A Sunday...

Who knew? Not I. This life is not something easily defined. We think with confidence that we can look up existence in the dictionary and be rightly satisfied. This is false. We are not who we think we are, no matter how much we smugly contemplate it. Love is the only answer, as wavering of a thing that it is. My hand is your hand, and God is all around us. So breath deep next time; matter matters. The king of the Earth is blind with an empty hole in his meaty chest where his heart used to be, and his voice is the deafening thunder that splits the sky. And we will continue to love him for it.

So here I go writing again...

THE WIDOW

Ellen: The widow. Loses her husband at the worst of times. Pregnant, she is induced into an abortion when her husband is murdered. Slipping into both a world of desperate erasure and an unknown becoming of truth with a stranger, Ellen struggles on the fine line of clarity and insanity.

The killer, spawns a killer. For, See no evil, do no evil.

Jake: An honest man, is transformed into that which he fears most. One night after a long shift serving beer and cocktails Jake goes to simply empty the garbage, unbeknown to him is what awaits in that alley. That behind that very door resides the coming to of his destiny. To lose his mind.

Old writing found again...

It must have been during summer, the day in which I was taught the meaning of birth, because I can recollect the refreshing chill received upon entering the cool hallways of my elementary school, a much appreciated sensation after a lunch spent piloting a swing. My second grade teacher, Mrs. Hiratchi, had our class gather in a circle around a box with holes no bigger than a pen would inflict. Inside, with glossy eyes equal in both wide expression as well as curiosity, slouched three golden puppies. Following their introduction, Mrs. Hiratchi explained that in comparison the puppies were in their years equal to that of the second grade class, and like humans, puppies are born. The rest of that days teachings, though like many memories of mine from such an age, have faded over the years. Yet one of three fundamentals I would later claim those of life, in my opinion, was brought into understanding. Though the complexities of existence are not easily placed in a mere three categories, and that which the origin of such classification escapes me amongst the flood of input that has yet to cease (nor would I wish for it to do so), I am left with the embedded phrase, “Life, love, and death: the human experience”.