 2000

We still don’t know whose dog it was…
It is strange. Afterwards it is like watching a map where you are destined to reach the foreboding cross in the middle of the paper – Catastrophe. Afterwards the joy that you all shared the seconds before seems so hollow and pointless. Afterwards you trace the dotted line back and forth on replay, replay, replay… How far do we need to rewind?
Edit: I've been meaning to post this essay for a couple years now, but have been putting it off. And I'm sitting here now, still hesitant on whether to post. Today while walking home from school I saw the body of a wild dog who had been crossing the street at the wrong time and this popped into my mind.

Even after reading it over and over, it grips me every time. Comments are welcome.

Swimming
by T. Cooper
The New Yorker August 20, 2007

People say to me, “Didn’t you hear anything?,” or “Why didn’t you stop when you felt something hit the bumper?” But I don’t know how to answer either question. He was just there with us, alive, one minute, as we were eating barbecue and watching the Super Bowl on TV at my brother-in-law’s house, and then the next minute he was dead—very dead—under our car. I sold the car after that. My wife strongly suggested I do so, and that was when I was still trying to do pretty much anything she strongly suggested. In the end, I suppose that’s what made it possible for me to come to Cambodia. I got something like twelve grand, cash, for that car.

The Mahogany Elephant
by Maxim Biller
The New Yorker July 2, 2007

He waited for her for three months. He sorted out his photos, rearranged his books, moved the furniture around, and then he went on waiting. After that, he read all the letters he had ever received and threw most of them away, and then he bought a large map of India and hung it above his bed. Or, rather, he didn’t buy a map of India, but that was what he really wanted to do while he was waiting. He waited and waited, and began to write a story about waiting for her, but he didn’t know how it would end, so he stopped. Finally, he did nothing at all; he didn’t even wait anymore. He was sleeping less and less, eating nothing but bread and tomatoes and yellow supermarket cheese, and then, at last, she came back. They sat together on his sofa, and she said, “It’s been a long time.”