What does one make of stones?

Well? What does one make of them? Because at first one may look at a stone and think, well, tis’ just a stone, and surely because it is just a stone, that would leave it as such… a stone.

But then, another man or woman would pass by and say quite quickly, well, tis’ not just a stone! Is a weapon, look, and they would take the stone and feign an attack on the foolish man or woman who simply thought was just a stone.
And such an event of course would have a profound impact on a person, so much so that in the following days they would take to thinking tirelessly of this stone and of what it could be.

Perhaps a stone is a stone, but it also a weapon, and if also a weapon, then perhaps a toy! And this man or woman would then proceed to find the nearest child and engage in a game of catch with them, and given the rock was of the proper size, would end up having a jolly good time.

Amazed by the ingenuity of such a discovery, that a stone could be a stone, a weapon, and a toy, this man or woman would of course be compelled to go even further… perhaps a rock could also then be employed as a digging tool! And this same man or woman would of course take to using a larger sized rock to move the dirt upon the ground with relative success, enough again to be compelled into believing that this stone was now a stone, a weapon, and toy, and a shovel.
And the list would continue, each day a new discovery of the old… stone, weapon, toy, shovel, fire ring, jewelry, massage apparatus, weight, bowling ball, housing material, anchor, grinder, fake muscles, shade, and more… all from a stone?

And one day this man or woman would ask of his spouse or children, to please grab the nail clipper, for he or she desired to cut his or her nails, but of course nail clippers had not been invented yet, and no man or woman had a desire to cut their nails, and so the spouse and children would look around in bewilderment, unsure of what it was that the was that he or she desired…
And the first argument would erupt. For how could he or she have been wed to a spouse or have children so blind? So as to not see with clarity the nail clipper’s laying right there on the table… the stone.

And the spouse and children would sigh a sigh of relief. Of course, those were nail clippers… they certainly could be used to trim nails and though neither the spouse nor children did so, it was perfectly reasonable for someone to clip their nails, and so they would bring the stone… the nail clipper over.

And for the next few days everything was fine, and the family tolerated the man or woman’s use of nail clippers though they still saw the stone as a stone, but did not fuss when he or she asked for the nail clippers instead of the stone. That is, of course, until one day, this man or woman said to the family that he or she was going to kill themselves.

The family, shocked into terror, ran to this man or woman and held him or her dearly, so as to give reassurance, and of course ask for why he or she would ever want to do such a thing? And the man or woman would scratch his or her head, for how was it that he or she could have a family who is so naive as to believe that he or she was going to actually kill themselves? It was just an expression, for his or her nails were getting much too long and he or she desired to clip them again.

But this time the family would scratch their heads too, for what had come about this person, and what had led them to these sorts of… expressions? And upon further questioning the man or woman would explain his or her whole story, about the day he or she saw the stone and how another person came and used it as a weapon.

And how they began thinking of the stone, until, tired of thinking of the stone and began to think of life itself! And upon turning focus, it was like a grand discovery had been made, and he or she finally understood the foundation of life: for if the stone could be anything he or she wanted it to be, so it must follow that he or she could also be anything that he or she wanted to be.

Death was just a myth! For if I chose to be living, then I should be living. And if I chose to be dead, so I shall be dead. If I chose to be kind, so then I am kind. If I chose to be evil, so then I am evil. It matters not, so long as I have thought it!

The spouse and children scratched their heads once more, but owing to the certainty that he or she spoke to, they were inclined to believe him or her, and saw in this some sort of holy power. They too began to choose what was truthful to themselves and what was not (though they never bargained to test death, they still firmly believed that it was true that they could at once decide to be living or dead, and plus, who would ever choose death over living?), and it was in this fashion that man came to today.

A Journey

He speaks, “I sat on a ship waiting for the storm to take its toll. The people they asked if this would be their last home. I shouted and cried, yes! Indeed this the end of their lives! But I seek new lands, how stubborn of me!

So the storm began –the tepid seas quickly changed and became, the most vicious of seas
And my god did I fear, the worst to come!

But just as the pouring and shaking was reaching its worst, and the waves they clashed upon on our poor hearth,
A serpent evil, slithered onboard, and in its evil, whispered a song.

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Fake — Part 1

I write, “Mother, Father, I’m running away from home! I no longer wish to see the tears roll down your faces. Is much too much for much of me.

I wish for clearer skies and wishful breezes, the kind that lift one’s spirit, despite one’s body being seldom lifted.

I move to Vancouver tomorrow, I do not wish to be spoken to, I do not wish to hear from you.

I hope you will respect this final wish as I do not know how long I will need.

Bye,
Isaac”


I leave the flimsy sheet of paper on my wooden desk at home. The airplane ticket is already booked, I just need to head to the airport.

I call my friend who’s supposed to be picking me up. The other end rings several times, then drops to mailbox. I shrug and grab my backpack and the gym bag I packed the night before, I head out the door and begin walking.

I think, “People can’t be depended on. This much I know is true. So true, that I can not even depend on myself.

What is wrong… that I could have what I think is good and still be felt as wrong?”

My phone rings, my friend has called back. I pick up.

She speaks, “Hey, sorry about that, was still in the gym. Are you leaving early?”

I shake my head, “On time.”

“Oh, sorry, sorry I’m running home right now, I’ll pick you up?”

I hang up. I think, “People can’t be depended on. How many excuses, how many lies! Told over and over again, this: the greatest lie –the last time.

How short-sighted can humans be? Terribly so, terribly so.”

My phone rings. I hesitate, I want to leave it, yet I squarely pick up.

I speak, “So…”

A different voice speaks, “This is your Mom. What the hell are you doing?”

“Mom, I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“You’re making me worried! You shouldn’t do that, you’re my son. Aren’t son and mother always supposed to be happy?

I’m coming home, will you stay?”

“I’m leaving Mom,” I hang up.

I go to my friend’s contact and delete her from my phone. Several more calls come to my phone. I silence them and continue walking.

I think.

They never saw the painting

I speak, “Ten long nights I weathered storms, and in these storms I told my adventures that came.

The crowd they gathered, to hear my words. And how they looked with rapture, as my words would fill their passing days.

With each word more people came, until the whole street was filled, with those listening to my speech.

Alas, the hours past, and the time to reveal my masterpiece was upon me. I bit my lip, a nervousness compounded, this was my fate.

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Revenge

Just the other day I left my gym bag in a stairwell. I was going to sleep there for the night, and I didn’t want to lug my gym bag around while I got shit-faced drunk in Koreatown (everyone has a right to alcohol) so I just left it in plain sight. I figured no one would touch it, but I even left my name and phone number incase.

Of course, I got back that night… and someone touched it. Worse yet, I could imagine them now assuming my identity –wearing the 12 pieces of underwear I had, 6 pairs of socks, a few of my favorite button downs, some neutral colored pants, and my external hard drive.

My fault for carrying the external hard drive. But still –we’re talking countless hours of future entertainment for my future self (not porn –sicko). There’s a lot of angsty journal writing and pictures on that drive. So whoever has it, please value the sanctity of my brain and don’t violate all my deepest, darkest memories. Or do and then make me into a meme. Either way, enjoy the clothes.

That was a rough night, knowing that humans could be so cruel. You see, people don’t care about you, and that’s a great first realization when you’re first growing up. It’s like getting the magical I don’t give a fuck card and tossing it at everyone because you realize they couldn’t care less.

But then later when you’re 40 and alone or some other trope cliche about never finding the love of your life, that’s when you realize… you wish someone did give a damn about you. Of course, not all those bad things about you, but come on, at least care about something. That would feel good, and I’ll even buy you flowers in exchange.

Well, there was no one giving me flowers this morning. But there was a semi-elderly looking woman that walked up to me in a proposed panic. She started talking about how her grandmother was having a heart attack in the hospital, how she needed to drive home, how she just happened to have no gas in her car, just happened to not have any money on her, and just happened to choose to talk to me.

Now let me get this straight –what if she is telling the truth? But don’t you see, that’s exactly what they want you to think! Don’t do it man! Fight the system! Power to the people! Fuck manners!

Anyways, I’m talking to this lady. She wants me to feel bad for her, she walked straight up to me. Why? Because I have the babiest baby face ever. And when you have that going for you and small hands well… it makes you look real innocent, real approachable, and real easy to take advantage of.

Ahem –thanks to you lady, all nice guys are forever jaded at their lives.

“Sir please, I’m putting my pride down… look I’m having a panic attack. I just –can you help me?”
“How can I help?” I raise my eyebrows.
“I just need some mon–”
“How much?”
“Sir, don’t distance yourself from me. Look, I’ll pay you back, I just need -”
“How much?”
She takes a step back, “$80.”
“I can’t help you,” I begin walking away.
She begins walking with me, “Oh but please sir, anything! Anything!”

I stop walking, it’s a long walk to campus… she’ll walk the whole way with me! She’ll actually walk the whole –fuck this. I reach into my left pocket where my makeshift wallet is (a piece of cardboard and a rubber band holding my debit card and some dollar bills) and take out the dollar bills.

I look at her, “Here,” and hand her about 4 dollars.
“Thank you sir, ” her voice is clear, apparently devoid of any panic from getting four dollars.
I nod my head and walk away.

I think about what just happened. I like homeless people more than that lady. At least they are straightforward. They ask for your money, and if you say no, they leave and ask someone else. It’s honest. Yet here was this lady, posing as someone who was really in need, in trouble, and it was all a con to her.

Yet at the same time I couldn’t fault her. It was a convincing show, and she did put away something to act like that. Maybe not pride, but that’s not something everyone would do.

A person from a group of six calls out to me.
“Hey! Hey you!” he’s holding an iPhone in his hand.
“Yah yah, I gotchu,” I say.
“Thanks man.”
I take a couple photos as they pose in front of the newly constructed building at UCLA on Westwood Boulevard.

Freedom

I found myself one day
wrapped up in a cage.

I stared around my surroundings
and to my senses I felt pain.

The forest air relaxed around me
but breathing I heard on the forest plain.

What’s this metal cage that surrounds me?
And where am I, I implored.


And beyond a large oak tree
stepped a little girl who held a key.

I beckoned her name!
I shouted so fiercely!
Oh but did I scare the child away?

She looked on at me with a childish gaze
But what, did she put me in this cage?

And squarely in that moment,
we began to hear the pant of horses’ hooves
strangely men sounded, across a river brook.

Along the forest path a new cage dawned
and was dropped on the ground
with a man inside, sleeping at once.

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