I'M NOT DEAD.

I've been writing a lot actually, a fuckload.

I guess I'm just more selective about what I publish, or I'm lazy.
Perhaps there will be a new stream of released work, or maybe this is just a small visible flash in my ever cooking pan.

Here's some old(ish) poetry:


On cold scoundrel plains,
A black bird did croon,
Tales of pithy pains
Avast the belly of the moon

Subverged below
Its pale grey glow;
Mice, men scampered and did;
toil, dug, did lump earth's
soil. Clothing in shine skid;
the quivering names of its births.
.
Nestled within, the bramble thorn branches;
of Zeus's grey beard
Pale people amongst dust, cities and ranches
scared as sheep to be sheared


Rev'rend oak beams; the dessert's aged giver
Limestone monoliths, abroad the great river,
Carvéd jade dragons, ruby laced cows
Smiling gold boulders, soothe the here and the now.

-On religion.

Yeah, so there's some shit.
Don't fret, I haven't stopped writing.
Write!Write!Write! It was is great advice.

Just a quick one, to let whoever reads this blog know that I'm still alive
It's not much, but year 11 lit makes everything I've ever done in my life seem like not much

I don't even know what anyone could get out of this, but I just had to put something out!
Anyhow, I hope you enjoy.


And so he stood, 
atop the tempest tost point of the highest mountain,
with no weight upon his once girded shoulders,
save for the flesh upon his bones

And so he looked,
with a stare so fierce that it pierced the collosal stones,
just as glowing metal would slide through the ear of a lamb

And so he saw,
with a gaze so wide that the arms of the earth were not big enough to hold it

And so he shouted,
With a voice so loud,
that thunder itself blocked its ears ,
and crumpled like a weeping child,
and that each and every bird and star,
trembled within the sky,
and began to sing songs of joy

And so he slept,
with a mind so clear,
with a heart so content,
that every infant seemed restless




And so he woke,
in the single bed he sat,
with no weight upon his small frame
save for the blanket that kept him warm

save for the dream which came to him every night

I don't know if these words are from me or from a character I am yet to create.
But this sums up a big part of who I am, sharply and concisely.
No sugar coating, no further explanations.



I can do anything, I just have to figure out what the right thing to do is, so I can do it.

Is it to shut up, keep my head down and do my work while never questioning?
Is it to let go of the fire that I was gifted with so I can get a good job, get money and be happy?

I refuse to become another slave to this system, to become another rusting gear in a machine that is rolling towards a vile, catostrophic, pathetic and wasteful end.

I might as well burn down an orphanage, or piss in the mouths of new born babies.

I might as well put a gun into my mouth and paint the walls with my brains.
At least I'd manage to change something, even if it's just the interior design of a house.

I'd be achieving more than every week bastard that just let the world walk over them





"If the fate of humanity is to decay into pathetic nothingness, if our destiny is extinction by our greed and ignorance, I never, ever want to say that I played a part in it. When I die and go wherever I go, I want to be at peace knowing that I was the one who fought a tank with a bag of rocks, who swung a baseball bat at a missile, who tried to take on a gun with a sling shot. I want to be the guy who did everything he could."

And so he he wrote for a moment.

The external rain
Paired with the internal thoughts
Perfect company


In my well made bed
I swim with my unkempt mind
In a stream of glass

Fragile clarity
So hard to grasp, almost liquid
It sits in my hands

Though now I hold it
Tomorrow it will slip through
Twas just a moment

A moment quite true
Life is just moments, moments,
wasted, without you.

The journey is the reward.

    Whilst contemplating life's questions in the shower (which is a regular activity for me) i had an interesting thought.

The concept of improvement has been buzzing around a lot in my head lately. Improving lackluster study habits and work ethic, improving skills in the martial arts, improving my capabilities as a musician and improving myself as a person in general. And I thought of how much I was capable of, and how much I needed to improve myself so as to not waste the gifts I've been given.

This was nothing new.

But what was new was this thought: "Why do we improve?"
Why do I want to make myself better? Why am I trying to make the world a better place?
What is the goal, what is the final product, what is the great reality that human progression would lead us to?

That is when a thought popped into my head.
There is no point to improvement, if everyone was to better themselves, better their environment around them and continue this process of constant improvement for an infinite amount of years, we would never reach any ultimate goal.
I do not mean this in a pessimistic way, but it seems to me that you, others and the entire universe can never stop improving. There is no point at which things cannot get any better, there is always room for improvement.
So upon this thought, I have concluded that the journey is the reward.
We cannot attain an absolute state of Utopia, where everything is perfect and nothing should be changed.
Instead the state that we should aim for is the state of improvement.
The state of improvement is the best that we can achieve.

If things are getting better, if things are improving and progressing forward ever closer to an undefined goal then we are at our goal.
It's sort of like climbing a never ending ladder, you don't climb to get to the top, because there is no top.
You just climb to reach the next rung, because that's the best anyone can do.

To sum it all up:
"Improvement is an intrinsic finality, where the means of attaining the goal is the goal itself."



Bit of a ramble, probably dragged on for too long and said the same sentence 340 different ways, but it felt good just to get some writing and some thought out. I might look back on this sometime soon, and just see it as a very silly piece of thought, but it's a thought that passed  through my mind today.

And I guess that's what this blog is about; passing thoughts and glancing reflections

Well, my time is short, so I won't elaborate anymore nor care to proofread it.

To whoever may have read this, I thank you for your time.
And I hope you will begin your journey of improvement as I shall sometime soon.

I woke up too early.

I arise early and open the blinds to gaze out the window.
The bleak grey sky is like a steel blanket, pulled tight over civilisation by some unfriendly giant.
It blocks out the beautiful sun.
This steel blanket consumes the light and takes it away from the land of men and dogs.
However, behind the steel blanket the sun still shines, and no matter what blocks it from our view,
whether it be dark clouds, closed windows or the hours when our side of the earth decides to turn its back to it, the sun will never stop shining.

15 September, The Metaphor of the Eagle

The eagle lays perched atop the dome of the cathedral.
Perched atop the bridge between the heavens and the Earth.
He rules a no man's land of solitude and solace, the king of an empty land.
But his reign may come to a crumpling end, the winds of arrogance will only take a creature so far.
This eagle yearns to fly above the clouds, but fails to muster up the strength to flap its wings.

The eagle will fly today, he will beat his wings and rise,
Let him find direction before he crashes in ruins, let him find direction so can perch himself atop the clouds.