Wednesday, September 30, 2015

It Doesn't Have to be Fancy

So I just played Krillbite Studio's game The Plan.

It's free.  It took me five minutes.

And now I am kind of spinning and whirling and falling.

You don't have to create an epic piece of work.  You don't need a game that will take hours, you don't need a novel, you don't need a 200-yard artwork.

All you need is five minutes and a thought.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Haven Bearers

Story time! x3

When I was a little girl, I always wanted to hold my mother's piece of the Haven.  She had two, and I thought her the luckiest woman in all the world.
Sure, the two pieces of Haven - volatile when together without their wholeness - scarred her hands, but she had two.  Two items of the precious object, the saving grace of Earth.
She would let me hold one precious piece for a few minutes every so often, before taking it.  I was eager for my sixteenth birthday when I would be an official holder of the Haven.

I did not understand until I took my oath what being a Haven Bearer truly meant.  It meant loyalty to the Haven Keepers, those wise high council members who monitored the Haven itself, waiting for when it would be time to combine the Haven pieces.  It meant a Haven Guard for me to one way marry.
I thought it meant other girls and women I could call 'sister', other Haven Bearers.  They called me 'traitor', something an ancestor a thousand years did or caused.  I never knew the details.

The scars on my mother's hands started to become my scars.  The Haven pieces hurt, I discovered when I held them.  I was one of five total girls who had two Haven pieces.  Like me, their fathers were the last of their Haven Bearer line.  Men were not allowed to hold the Haven.  Like me, they were called 'traitors' for something done long removed from them.

Once I turned sixteen and became a Haven Bearer officially, I could start sensing the other Bearers.  I used this ability to my advantage.

I snuck into the library forbidden to all but the highest two of the Haven Keepers, and there I looked and peered.
I was alone in my ability, as no other seemed to be able to sense Haven Bearers.  Otherwise, no-one would talk to me with my gloved hands; the scars or the gloves a sure sign of my traitor line and my two Haven pieces.

During my eighteenth year, the five of us with two Haven pieces were taken into a room with the Heaven Keepers.  We were informed that it was time to restore the Haven from its pieces.  So, willingly, we gave our pieces up.
The five of us, the five 'traitors', watched as others - the non-traitors - came and made the Haven: a round orb of light.
And then we were cast out.

I am the last of the Haven Bearers.  I am the only one who does not have healing scars.  For in the library, I read a book.  The Haven's true nature is not good; the Haven is meant to destroy Earth.  My planet and my home.
I bear the last small fractional piece of Haven, so small.  I broke the Haven piece, and it burns more terribly than two separate pieces.  I have broken every rule I had when I took the oath.

But I do not regret my duty.  I protect the Haven.  I took the oath when I turned sixteen, and it is an oath I will follow.

My Brain Would Happily Turn Around and Stab Me in the Back

"To illustrate how horrible it was, being in jail in a wheelchair with four broken limbs after the car accident that prompted me to get sober eight years ago was much, much easier and less painful."

Depression is the most debilitating, destructive, and draining illness you could ever possibly come across.  It is painful.  It starts in the soul and mind and spreads outward to body.

Happiness cannot fight it.  Wanting happiness, wanting to be at peace, wanting to be happy - it does not make it disappear.

Sure, faith can help.  God will help you.  Jesus will carry you.

But prayer cannot make depression disappear.  All the well-wishing in the world cannot fix it.

Because you say:

I am worthless.  I do not deserve to be loved.  I am terrible.

So we say things to comfort.

Suicide is neither a choice nor not a choice.  It is something in gray.

I need suicide, for me, to not be a choice.  To be something that happens when I am despairing, so that the guilt - that never leaving guilt - doesn't drown me.

Depression is hard, harder than anything.  Fill your life with love.  Don't judge someone who hurts, or someone who is dying inside - dead inside.  An empty endlessness.  A wasteland of the soul.

Stop yelling, and listen.

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Uncrossed Lines

I would never.
There are some things I know -
I would not.
Some things I know,
I could not.
The things I could not do
Mostly involve me doing bad things
To other people.
I've done these things -
Hurt, abused, broken -
To myself.
Perhaps I broke, with words, another.
Never intentionally.
I hope not.
If these are the lines
I will not cross,
Why do I so easily cross them,
To ruin myself?
Why do I leave these lines uncrossed,
Yet when it comes to me,
I would hurt myself irrevocably.
I hear the words
Other people have said.
They became mine, and in doing so,
Sometimes they became crueler, meant
With love originally, turned into
Eldritch facsimiles of what they once were.
If I would never do it do another,
If I could not do it to another,
Why do I do it to me?

Monday, September 14, 2015

Why Write?

Write for you.
Write because you are passionate about it.
Write because it intrigues you, because it must be written, because you love it.
Write because you want to.

If you're not writing because you love it, because you're passionate about it, then why write?

Why write if you don't love it?

Why write if it doesn't burn within you?

Why write if not for you?

You will not find a good essay if the person writing it did not want to write it.  It will be subpar, and bland, and lesser.

You will find a good essay if the person felt compelled, if they were passionate, if they wanted to.

Why write?
Why write, if not for yourself?

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Always All About You

I'm the rock, the land in stormy seas,
The immobile certainty, the guarantee.
You complain and you cry and I shut up and listen,
But you never do the same for me.
I nudge my problems at you, with caution,
In case you turn around and leave.
You never listen to my worries,
But you expect me to care about yours.

And maybe I've enabled a habit,
With my martyr's tendency for pain,
But honestly I think it should click,
That I'm in need of some honest promise listen to me.

You've always got your problems
So they overshadow mine.
You've always got your issues
But hey, I am not fine.
I'd appreciate if you'd slow your mouth,
And look directly at me, at me!
Instead of the solid stone you wanna see.

Sunday, September 6, 2015

My Best Friend Owns a Pit Bull

This is about discrimination.  It's a poem.  Trigger warning, possibly?  I'm not sure.  whataretriggerwarningseven

My best friend owns a pit bull,
My 'big brother' is trans.
My friend happens to have autism,
My boyfriend happens to have anxiety,
And I have a friend or two with tattoos.

Honestly, I swear I'm more violent than all of the above,
Because every time I hear the judgement,
I want to punch someone in their face.

Your fake facts and ignorant fear
Make me burn cold.
I am tired of you valuing some life more than others -
I am tired of a world that judges
Based on some small fact of a person,
Or another living thing.

My best friend owns a pit bull,
My friend happens to be black,
My cousin happens to be gay,
And all of these? are good, wonderful facts.

Yell all you want,
Spread the lies,
We'll whisper much more quietly,
And slowly we will rise.

You think you're so smart,
You think you're so good,
But you hate for no reason,
And that is no good.

My best friend owns a pit bull,
Some days I want to die.
We're not bad people,
No animal is inherently cruel,
It's your ignorance that does it in -
It's you, and you, and you.