tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90805342160299076762024-03-04T21:38:21.764-08:00Introverted Thoughtsstories from my head strung together into written work.hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-49111482985563955192010-10-14T21:30:00.000-07:002010-10-14T21:30:00.108-07:00Misfortune<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLRfmbLH3loO31Uve33OdUL0eB_crYgU0AsRY5kItE6jj-yR007wEDeVOqwtp5uWwpZiliMSIik_8dYMoP0DQjNVPuq6IaBvFt5wgqm06VbY8b-8PjNH03NRT9edUJyBnnjgZlZ3Tomtk/s1600/013.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLRfmbLH3loO31Uve33OdUL0eB_crYgU0AsRY5kItE6jj-yR007wEDeVOqwtp5uWwpZiliMSIik_8dYMoP0DQjNVPuq6IaBvFt5wgqm06VbY8b-8PjNH03NRT9edUJyBnnjgZlZ3Tomtk/s400/013.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514388732378637234" border="0" /></a><em>Gabrielle Veilleux checked in to Building Society Bank.</em> <p>He smiled at himself momentarily, staring at the text message as the television glared unnoticed. This was the third time Gabrielle checked into the bank. Ever since she started using Foursquare, she was determined to become a mayor of something, <em>of anything</em>. So, every day before work, during lunch and after work, she’d visit the bank to make a deposit, withdraw some money or just check her account balance.</p> <p>Her third check in meant she was on her way home. Finally, he thought, my Gabrielle is coming home. He closed the phone and almost got up to check online just how close she was to becoming the mayor of that bank, but his thoughts were interrupted - BREAKING NEWS in big red letters had caught his attention.</p> <p>A woman began to speak frantically but clearly: There is an armed man in the Building Society Bank. Police have now vacated nearby buildings and have surrounded the bank. A gunshot has been heard from inside. Police fear the worst.</p> <p>Gabrielle, he thought, oh no, Gabrielle. He quickly stood up and ran around the house looking for a pair of jeans and his car keys. After moments of searching, he opted on running out as is: shorts, a stained t-shirt, socks and his cell on his hand. He ran. The woman’s voiced played in his head. <em>A gunshot has been heard from inside.</em> Did he shoot Gabrielle? Is she dead? No, he thought, I mustn’t think this. But his thoughts couldn’t diverge from the worst. He thought of her jumping in to save someone from a bullet and lying there, dead, a tragic hero.</p> <p>But she must be alive, he assured himself as he turned the corner. Just two blocks, he whispered more to himself than the man he just passed by. He wondered if each passing second was her last. Or if any of it mattered. Had her time ended before his run started? He could hear the siren and see the crowd surrounding the scene, eagerly waiting for something to happen.</p> <p>He felt his pocket vibrate but he urged on. He pushed men, women and children away; nobody was going to stop him. He got passed one cop, but reinforcements kept him at bay. “I must go in and see her,” he pleaded. “My wife, my wife is in there. Please, please let me through. Oh god, let me through…I need to see her.”</p> <p>The police men ignored his cries but his wish came true. The man came out with Gabrielle in his arms, a gun to her face. “I will kill her if you do not allow me to pass.” The crowd sighed and his world collapsed. Why did it have to be Gabrielle? Gabrielle was crying and her nose was dripping blood. The policemen turned to face the man and he broke free. He ran towards her without thought. He needed her to be safe.</p> <p>The man shot her in the head. He saw the last of her life in her face, until she fell to the ground, lifeless. He heard other shots and saw the man fall too. He reached down to her and put her head upon his chest. S’il vous plaît Gabrielle, s’il vous plaît ne pas être mort. Gabrielle, Je t’aime. S’il vous plaît dire quelque chose, s’il vous plaît. The blood began to seep into his shirt and he felt warmth. He felt <em>her </em>warmth. He rocked back and forth pleading with her body to make a movement. He felt something vibrate on her jacket and remembered his phone vibrating earlier.</p> <p>He opened his phone and read: <em>Si je ne m’en sortirais pas vivant, au revoir. </em><em>Aujourd’hui, j’ai découvert que je suis enceinte. Je veux un garçon. Nous vous aimons Phillip.</em></p> <p>Hot tears slid down his face unto the screen of his phone. He had lost two loved ones today. His phone vibrated once more; he subconsciously opened the text and began reading: <em>Gabrielle Veilleux is now Mayor of Building Society Bank.</em> (<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/encontresalatercerafrase/4745516993/">via</a>)<em><br /></em></p>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-76144462296985408052010-10-07T20:30:00.000-07:002010-10-07T20:30:01.022-07:00Insanity<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6cYJhK88EPqNzdha7lizWBxvm2uaXM3krk6jpZEL-tRuu5QqJ1074a8wiDfR6D3frqsHdCBriyQhodMsv-OL3RgInc4620-oOo3_rhg9lEUXWD6Rt-XOJWzcqJ_yW79EsEk6ActTQx50/s1600/012.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 501px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6cYJhK88EPqNzdha7lizWBxvm2uaXM3krk6jpZEL-tRuu5QqJ1074a8wiDfR6D3frqsHdCBriyQhodMsv-OL3RgInc4620-oOo3_rhg9lEUXWD6Rt-XOJWzcqJ_yW79EsEk6ActTQx50/s400/012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509226135371734914" border="0" /></a>Your hands are moving up and down the air in an exorbitant manner. I sit in the front row, your back directly in front of me. Others are watching the show too, sprinkled around the music hall. You are playing the music of the observers, at the beat of stomping feet, hand clasping and impatient finger taps; the sounds of coughs, whispers and jeers mix into a symphony of sound. Your hands gently, but quickly, create a flow of music as the orchestra sits frozen, waiting for a minute gesture to grant them life. <p>The violinists spring into life with an eerie sound that fills the hall. My heart begins to beat faster. Your hands follow my heartbeat in speed. The violinists play faster, faster, faster. A cellist begins to play at my heart strings. I could hear your heartbeat; it’s thrusting against your chest at the same beat as mine. I listen more intently. The whole orchestra wakes up with a cacophonous sound.</p> <p>Your hands bend the sound into something beautiful as the orchestra speeds up. <em>Allegro</em>. The sound feels like a river, flowing endlessly out of your hands into me. I submerge myself into it and I feel at home.</p> <p>With a flick of your hand the sound abruptly ends. The orchestra returns to its frozen state. Then it begins once more, the anticipation for sound; the need to hear more and the yearning to leave clash inside of me. Your hands continue to move up and down at the sound of sweet manipulation and I’m left listening to the music of silence. (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gQTsW6TGAUE">via</a>)</p>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-5291423814169043882010-10-02T19:30:00.000-07:002010-10-02T19:30:00.443-07:00Memory<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQihW5dEENUqnYu1akncpCntGD9VY2DUlqeJZbrPUXbcjYxdVbHFgGkukDQRYFtCJEwmu1YqPqIv_WN8d37VQExHX1h6AgAHAYuCeDjyJYo0QgRIiFuPHyNngGi-Nf2twSU7JtLlKRHSI/s1600/011.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQihW5dEENUqnYu1akncpCntGD9VY2DUlqeJZbrPUXbcjYxdVbHFgGkukDQRYFtCJEwmu1YqPqIv_WN8d37VQExHX1h6AgAHAYuCeDjyJYo0QgRIiFuPHyNngGi-Nf2twSU7JtLlKRHSI/s400/011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509225528763152770" border="0" /></a>You’d always look at me when we slept together. I felt the warmth of the sun and your smile beam on my face. You began to kiss my forehead. <p>I ran towards my brother. “You’re dead!” He was too fast for me. Something flew from behind him. It was a black orange, tainted with mud. It hit me in the eyes. I continued blindly running towards him; I knew the place, I’d be alright. I crashed into a pole. My forehead had to be sewn.</p> <p>I felt your breath on my hair. I suppressed a smile. Your lips met my cheeks. I couldn’t hold the smile any longer. Your lips made a path of small kisses leading to my lips, leaving behind a trail warmness created by my blushing. When our lips met, I felt your smile and I couldn’t help but smile even more. Our tongues met and began to do an intricate dance, a swordfight for dominance.</p> <p>“Where is my mom?” My aunt hadn’t the slightest idea. She left the kitchen and I was sitting on the kitchen table, alone. I want my mommy, I thought. I jumped off, biting my tongue. A part of my tongue tangled, left unnoticed. Hours later doctors will sew my tongue together. They feared I wouldn’t speak properly.</p> <p>I whispered, good morning while our lips parted for seconds. It became more passionate. I could feel your heartbeat on me. I could feel your happiness, but I knew long before the kiss was over, long before <em>we </em>were over, that we’d end up separated.</p> <p>I knew that as your lips pressed against mine you’d become another scar upon my face. I knew then, that you will soon become a distant memory, someone I’d vaguely remember in my old age. (<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/zen/323416762/">via</a>)</p>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-56748379821741275502010-09-25T18:30:00.000-07:002010-09-25T18:30:00.231-07:00Free<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY24hlEa0BbDDN7hkiOPb9SHGa6-bKQNsDowwO42-hlX7EYhY3WdiJJRr23OecR32tK7El6dIbkuZQ8G-MEoU5xhTLEds3wLaZMV33XipHUanCWMntRV8yon-hbUOmrXkTzaVAJui5pKg/s1600/010.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY24hlEa0BbDDN7hkiOPb9SHGa6-bKQNsDowwO42-hlX7EYhY3WdiJJRr23OecR32tK7El6dIbkuZQ8G-MEoU5xhTLEds3wLaZMV33XipHUanCWMntRV8yon-hbUOmrXkTzaVAJui5pKg/s400/010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509224919750697810" border="0" /></a>We were snuggled deep under his bed sheets. I lay there, smiling and thinking about last night. His hand was over my breasts and he was soundly asleep. I thought about how he gently caressed my cheek with the back of his hand. He’d take off his shirt and I’d follow, showing my breasts with erect nipples. He kissed me. He licked me. We made love. The aftermath was just as amazing. We laid there exhausted, never taking our eyes off one another. <p>He whispered: <em>What happens when two unstoppable forces collide?</em></p> <p>I didn’t know it then, but that memory will haunt me for the rest of my life. That idea would form itself in my most vulnerable moments. It would creep up on me like a lioness on a gazelle completely unaware of the danger nearby. No matter how many times I tried to push it to the back of my mind, his voice will resonate in my head – “What happens,” he began again, “when two unstoppable forces collide?”</p> <p>I didn’t answer. We fell asleep – no other words were uttered that night. The memory of that night will be with me the morning after, during our disputes, when I was happy or sad…it would come at me, forcing me to think of answer. <em>What happens when two unstoppable forces collide? </em>First I heard it in whispers and the more I thought about it the louder the question will become. It was as if I were standing in the middle of train tracks and the question, the train, sped its way toward me. <em>What happens when two unstoppable forces</em> – before the collision, I’d wake from the trance.</p> <p>We were arguing again; his screams broke the trance.</p> <a name='more'></a> <p>He gripped my arm tightly. It reminded me of something: a flesh memory. We had walked into our new apartment, hopeful, looking at a coverless window. The sun shone brightly. “We’ll be alright,” he said, moving his arm around me. He gripped my arm tightly. “Yeah, we’ll be alright.” His hand sent a shock throughout my body and in an instant I felt this surge of passion and adventure. We fucked leaning on the window. It was the best feeling in the world. His force kept me on the window. My legs wrapped around him as he shoved his dick between my legs. His face was deep in my breasts, licking and biting my nipples. I felt insanely good; I felt the eyes of neighbors opposing our windows and of strangers walking below. I heard the small cracks of the window and that felt good too. <em>What happens when two unstoppable forces collide?</em> He fucked me harder and harder. I liked that any moment our passion will shatter the window and we’d fall to our deaths. He was deaf to the cracks. He kept thrusting in a pattern that our moans followed. Ahhhh- he finally reached ecstasy as he moaned in passion – no, he yelled in pain.</p> <p>My first had landed on his jaw. He held on to it as I stared him down. His eyes were filled with hatred. “You’re going to pay for this you filthy bitch!” I stood my ground. He hit me back. I fell to the ground kissing the wood floor. No, it was gravel. “Are you alright honey?” His voice was sweet. He helped me up. <em>What happens when two unstoppable forces collide?</em> No, this isn’t right, I told myself. I don’t belong here. He kicked me and I felt the floor: wood once more.</p> <p>He muttered something and spit at me. I was disgusting, filth, trash, not worth any of his time. He grabbed me by my hair and pulled me up. I saw the train tracks in front of me. The train was at a distance. I heard a whisper ringing in and out of my ears: <em>What happens when two unstoppable forces collide?</em> The train was gaining speed and the voice in my head grew louder. It was an infinite loop, only interrupted by itself in different levels of loudness. <em>What happens when – collide? – unstoppable forces – when – what happens – two unstoppable forces collide? </em>I didn’t know the answer, but the train moved forward.</p> <p>I swung my arms hoping to land a punch. I kicked and snarled. I hit him in the groin. He let go of me and I ran. The train kept moving forward as I stood there in a trance. <em>What happens</em> – he got up and ran after me – <em>when two unstoppable</em> – I threw any object close to me: lamps, plates, even pillows – <em>forces collide?</em> He tackled me to the floor. <em>What happens when two unstoppable forces collide?</em> I squirmed and screamed. I scratched and bit anything I could. His strength was too much. The train was 200 feet away. <em>What happens when two unstoppable forces collide? </em>I bit his ear and blood came gushing out. He let go of me and I saw my chance. I kicked. <em>What happens when two unstoppable forces collide?</em> The train was 100 feet away. I could hear the piercing horn, the roar of the engine and, and his screams. I ran towards the kitchen. He got up and ran after me, ignoring his pain. The train was going to hit me. I picked up a knife. <em>What happens when two unstoppable forces collide?</em> I braced myself for the impact. The train was seconds away.</p> <p>I stabbed him. My eyes were closed. <em>What happens when two unstoppable forces collide?</em> His body fell to the wooden floor, no, the train tracks. He looked surprised. <em>What happens when two unstoppable forces collide? </em>I leaned down to inspect his body. I kissed his forehead and whispered: <em>One breaks free.</em> (<a href="http://boodleberry.deviantart.com/gallery/#/deima6">via</a>)</p>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-29691093539637748162010-09-18T17:30:00.000-07:002010-09-18T17:30:01.094-07:00Drive<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0UInzTSoeBKJvyALlv1OBQqllOOnnkIFBo3SbYCfW0ZiqbUH9gpNCEkqD5TPV-ZK0f0dz86XZ6fNf0GUDK2k8RRj46knPNIETgtndXeGdC9bPnup6zs_EpTSzJsrwrh3KKIvNQOH0yjM/s1600/009.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0UInzTSoeBKJvyALlv1OBQqllOOnnkIFBo3SbYCfW0ZiqbUH9gpNCEkqD5TPV-ZK0f0dz86XZ6fNf0GUDK2k8RRj46knPNIETgtndXeGdC9bPnup6zs_EpTSzJsrwrh3KKIvNQOH0yjM/s400/009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509223992010732482" border="0" /></a>I have an array of stories ranging from erectile dysfunction to a suicide note, but I lack the drive to write them down despite how many details I’ve thought out. <p>I lack a lot of drive actually. There are days (even weeks) where I don’t want anything to do with sex. I skip school habitually because I have better things to do (like sleep or Disneyland). I start tens of projects most which never see the light of day after day one. I get bored too easily, moving on to the more interesting project.</p> Mostly, I lack the drive to think of something creative for the word ‘drive.’ (<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/aton84/3370870995/">via</a>)hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-90744819883865457612010-09-11T16:30:00.001-07:002010-09-11T16:30:00.342-07:00Infinity<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_At9cCSOZGX4/TFEGqd1NN-I/AAAAAAAAAEs/p_hTUV7COGY/s1600/008.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 501px; height: 250px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_At9cCSOZGX4/TFEGqd1NN-I/AAAAAAAAAEs/p_hTUV7COGY/s400/008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499183946628151266" border="0" /></a>In a letter to his boyfriend, a friend of mine wrote: “I want to be with you forever - in life and death. We will be eternal like stars; rising and falling at the beat of the sun.” <p>Normally, such feelings are naive - foreign even, but those words reminded me of my very first date. I remember feeling something. I’m not sure what I felt; It was a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. I recognized happiness too, it wasn’t as strong, but it felt like it was sprinkled on there to help me swallow the emotion.</p> <p>We went to a very Hollywood picturesque first date, the fair. On my way there, my iPod played Blink 182’s “First Date.” I felt this surge of unhappiness. Why would I be asked out? Why all of a sudden? Are the feelings mutual?<br /></p> <p>It was a very weird feeling; lights flickered, cars seemed to slow down to a halt and breathing took hours. It felt endless. Like if in that moment all that existed were my feelings. There were many highs and lows throughout this frozen state.</p> <p>A wave of fresh air hit my face and the moment passed. The date ended and days went by, mere seconds compared to that emotion. The worst part of this whole experience is that I’d have to wait an eternity, to sit through a wretched hollow, to feel it again. (<a href="http://demonic-lucifer.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d84wyz">via</a>)</p>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-36567939314311096832010-09-04T15:30:00.000-07:002010-09-04T15:30:00.371-07:00Breathe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrm2cILBO8HpdJV1HJH0XeYTeVHd_IjiXPZ01KvphJJ3dmNJq572c003Gh7A2jx7zuBbZfAowpvRRfMeDFZND4xmu6jTaXrU5AgY3bS-BQIe7U897IZqiJc9vpPiKL8fyoxOQvaOI-a4o/s1600/007.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrm2cILBO8HpdJV1HJH0XeYTeVHd_IjiXPZ01KvphJJ3dmNJq572c003Gh7A2jx7zuBbZfAowpvRRfMeDFZND4xmu6jTaXrU5AgY3bS-BQIe7U897IZqiJc9vpPiKL8fyoxOQvaOI-a4o/s400/007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497524813408916258" border="0" /></a><p>Breathing is ephemeral. I find the act of breathing interesting. During the inhale and exhale of breathing, many noteworthy events can occur, but at the same time nothing can happen. A breath of air is in essence useless, but it carries life.</p> <p>In an effort to catch my thoughts, to translate the impulses of axons into words, I decided to hold my breath. I thought if I can freeze this moment, if I can stop in the middle of the journey, I’ll be able to collect my thoughts, to reach a conclusion.</p> <p>Sadly, my lungs cannot stop the unavoidable and I have to take a breath. If I had to get my point across, if I had to convey the complexity of my thoughts I would have to be concise. But my thoughts race too fast for my fingers to keep up; they’re always turning a sharp corner, chasing an obscure tangent thought.</p> <p>But it’s still not enough and any second my lungs will give in. I’ll finish the journey, a little bit closer to the end of the thought maze but never finishing. And just when I exhale, I’ll be wishing for another breath. I’ll be wishing to hold on a little longer so I can get closer to the end of that thought. (<a href="http://licoricefactory.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d2qv8og">via</a>)</p>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-80443110203873927032010-08-28T14:30:00.000-07:002010-08-28T14:30:00.322-07:00Beauty<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiidfebr91Vjarp4-riCPZm3wRL7tgc0-_rc_kugRaP5cF8VGcmlkiXP5UkEbkrHM_VxQj7rDwGhp970AOOBVArFDSE9KA-n-UxaKnRBYmqqj3POlMahZfOn7daWoA2HS7V91Vn9gG85uk/s1600/006.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 501px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiidfebr91Vjarp4-riCPZm3wRL7tgc0-_rc_kugRaP5cF8VGcmlkiXP5UkEbkrHM_VxQj7rDwGhp970AOOBVArFDSE9KA-n-UxaKnRBYmqqj3POlMahZfOn7daWoA2HS7V91Vn9gG85uk/s400/006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497524395760602066" border="0" /></a><p>The only image I think of when I read “<em>Beauty</em>,” is of me love struck during high school. I used to think I was in love. It was beautiful, in a sense, but mostly naïve. I felt like this school girl swooning over the captain of some team that wouldn’t give me the time of day. Eventually, I found closure with myself.</p> <p>This (the actual post), is an excerpt from a poem I was writing. It’s funny that I seem to still lean towards Athena’s side when in love. It’s almost as if I have this obsession on becoming her embodiment.</p> <blockquote> <p><em>I remember it clearly & when I confessed</em><br /><em>It felt like I was reciting a summary from my heart.</em><br /><em>The written word from my soul was like a Classic</em><br /><em>Written a century ago about life’s mysteries.</em><br /><em>As words came out of my mouth</em><br /><em>I felt every anxiety, every fear & every joy.</em><br /><em>The essence taking over my being, and</em><br /><em>Although I knew the prophecy of the Oracle</em><br /><em>I, like Oedipus tried to run from faith</em><br /><br /><em>Intelligence & Love fought one another</em><br /><em>Athena in the east</em><br /><em>Love in the west</em><br /><em>Oh, but love’s superficial skin-deep wounds</em><br /><em>did nothing to the strength of thought’s shield</em></p> </blockquote> <p>Now you know why I don’t write poetry. (<a href="http://www.fxnetworks.com/shows/originals/niptuck/">via</a>)<em><br /></em></p>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-26975875818795678392010-08-21T13:30:00.001-07:002010-08-21T13:30:00.850-07:00Innocence<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcoPeEn-1vg41wlzQxCRbEQtAf421fsi2GZrY-hE55S9U6QUGtCq2nqD1VNcg-Dadmp1fnvcofXgwLb0Ars8XWH0QLi6o_EB0Em0wpfTKJxpgunXQ7rPZ0H_G29k_Zf8dgt3GHx1BiuCU/s1600/005.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcoPeEn-1vg41wlzQxCRbEQtAf421fsi2GZrY-hE55S9U6QUGtCq2nqD1VNcg-Dadmp1fnvcofXgwLb0Ars8XWH0QLi6o_EB0Em0wpfTKJxpgunXQ7rPZ0H_G29k_Zf8dgt3GHx1BiuCU/s400/005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497523975954013378" border="0" /></a><p>It smelled of sweat and body lotion. The music drowned the whole place, emitting this sound that acted as a pulse to the party. It gradually increased in speed, taking the participants from sensual to sexual in an instant. He didn’t like this place.</p> <p>He lingered in the front, taking in all the room. Another man pushed him forward, urging him to find a suitable worker. He hesitated. Eventually he managed to take steps forward, eyeing a woman in the back swaying her hips back and forth. It was hypnotizing.</p> <p>“Ah,” the man yelled, “I see you love them blonde.” He finished his boasting with a powerful brotherly blow to the back and a wholehearted laugh. They continued their path towards the woman, stopping to steal a few glances at the other workers. “Welcome Boys,” they’d say, “fancy anything?” He looked ill. He didn’t want to be here. The other man was glassy-eyed. He was in heaven. “You can fancy this,” he’d say, grabbing a hold of his dick and thrusting the air in front of him.</p> <p>The woman continued to dance and he couldn’t help but stare. The other man whispered something that was drained by the music. She gave a weak smile. She received a wad of cash, and the other man followed a brunette that just passed by.</p> <p>“Sit down,” she said, in a forced way. “I can tell it’s your first time.” She danced on top of him.<em> Thud</em>. She faced him and smiled, taking off her bra. Her breasts were beautiful. Her nipples were pointed. <em>Thud Thud.</em> She continued to dance making –<em>Thud–</em> her breasts gently hop up <em>–Thud Thud Thud– </em>and down. <em>Thud</em>. His heart was deafening. He could’ve sworn she was dancing to his heartbeat.</p> <p>She gave a surprised “ou,” <em>–ThudThudThud Thud Thud–</em> as she grinded on his crotch. <em>Thud.</em> He had a hard on and a small wet spot was rapidly increasing. “Don’t worry,” she whispered in his ear. <em>Thud</em>. She unzipped his jeans and took hold of it. He caught his breath and his heart had stopped. In that moment he wasn’t alive. It was all too much. She moved her bikini bottom to the side showing a shaved vagina. He whimpered.</p> <p>She jumped up and down making sure that he was completely in her and then almost out. His moans were now louder than his heartbeat. Ahh <em>Thud </em>AHH Ohh Yes <em>Thu</em>-OHH. She too was enjoying herself. Her moaning was fast and constant. He didn’t want this to end. He couldn’t breathe, she was getting louder and then…and then, it was over. A minute had passed.</p> <p>She got up and began to walk away, cum dripping down her leg. He reached out, grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Wait,” he begged. “It can’t just en- We can d- Can I at least have your name?” He wasn’t sure what to say to her.</p> <p>“Don’t worry about it,” she said, coolly. “It was my first time too.” (<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/berartvd/4771171120/">via</a>)</p>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-48051139596759556292010-08-14T12:30:00.001-07:002010-08-14T12:30:00.358-07:00Dark<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rGrcx8ykHRbBqsKXK81LSHO7a_ZZA3B-0G7g9uDHinhsdCji1uVB0HX9OtkZ8bz8xiqjLsp55jTfrE3oZ7CJXsu0f_D2w1QeveqFw60nz2F9SGRH4VB5fVwI8OMt5v9xIKCftxWbOYQ/s1600/004.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 504px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rGrcx8ykHRbBqsKXK81LSHO7a_ZZA3B-0G7g9uDHinhsdCji1uVB0HX9OtkZ8bz8xiqjLsp55jTfrE3oZ7CJXsu0f_D2w1QeveqFw60nz2F9SGRH4VB5fVwI8OMt5v9xIKCftxWbOYQ/s400/004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497523492885422306" border="0" /></a><p>“What you see is what you get,” seems to be my life motto.</p> <p>From the moment I moved west, I’ve gotten more and more solidarity. I ate alone during lunch time on my first school day. It didn’t change as the year progressed. People avoid me at all cost.</p> <p>It’s almost as if I have a highly contagious disease that spreads throughout my surrounding. The halls part as I walk by, I’m not school royalty, I’m a jester. People point and laugh. They push me. Once they beat me.</p> <p>They speak to me slowly and loudly, implying that I can’t understand English. I have an accent. It doesn’t help the situation. Outside of school is no different. The stares I receive at the market. I’m not here to steal.</p> <p>In the elevator women grip their purses tighter and men grip their women closer. All these little details add up, their actions become patterns and I understand how I’m viewed.</p> <p><strong>Yes, what you see is what you get: if all you see is skin a shade (or two) darker, then that’s all you’re going to get.</strong> (<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/delilahphotography/2763627760/">via</a>)</p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-5500555078808550872010-08-07T11:30:00.001-07:002010-08-07T11:30:00.439-07:00Light<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXYFYOy6EBiX_rOM8MDQ6gesAQ2H_bFDk2_xubvSD52vJWMfWeKP99Ij8lPX74HkkgQranTmXupIKIany7eZx1j1tSa5Dj0vy0vGFZNPXpr-adRh8uZTMcvfghCIiTal40F9YRFwaeyWg/s1600/003.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 496px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXYFYOy6EBiX_rOM8MDQ6gesAQ2H_bFDk2_xubvSD52vJWMfWeKP99Ij8lPX74HkkgQranTmXupIKIany7eZx1j1tSa5Dj0vy0vGFZNPXpr-adRh8uZTMcvfghCIiTal40F9YRFwaeyWg/s400/003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497522423545539538" border="0" /></a><p>A spider crawled up my leg; I didn’t think much of it despite being terrified of them. It traveled from my toe to my calf at an alarming speed and it multiplied in size much faster than it traveled. Soon it was larger than my hips, its fangs oozing out a slimy green substance. I lay motionless.</p> <p>I picked up my sword and slashed it in half in one swing. It splashed green liquid all over me, dissolving my clothes. This was the sixth daughter of Arachne I’ve battled. They were out to gain the approval of Athena. Athena had long urged my father, Apollo, to be rational, to kill me. The gods disapproved of demigods. Some sided with Athena, and pleaded Zeus to destroy me, but Zeus having fathered many demigods decided to stay out of it.</p> <p>Apollo had come to me when I was 16 and told me to brace myself. The gods were planning tests to prove my worth. If I had passed them all, I would be able to live among the gods. I continued to lie on the floor, the spider’s body next to me. Sometimes I wished Apollo didn’t court my mother. Sometimes I wished that during nights like these, I was killed by the spider’s pincers. This wasn’t for me.</p> <p>But in the darkest of nights, there was always a strange shimmer of light, a sign from my father. It was as if he was telling me that everything will be alright. With the rise of my bow, a ray of light will pierce the night, pierce my enemies; a ray of hope that I too, one day, will enjoy the acceptance of Mount Olympus. (<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/aspenbreeze/3807461249/">via</a>)</p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-19924461855325429072010-07-31T10:30:00.001-07:002010-07-31T10:30:00.240-07:00Love(less)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhod1NCbYMufGQkY4P3Ay5dyq48utwUJvdtbgJSPIBxeMpbCIw5PrzPcg_MVJYHLkWkC9iWtkjtalYyTjO0h3Rn-UJ2jxqypZiyzF_KZwe-Z3cqmnX2Fo0UJanaEppShyphenhyphen7OfsE8YJ5jhwU/s1600/002.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 501px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhod1NCbYMufGQkY4P3Ay5dyq48utwUJvdtbgJSPIBxeMpbCIw5PrzPcg_MVJYHLkWkC9iWtkjtalYyTjO0h3Rn-UJ2jxqypZiyzF_KZwe-Z3cqmnX2Fo0UJanaEppShyphenhyphen7OfsE8YJ5jhwU/s400/002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497521767744573170" border="0" /></a><p>One of the few things I fully understand about myself is how I view love. I have this very idealistic view on love, and despite that, I avoid it at all costs. (Okay, maybe not all costs; the sporadic lovely moments are truly welcomed).</p> <p>Unfortunately, what I see as true love is something I find truly boring. It’s nice but I need some unbalance in my (love) life. I want love that is more beast-like than human; a love that feeds upon our passions, our physical beings and our minds. I want to be filled with anger, angst and ardor. I want to feel emotions ooze out of my lover’s pores. I want to make the taboo love we share the norm.</p> <p>Ultimately, these desires have taught me one thing: I have to love the ugly parts of me first. I need to wear my insecurities with a smile. Although I’ve come a long way, I don’t think I’m ready for such a huge commitment.</p> <p>I need to escape my life. I need to run away to a foreign country. I need to bask myself in the unknown and find something worthy of knowing. Ah, that’s what I call love, diving into the black abyss and finding light. (<a href="http://crossingmissvampire.deviantart.com/art/T-N-T-for-the-brain-s-e-l-f-164590158?q=boost%3Apopular+love+brain+scan&qo=1">via</a>)</p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-33821173326085467852010-07-24T10:07:00.001-07:002010-07-28T21:35:01.028-07:00An Introduction<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPg0twagtv_hfTFlAPGQtqoKxh8EpcdCIbxnMNJnmaHy45ed_6SWb5-UOAsR6NQX6LgeIdl9Je4RYs5MrmTxfqoPiGtSGhsg6OE6d67CYulRgE4E58a8Dm1ChHKeOe0Ow5HEGz-2Nvyn4/s1600/001.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 536px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPg0twagtv_hfTFlAPGQtqoKxh8EpcdCIbxnMNJnmaHy45ed_6SWb5-UOAsR6NQX6LgeIdl9Je4RYs5MrmTxfqoPiGtSGhsg6OE6d67CYulRgE4E58a8Dm1ChHKeOe0Ow5HEGz-2Nvyn4/s400/001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497520637467953762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">"A Hundred Scripts" is a project, that I hope will allow me to write more regularly. The idea stemmed from another blogger, Kevin, who posted 100 words to write about. I decided to take those words and create "A Hundred Scripts." The idea is to write whatever comes to mind about the 100 themes.<br />Therefore, 100 Themes, 100 Scripts.<br /><br /></span><p>Eyes are marvelous things. We all have a pair. Some of us have 20-20 vision, others need contacts/glasses, some, unluckily, are partially or fully blind. Despite that, they are still marvelous things.</p> <p>They are the way we see the world. We all perceive everything differently. To introduce myself - I would have to let you understand the way I perceive things.</p> <p>I need contacts. The time I feel that I can truly see the world is when I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror taking off my contacts. When I take off one of my contacts - a whole side goes blurry. I begin to mix the perfect vision of one eye, and pure blur. It becomes a fuzzy image, that’s what I love seeing.</p> <p>You see, when I see my fuzzy reflection, I am able to blend what could be and what is. I blend my reality and my imagination. That’s how I perceive the world: a realist with a pinch of imagination.</p> <p>I am a realist that adds color to the black & white world through his imagination. Occasionally I would blend the two, creating a fuzzy beautiful world. (<a href="http://helionn.deviantart.com/art/Trapped-In-His-Eyes-101465445?q=1&qo=1">via</a>)</p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-78424836190508174292010-06-04T23:36:00.001-07:002010-06-04T23:36:49.741-07:00Population Risks II<a href="http://instantaneouschange.blogspot.com/2009/09/population-risks.html">This is a continuation of this post.</a><br /><br />Immediately after the man finished talking a woman appeared on screen. <i>Thank you for your patience, the game will begin shortly.</i> She seemed too happy about the game starting. <i>Now if your last name starts with the letters A-G please follow the red path. </i> Some of the floor panels began to glow red creating a path that lead to a room in one of the corners.<br /><br />"That's us," my brother said. "C'mon. Michelle I'll see you later, okay?" He kissed her and we followed Andrew along the red-lighted path. <i>If your last name starts with the letters H-J please follow the blue path. If your last name starts with the letters I-P please follow the green path. If your last name starts with the letters Q-Z please follow the yellow path.</i><br /><br />Outside of this room, the world continued to move on except for the families of the players. After being chosen, the World's Army will visit the closest living relative. Our mother will have to suffer holding Life Cards once more. When I was 10 years old she had received an interesting little card. It shined red for two days. She'd sleep with it. She'd eat with it. She would take it with her everywhere. When the light finally went out, she stopped eating. She didn't speak for a month. At night I'd hear her cry.<br /><br />When she finally began speaking, she told us that Father had abandoned us. I believed her until my 18th birthday. My best friend, Jessica, had been chosen. I was going over to her house to surprise her with tickets to Instant Gratification, her favorite band. Her mother answered the door, sobbing and clutching a Life Card that shined red. "She's been chosen," she said. "Why would they do this? Why?" I held her for hours as we both cried. Jessica didn't survive. I never confronted my mother for fear that she would have to live through father's death once more.<br /><br />In the room we were suited up with customized clothes each featuring our respective colors. Our jacket had a special crest that shined red. They told us that it monitored our health: once it was out, you were dead. We exited to another room, as big as the first one, containing 10 different exits each closed by a see-through wave like pattern. People were now in groups, some holding a special gun that shot the Instant Cement. We met Michelle, Salvador and Christen once more. They were wearing yellow suits.<br /><br />The woman from before once again began to speak: <i>The game will now begin. I hope Lady Luck is on your side tonight.</i><br /><br /><i>10</i>. A little girl began screaming, "Mommy, mommy, I don't want to play anymore. Please, I'm scared."<br /><br /><i>9</i>. Michelle and my brother were holding hands.<br /><br /><i>8</i>. "We'll stick together alright?" I said, as everyone nodded in agreement.<br /><br /><i>7</i>. A man in the corner began laughing hysterically.<br /><br /><i>6</i>. My heartbeat was deafening me.<br /><br /><i>5</i>. People began shuffling towards the exits.<br /><br /><i>4</i>. A scream could be heard outside of this room. It sent chills down my spine. It was definitively not human.<br /><br /><i>3</i>. The lights on the outside were turned on and we could now see the 16th floor of the structure.<br /><br /><i>2</i>. I heard a loud screeching. It sounded like someone was scratching out nails on a chalkboard.<br /><br /><i>1</i>. The wave-like pattern disappeared and the doors opened: The game has begun.hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-76497065330538442002010-05-09T13:45:00.001-07:002010-05-09T22:30:04.112-07:00Ephemeral Images<div class="copy"><p>He sat on the chair knowing that it was his, but feeling as if it belonged to another man. He felt uncomfortable – the creases left here were much too small, much too deep and much too happy. The pictures around him wore a thin layer of dust. He no longer cleaned the house in fear of losing its odor. Once he read that the sense of smell was closely tied in with memory. That passage stuck to him, it stuck to him like his daily rituals after the incident.</p> <p>Every day he would sit on that chair for hours, leaving a crease, knowing too well that tomorrow he wouldn’t recognize the man that sat there now. He would stare at the television screen, absent of images, for hours, thinking, analyzing and reliving the incident. Every four days he would smoke. He didn’t enjoy smoking – it didn’t calm him, instead it was his way of loving the worst of her. During those hours of thought, the only time he would stare away from the screen was to see a puff of smoke. He’d see shapes and images, much like one would with clouds.</p> <p>It was during the mid-puffs that he would feel the most vulnerable. He opened his mouth slightly, yearning to offer comfort and the occasional warning to the girl in the smoke. No words were ever spoken, instead he only felt dryness. He felt as if someone was sanding his throat to smooth out his words, his emotions. That person was never satisfied with his work for he continued to sand.</p> <p>He’d think about that as he walked upstairs to his empty bedroom. There were pictures on the stairs each bearing a happy couple, each mocking him as he made his ascent. He would absentmindedly rub his thumb on her face, cleaning all the dust. His face would remain untouched: he had never met Happiness. That was not him, for he only knew Despair.</p> <p>Once in his bed, he would lay perfectly still, never disturbing her side of the bed. He would look at his ceiling wishing that exhaustion will guide him through the river Styx, past Cerberus and into Hades’ lair. He’d wish for Persephone’s story to be about her. Occasionally, he would slide to the edge of her side and smell. That would always ease his troubles.</p> <p>When he finally slept he would always be woken by her screams. Her face of anguish haunted him. His shirt would always be soaking wet with what he hoped was sweat. Exhaustion made him get some rest, but he would never forget what he’d done. When morning would come: he’d go to work looking no more miserable than his co-workers, he’d read the paper, and he’d smile at strangers. He was a different man than yesterday. When he arrived home the ritual would begin once more.</p> <p>This when on and on for years until one day: He was walking up the stairs, smudging her face with his thumb, as usual, when something caught his eye. He could’ve sworn the image moved. It had not. His finger had gone too far, it had smudged the man’s face. He was smiling, like her. There was a sudden dryness in his chest much like the one he felt in his throat when he smoked three days ago. He ran upstairs full of anger. He began to throw clothing all around the room, looking for an escape.</p> <p>Once he found it, he made a leap into bed. He threw himself into her side, crying and screaming. He smelled her, licked her pillow and wrapped himself around her sheet. He wanted to take her all in. His last breath would be hers. As he exhaled, he brought the gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger.</p> <p>His last thought of was of her the night he murdered her; Happiness at last.</p></div>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-73260296320981000802010-05-09T08:02:00.000-07:002010-05-09T08:05:31.759-07:00Monthly Music Obsession<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/46178148@N03/4588713660/" title="Imogen Heap by meltedintentions, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4069/4588713660_9aeb9efec8.jpg" alt="Imogen Heap" height="324" width="500" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Imogen Heap.</span><br />A spread for the artist that is currently my obsession.<br />Old or new - the purpose is to showcase the person behind the music.hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-9900788663356718792010-02-17T22:28:00.000-08:002010-02-17T22:29:18.236-08:00Fringe Love<div class="copy"><p>The cold wind brought me back to reality. I was lost in her blue eyes; deep like the ocean, filled with legions upon legions of adventures, emotions<i>,</i> and quirky characteristics. I had a bad habit of losing myself in her eyes. I would always joke around that I was a man lost at sea, navigating the harsh tides to reach the shore of her affection.</p> <p>Her eyes were just the starting point: that cute little nose, the rosy cheeks and her curly hair, I loved it all. Even after years and years of knowing her, every day I’d find something new to love, some new route to lose myself in.</p> <p>She was wearing a bright red wool coat. Her hair was down and straightened, and she wore a big smile on her face. She stood out from the winter wonderland behind her. Everything was white.</p> <p>“Well aren’t you coming closer?” she asked, shyly as I snapped out of my dazed look.</p> <p>“On my way honey,” I responded, gleeful for the invitation.</p> <p>We hugged. Again, I lost myself.</p> <p>As she spoke I came back once more: “You know I can’t stay like this any longer.”</p> <p>It broke my heart.</p> <p>“Can’t you drink something?” I pleaded. “Can’t you choose to stay human? Please, I want you to be with me, forever.”</p> <p>“That’s the thing: I can’t beat science<i>.</i> I tried and tried, but I have to change back,” she responded.</p> <p>I looked up, my eyes filled with tears, all tiny reminders of my adventures lost in her eyes.</p> <p>Our lips met, igniting something inside of me. I grabbed her hair, pushing her deeper into my face. Our tongues danced with one another and we didn’t stop to breathe. The wind once again woke me from my happiness. I opened my eyes and saw her transforming. Her legs were no more; instead there were hundreds of butterflies flying in the direction of the wind.</p> <p>I kissed her once more, with more passion, eager to remember her taste, her sulky lips and our love.</p> <p>My hand lost the grip of her hair and I realized our time was up. She had turned into thousands of butterflies, each more beautiful than the next. Each containing those two blue dots that I often found myself lost in. Now, all that was left was a red coat and my broken heart.</p></div>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-34786652606604038212009-12-16T15:05:00.001-08:002009-12-16T15:07:46.305-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://20.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kuplosfh1u1qzl2i5o1_r1_500.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 375px;" src="http://20.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kuplosfh1u1qzl2i5o1_r1_500.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Fa</span><span style="visibility: visible; font-style: italic;" id="main"><span style="visibility: visible;" id="search"><em>ç</em></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">ades.</span>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-22356147570384934632009-09-21T00:44:00.000-07:002009-09-21T00:46:45.662-07:00Population RisksEverything was completely black. One moment I was in my restroom brushing my teeth and the next in complete darkness. <i>Where was I?</i>
<br />
<br />There was a sudden sound; it roared like a car engine, but much, much louder. The lights went on and I was surrounded by hundreds of people. The thoughts began rushing in:
<br />
<br /><i>Oh no, I was chosen. Why me? Fuck! I’m a goner! Why couldn’t it be Matt, he’s such a dick! No one will miss him!</i>
<br />
<br />The chatter got increasingly louder as people began recognizing one another. I didn’t recognize anyone until someone tackled me to the ground.
<br />
<br />“You too?” he said. “Wow, they really want our blood line out of this world, huh?”
<br />
<br />It sounded familiar.
<br />
<br />“Hey! Andrew,” he continued. “Joseph is here too!”
<br />
<br />My two brothers were chosen as well. With them were Salvador, Michelle and Christen, family friends.
<br />
<br />There was another sound and a screen above us lit up. A man cleared his throat and began reading us the rules:
<br />
<br /><i>Good evening Sector-93156, welcome to The Thinner. According to Amendment # 42 people in sectors are to be chosen at random, by a computer, to be put in the game to help reduce the increasing world population. Today is October 6th 3034 and as decreed by the world laws, players will be chosen from the Western Hemisphere on even years. The game is simple: survive and you live. Fall and you lay your life for us to take. Recent studies have shown that bringing family into the game with you increases the yields for an interesting game and the most deaths, thus effective as of now, family members of the chosen will be brought along. Due to that being unfair to those family members, they receive a special item. It is referred to as Item-343523, but you may call it: Instant Cement. The item instantly freezes a person where they stand –if said person lands on the path of the Instant Cement–. You are all on a 16-floor parking structure. There are 25 cars parked randomly throughout the structure. Your only way of survival is through those cars. There are 500 of you on this game and only 100 of you will survive. The Reapers reside throughout the parking structure as well. They cannot get you once you’re in the car. If the Reapers touch you, you lost the game and your life is ours. The game will start in 10 minutes. I hope Lady Luck is on your side tonight.
<br />
<br />Goodbye, Sector-93156.
<br />
<br /></i><span style="font-weight: bold;">EDIT:</span><i> </i>Title subject to change and I don't update here like at all, I would give you my tumblr, but that one is more for personal stuff. Anyways, if you actually bother to read, here is my deviant art account (I'll be posting my writing there): <title>Enter text here.</title><a href="http://hecfactor11.deviantart.com/">http://hecfactor11.deviantart.com/</a><i>
<br /></i>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-8121354355222662122009-04-06T01:00:00.000-07:002009-04-14T12:56:40.530-07:00[Untitled.]“In, out, in, out, in, out,” I repeated. “This is easy, nothing to worry about.”<br />I continued going up with the destination in mind. I dared not look down to the path that led me to this point. My hand clenched to the next hole, carefully making sure that I did not fall.<br /><br />"I am stupid," I thought. "Why did I not bring any equipment with me on this climb? Ah, now, I remember. The local oracle had told me that I could not climb this cliff without taking risks."<br />I replied that "climbing is a risk in itself."<br /><br />I was not allowed to climb unless I did it of my own strength and God-made tools, my hands. Therefore, 7562 feet later and I am here, tired and hungry with nothing but God’s fuel: air.<br /><br />I wanted to sleep. I wanted to give up and fall into the abyss that lay below me. “In, out, in, out, in, out,” I repeated once more.<br /><br />This constant jabbing at the monumental rock to ascend reminded me of Cassandra. It was foolish of me to let her go. We were at the lobby. An argument arose and she stormed off. The elevator was too slow for her so she ran to the stairs. I ran after her.<br /><br />“Wait, Cassandra! Please wait,” I shouted. “I didn’t mean it!”<br /><br />She did not respond.<br /><br />I continued to run after her. Her, an athlete, sprinted up the stairs in an alarming speed, while, I, an Olympic couch potato, gasped for air after the third flight of stairs.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Click Clack. Click Clack. Click Clack.</span><br /><br />All I was able to hear was her high heels.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Click Clack. Click Clack. Click Clack. </span><br /><br />It was almost as if they were mocking me, laughing at me for my incompetence.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Click Clack.</span> In, out. <span style="font-style: italic;">Click Clack.</span> In, out.<br /><br />My ears buzzed with these sounds. <span style="font-style: italic;">Click Clack.</span><br /><br />I continued climbing. In, out.<br /><br />She continued dashing to her apartment on the 15th floor. <span style="font-style: italic;">Click Clack.</span><br /><br />I gathered all my strength and continued on my ascent. In, out. <span style="font-style: italic;">Click Clack.</span> In, out. <span style="font-style: italic;">Click Clack.</span><br /><br />It continued. Upon reaching the eighth floor, the sounds of her heels stopped. I giggled at the thought of her heels having the last laugh. Laughter turned into sorrow and I began to sob.<br /><br />I yelled.<br /><br />“In, in, in, in,” I began.<br /><br />“Just get IN. Please, I just wanted you to let me in,” I told the mountain, thinking of that night.<br /><br />“In,” I whispered. I laughed. My voice sounded like the heels that night, <span style="font-style: italic;">clicking</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">clacking</span> their way into my loneliness.<br /><br />I finally blurted, “out.” I let go of the rock. I lost my balance. I lost myself. I fell.<br /><br />I fell much like the night Cassandra left me. I was hysterical. I continued walking up the stairs, absent of the mocking sounds of her heels. I reached her apartment.<br /><br />I reached for a rock once more, attempting to grab hold of the cliff during my fall.<br /><br />I knocked. She did not answer.<br /><br />My hand slipped.<br /><br />I opened the door with my spare key. She began to scream for me to leave.<br /><br />“I don’t want you anymore,” she said at the top of her lungs. “You were a waste of time!”<br /><br />I fell further to the ground. My hands attempted to clutch to any holes that were visible.<br /><br />I grabbed her. It is extraordinary how much a fall changes someone. The adrenaline fueled my anger for her.<br /><br />I continued to fall.<br /><br />I pushed her. She tried to escape my wrath but tripped. I saw my chance. I dragged her by her hair. Upon reaching the window, I picked her up and threw her. She grabbed on to my hand. I held her up, then I let go. She fell.<br /><br />I did not bother grabbing on to any holes now.<br /><br />She did not scream. She only stared. Her silence pierced me. As she was opening her mouth, she reached the sidewalk.<br /><br />Her silence still pierces me. The silence of me falling down this cliff felt the same as that night, but I dared not yell.<br /><br />I stared.<br /><br />I opened my mouth:<br /><br />“I love you,” I whispered. “Cass-”hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-28022585701705237332009-01-16T18:02:00.000-08:002009-01-16T18:09:38.894-08:00January 06, 2009Today marks the first of every Tuesday where our school will have concerts during University Hour. Along with the concert, they had other activities going along in the campus, the most noticeable one, to me, was the protest to raise awareness of what is going on in Gaza.<br /><br />Anyway, the band, Breezy Love Joy, was singing one of their songs as the protest started. He sang, “I just want to be free, set me free, I want to feel free.”<br /><br />As he uttered those words the 30-40 students protesting passed by, each holding a different sign, to give an awareness to the students enjoying the concert.<br /><br />A student with the biggest poster stepped forward from the back of the stage, it read, "End the Siege on Gaza." He continued to walk forward.<br /><br />His eyes met mine, and with his stare I was aware not only of the deaths of hundreds, for the past few days, but the death of the personal soul. He stared. The vocalist sang, “Set me free-e-e.” The back up singers followed. They all sang for freedom.<br /><br />The sounds and the stare resonated into my body. The protesters continued to walk. With each step they created ripples in my head. One thought to another, it was forever continuous.<br /><br />The last of the protesters passed, and the vocalist whispered, “I just want to be free.”<br />_______________________________<br />I know this isn't fiction, but I haven't had time to edit and write chapter two. It will be up soon. I'm a bit disappointed that no one commented on this blog, but I was happy to see that my deviantart account and fiction press got traffic and people commented. Anyway, I'll get to writing chapter two. For now, I will post random blogs and short stories. I will not talk about my day, but I'm thinking of getting another blogspot so I can blog about my day. Maybe, I will. <br />Anyway, I believe I subscribed to all of my followers. I thought I had done it before, but I guess not. I'll be reading your posts too (:hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-15010272023162824482009-01-01T23:48:00.000-08:002009-01-02T00:08:55.236-08:00The Movement We have been traveling for a couple of weeks and it was nice to stop to eat cooked food. The café was nearly empty. There was only a group of students dining here, besides us and the staff. The students were laughing quite loudly at some apparent joke. I wished that our stay in the café could be as interesting as their laugh entailed. The red seats and the metallic table were as cold as the weather; all reminders of the absence of warm feeling that home brings.<br /> A middle-aged woman came over to our table. She was wearing skin tight spandex pants and a white button-down shirt. She wore a small pink apron over her clothing. Her curly chestnut-brown hair surrounded her oval-shaped head in a pleasing manner. No grey hairs, I guess the hair follicles were still capable of producing the coloring in her hair. Her thin lips wore a silky red lipstick that didn’t seem to match her green eye shadow.<br /> “So what is the sweet couple having today,” she managed to spit out while she chewed gum. “The special today is grilled cheese with chicken fritters.” She stood there with a blank expression, and a notepad and pen in hand, ready to take our order.<br /> “Oh, we’re not together,” I replied. “We’re just really good friends.”<br /> Emily ordered an omelet while I choose the pancakes. The warm feeling going down my esophagus reminded me of home. I was pleased with my selection. I was so busy consuming my food that I didn’t notice the placement of the syrup which caused me to spill it all over my jeans. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I attempted to play it cool.<br /> “Can I borrow your car keys Emily?” I asked. “I want to change jeans.”<br /> “Why?” asked Emily, perplexed.<br /> I ignored her question and waited until she handed me the keys. After a couple of minutes of intense waiting, she finally gave up and handed me the keys. I was halfway out of the establishment when I heard Emily say, “I don’t get you sometimes. You’re so weird, Joseph.”<br /> I zipped up my jacket and prepared myself for the cold weather. No, it wasn’t cold, it was freezing, cold was a windy low 60 degree weather, this was 3 inch snow day. My jacket was too thin and I could feel the icy wind and the snow hitting my back.<br /> There was a cop car hiding behind a “Welcome to Happy Times Café” sign. The two officers were outside of the car, one pointing a radar gun at unsuspecting victims, the other was just leaning on the car door minding his own business.<br /> I walked around the café to the almost empty parking lot, where I noticed that two individuals had their car parked in the middle of the road and each had a rifle at hand. Both were wearing jeans and a t-shirt, one wore a cowboy hat. The man with the cowboy hat was very well built, so I was scared for my life. I could see their mouths moving but couldn’t hear any words until the scrawnier one yelled, “I have to tell him!”<br /> The voice sounded familiar, so I looked up and stared at him for a while. The two men started coming forward towards me, and I noticed it was Nicholas, my brother.<br /> “Why hello there Joe*,” he whispered as he came face to face with me, “aren’t you going to give your older brother a hug?”<br /> I gave him an almost robotic hug because I wasn’t sure if the cold weather was messing with my head. After I successfully changed jeans, we started to walk towards his car whilst we caught up with one another. I told him that I was in a road trip with Emily while he confessed that his alibi for running away from home was false. He told me about his adventures with his friend Benjamin. I was so enthralled with his stories that I didn’t notice that we’ve been walking deeper and deeper into the forest, and that for the past minute I was walking forward by myself. When I turned around my brother and Benjamin were aiming their rifles at me.<br /> The face that once showed a blissful smile now showed one of despair. I panicked. I ran. I ran away from the bullets that started buzzing by my body, and away from the fact that my brother was behind it all.<br /> After minutes of my flight response and countless bullets, I hid behind a tree. I was hoping that if I was quiet enough I can leave the forest undetected. My breathing did not help. Weeks of being sedentary in a car really did wonders to the body. Both passed by the tree. I tiptoed from tree to tree until about the fifth one down when I stepped on a branch making a loud cracking sound.<br /> Nicholas and Benjamin ran towards me aiming their guns once more. I ran, confused on why he was shooting me and where the energy to keep running away came. I heard a bullet pass my ear, or it might have skinned my ear but I was too worried on survival to feel the pain my ear might be emitting.<br /> The next bullet hit my right hand. The pain was immediate and “it hurt like a mother,” as the folks back home will say. I couldn’t hear bullets anymore. I heard Benjamin yelling for me to stop. I looked at my hand and couldn’t grasp how my hand looked perfectly fine. It was just a rosy red, as if someone had smacked it a few seconds ago.<br /> “About time you stopped,” they said in unison.<br /> “About time I stop? Are you kidding me! What the fuck is your problem? You and your best friend,” I yelled, bitterly, “are shooting at me for no reason! What the fuck were you even shooting at me?”<br /> “They’re not real bullets,” added Benjamin.<br /> “We started to shoot at you because the cop was looking at us,” explained my brother, “you see, you’re in great da-”<br /> “WHAT?” I yelled. “Why would you aim a gun at someone if an officer was looking at you? That’s insane.”<br /> “Can you shut up and listen to your older brother for once,” he said, “I’m trying to help you. You’re in great danger. The reason I was shooting you was because I’m on their side but I’m a double agent. They suspected me from the start but I served as a connection to you. The female cop over there, behind the welcome sign is part of the game, the other is clueless. They’ve been following you for days, as have we. Anyway, my assignment was to kill you because you serve as a threat to us, well them.”<br /> “Okay,” I said, “I know you’re fucking with me, so I’m going to head back to Emily, she must be worried sick.”<br /> As I turned around to head back, the female officer was walking toward us. I couldn’t see her partner. She asked what had happened among us and why she heard bullets. I lied. I told her that we were just catching up on our childhood. She took out her pistol at the sight of the rifles.<br /> “Throw your weapons on the ground, put your hands up and turn around,” she yelled.<br /> They followed her instructions. I turned around and lifted my arms.<br /> BANG!<br /> Benjamin fell to the ground, instantly: dead. I closed my eyes. One of us was next. I got to my knees and awaited Death to sweep me from my feet.<br /> BANG!<br /> After the shot, I heard a thud. My brother fell to the ground, he was dead too.<br /> “You are under arrest for the deaths of your Nicholas Houle and Benjamin Gray,” she said.<br /> “I’m what?” I exclaimed, as tears ran down my face, “you killed them! They’ll trace it to you and you’ll go to jail!”<br /> “Are they going to believe a cop or a civilian?” she asked. “I could simply tell them there was a heated argument among you three. I was taken by surprise and you stole my weapon, killing the two that lie dead right now. It’s as simple as that. Now, how much did he reveal?”<br /> “What are you talking about?” I asked. “Reveal what?”<br /> “Stop acting so innocent,” she mentioned, “I know he told you something but if you keep denying it then you wouldn’t mind going in for questioning.”<br /> She handcuffed me and we headed toward the café. Her partner was leaning against the café, waiting for her to come back. He looked awkward, almost as if he were posing for a photo. Instead of walking to her car, we walked into the café where Emily was idly drinking coffee.<br /> The café was now empty. The students who were once there had left and the staff seemed to have disappeared. I, once again, envied the students.<br /> She sat me down in front of Emily.<br /> “It’s about time,” said Emily. “It took you two long enough.”<br /> “You’re on their side?” I asked as I tried to squirm my way out of the handcuffs.<br /> It proved fruitless. The cop tightened her grip on my body, restraining me from getting any closer to my friend.<br /> Emily motioned for them to let go of me. “Just let him go,” she said, “he won’t do a thing. Why, yes of course, I’m on their side. Why do you think I choose to take you along for the road trip, instead of my boyfriend?”<br /> “I thought you were my friend,” I said, sulking.<br /> “Oh, but I am. It’s just,” Emily responded, “the game comes first. Now, let’s hurry, before he gets an idea and escapes.”<br /> We started to walk outside to be taken to her car and then into custody. I struggled away from the officer’s grasp. She was unusually strong. I wanted to escape to the forest but her strength was too much for my weak body.<br /> The other cop, to my surprise, was talking to another woman. The woman had smooth, silky white skin, almost pale, with a fair complexion. Her hair was curly and blond. She was wearing a sun dress, heels and a flowery hat; she was clearly not dressed for the weather. They seemed to enjoy each other’s company.<br /> The female officer called him over and I saw it as my chance of escape. I kicked her shin and started running toward the forest. The lady in the sun dress screamed and the male officer came my way. He punched me in the stomach. I lost all the air in my lungs. I fell to the ground and gasped for air.<br /> I was picked up from the floor and attempted to escape once more. Then I felt a huge force hit the back of my head and with a thud I fell to the ground. The last thing I saw were the exposed ankles of the woman in the sun dress. There seemed to be some writing on her right ankle. I focused all my energy in trying to read what it said. “Joseph, you’ll be okay.”<br /> Her ankle told me that I’ll be okay.<br /> The woman’s message was the only thing that seemed to make sense at the moment. I closed my eyes and thought of her ankle.<br /> I woke up, tied to a chair in an empty room, my head resting on an empty table. There was an increasingly growing pain in the back of my head. The room was more desolate than the road Emily and I had traveled a few days ago.<br /> More importantly, I knew that woman lied. I was not okay. I will not be okay and there was no hope for me anymore.<br />___________________________________<br />Author's Comments: <br />*The reason behind the (*) after the name Joe, is because I wasn't sure if Joe was short for Joseph. <br />I was told to never criticize my work when I present it, so I will not criticize what I wrote.<br />This is chapter one of the novel I'm writing titled, "Pieces."<br />Both titles (the chapter & book) aren't working titles so they are subject to change.<br /><br />The only huge problem I had while writing this is the dialogue. I don't think I've ever written dialogue so I often found myself trying to make it work. I'm still not sure if that's the proper way to write dialogue.<br /><br />Sorry for the cussing, it just seemed appropriate at that part of the writing.<br /><br />As for the worries about being plagiarized, I do have all my writing backed up on my laptop, different emails and different blogs to show the improvement from first draft to final draft. (So if there is ever a discussion that I stole it from someone else, I have all that proof and if my laptop gets stolen, I can still see my writing.) I did get a fictionpress, so I will be posting it there before here. I also post it on my deviantart account before. So, thanks for reading. Please tell me what you think of the story.hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-78790778477566706372008-12-19T23:31:00.000-08:002009-01-01T23:08:27.841-08:00The FutureSo I've decided to write a novel. Well, I had started one before, so I'll simply be continuing what I left undone. I'll be posting chapters up here as I go through with them. I will also post them on my new deviantart account. The account will not be posted unless asked, but it's really the same posts, sometimes different. <br />-Okay, I feel weird saying that because I only have one follower, which is kind of pathetic, but it beats not having any.-<br /><br />I'm finished with chapter one, and chapter two is one-fourth done. I'm currently fixing grammar issues with chapter one and adding more text in it all together. It is fiction. I'll have bios of the characters after chapter two, I think. To better have an understanding of the characters besides the description in the novel.<br />Expect chapter one to be posted in the next two weeks. <br /><br />The future for this BlogSpot: <br />-The Novel, most definitively. (I think the title is "Pieces," but I'm still on the starting points of the book so it's not a working title)<br /><br />-Journal Entries. [NO I will not complain.] Usually my journal -which still needs a title-, is about my day but in the sense of an underlining theme. For instance, I title all my entries to imply the theme and write how that certain issue is intertwined with my day. I also do not write in it daily, so its selective days and it'll be more selected when I post it up.<br /><br />- Short stories. I like making up stories so this will probably be something big.<br /><br />-Random messages. Phrases and such, no poems because I tried once and I failed miserably. <br /><br />-I'm not sure what else I'll be able to post here. I remember hearing that writers rely on experiences to create superb posts. So I'll attempt to experience intense stuff. (An example will be not talking for a day or several days, and writing a story about that. -Story, not the experience itself-) [yes, I talk <b>a lot</b>, so this is big for me.] <br /><br />Any suggestions will be nice. <br /><br />I like writing fiction, but nonfiction rules too, so I may post some of that here and there. (Like my journal entries and other nonsense) I did write a post for "SHWYD?" so that's nonfiction. It hasn't been posted. I'm guessing it's because there is an influx of people sending their stories, but part of me still feels that my sent in post was inadequate. But, here is to getting it posted!<br /><br />Okay, this quick post turned out to be quite long ><hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-51210606062037483312008-11-15T16:50:00.000-08:002009-04-13T10:20:45.971-07:00House of Fools<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i39.photobucket.com/albums/e175/hecfactor11/08scullarge1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 300px;" src="http://i39.photobucket.com/albums/e175/hecfactor11/08scullarge1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span id="_ctl0__ctl0__ctl0__ctl0_content_content_content_content_c_content"> Hector cannot recall the day it started. The day he started to separate himself from the joint-stock company of society. Not by creating a social barrier but by releasing himself of the chains that is the human condition. Valuing the logic of a person than their feelings was a way of escape. Oh, he loved to escape. The feeling that he was able to stand in a hallway and watch the influx of people passing was exhilarating. Each leaving its mark, its color, on the white walls surrounding him. He was able to envision the final product of the faceless human that happened to pass by on their daily routine. He was able to capture their life in a still frame and stand in awe. He was able to do all of this but he never quite understood. Hector was just looking to get control, that’s what it’s all about, control. It was that and conforming to expectations, living to the standards of society that are both impossible and imaginary to meet.<br /> He was lost. Lost, yes, lost; that's all that describes his facial features, his emotional and cognitive tendencies, his intentions and his love. Being lost was the path to finding himself, unraveling itself, opening all the locked doors and tying all the loose ends, until of course, it would lead him to more tangles, more problems, and thus back to square one: being lost. Although he was lost, society was still able to place him in a category: he was a dreamer, a thinker, and an idealist. It was not that he did not accomplish things, society merely placed him there because of the tangibility of his thoughts, the eclectic topics brought upon a mere idea and the reality behind his imagination. In the hallway where he stood, he was walking through the heads of individual after individual and as lost as he was in his world, in their world, that is the world he creates by penetrating their minds, he was able to be at peace. The exit to this hallway and his conundrum was at the end of the hall and yet, it was not there. The exit led to another hallway, whose proximity was he.<br /> More amazed, than confused he took that exit that led to him. As he got closer to his <i>true self</i>, the self outside of the hallway, that self too ran toward the exit of the hallway towards a <i>more</i> true self, and this went on, infinitely. He stopped, turned around and stared. He looked down, he looked upon himself, and he lifted his hands toward his face and stared with awe. He pinched himself, he clicked his shoes together three times and lastly he tried to defy gravity. He was not dreaming, he was not in another dimension and he was not superhuman; it was real, it was <span style="font-style: italic;">his</span> reality.<br /> He sat down and pondered. He jumped from subject to subject: he thought about life, he thought about love, he thought about the world. He <i>solved</i> or actually, reached a conclusion for all of the sporadic subjects that came to mind while ignoring the pressing issue at hand. He wanted to feel at ease, he wanted his world to make sense because it was falling apart. He was holding on to the thoughts that held him together. He was trying to desperately survive the harsh world. He thought that by analyzing their habits, their way of life he would be able to dodge any vice thrown his way.<br /> He thought, or to be more accurate he <i>felt</i> that by allowing himself to be less human he could in turn be more humane. The number of facades and fake smiles that made his life an ease served as a constant reminder that it was easier being detached. Looking down (in every sense of the word) on people without an emotional bond allowed him to reach a fair conclusion. It allowed him to systematically find the correct answer, the answer that proved to be more beneficent for more people in a realistic manner.</span><br /><span id="_ctl0__ctl0__ctl0__ctl0_content_content_content_content_c_content"> But that didn't matter now, because everything was falling apart. All the still frames of the random strangers that he could see through in an instant were getting darkened. They began to move. The people in the frames started climbing out of their places and walking out of the hallway. He looked around the empty room with no pictures to mask the reality. His art, his thoughts, his masterpiece, it was all gone and it got him nowhere. He stood in the middle of society and felt inadequate.<br /> He followed society towards the exit of the hallway that no longer led to another hallway but to a bright light. They all stopped and he found himself in a painting. With a stroke, the artist erased person by person, until only he was left. <span style="font-style: italic;">Whoosh</span>. His legs were gone. He could not move anymore. <span style="font-style: italic;">Whoosh</span>. His arms were gone. He could not grasp anymore. He was losing himself more and more into the painting. He was disappearing in his consciousness, he was ceasing to exist. <span style="font-style: italic;">Whoosh</span>. His body was gone. <span style="font-style: italic;">Whoosh</span>. His mouth went too. He held in his tears, he was still allowed <span style="font-style: italic;">some</span> control. He stared out of the painting. In front of him was another painting. This painting was pitch black. He focused on that painting and saw a point of light in the center.<br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">Whoosh.</span> With that last stroke he was gone. It was then that he realized the parameters of reality. Although he has ceased to exist as mankind defined it, he was still there. He saw reality in a different perspective now; it no longer ruled him. Reality is malleable; it can be conquered, stepped upon and brought down by its heels.<br /> He stepped out of the painting, all feet and hands intact. He broke Reality's brush and stepped into the black abyss. There he walked deeper and deeper, getting closer to the light. He reached the object that was emitting light.<br /> How it got there, he did not know. What it was, he wasn't quite sure. Why it was there, he didn't have the slightest idea. When it got there, only Time knew. Where it came from, was the least of his worries. Asking questions, adding to the ambiguity, and attempting on creating something tangible to his mind did not help reach the truth so he reached out and grabbed the bright object. The essence immediately took part of him and became one in an instant.<br /> He was finally one, he was no longer lost. That essence was in him all along, all he had to do is be willing to look into darkness to find light. He stepped out of the frame and found himself in the hallway once more. All the paintings were back and everything was back to normal. He looked around and with a simple "goodbye," he parted ways. The hallway was just a stepping-stone, a stepping-stone he had to take.<br /><br />His voice was never heard resonating from wall to wall; he was now <i>alive.</i> </span>hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9080534216029907676.post-53362248181799604362008-09-17T17:55:00.000-07:002009-08-02T17:31:49.079-07:00Neighbors<center><blockquote><b>"I'll keep you my dirty little secret<br />(Dirty little secret)<br />Don't tell anyone or you`ll be just another regret<br />(Just another regret, hope that you can keep it)<br />My dirty little secret<br />Who has to know?<br />When we live such fragile lives<br />It's the best way we survive<br />I go around a time or two<br />Just to waste my time with you"</b></blockquote><br />Song: The Chorus by Donora<br />Book: Kino no Tabi: A Beautiful World<br /><img src="http://i39.photobucket.com/albums/e175/hecfactor11/freshlet.jpg" alt="lovely" border="0" /></center><br />On September 12, I, like many other postsecret-on-lookers, posted their number on the postsecret myspace blog, hoping that a random stranger will text them their personal secret(s). At first, I could not stop staring at my phone hoping that I will AT LEAST get one, just one little secret. After thirty hopeless minutes that felt like an eternity, I received my first text. It was from someone in Keys, Florida. (I started to name them by "city, state" because it bothers me that it is just a number and I figured, if I am getting more, I might as well know who I am responding). [I had to make some creative changes to some contacts when it came to repeated cities, *cough* Phoenix, Arizona *cough*]. Enough of the technicalities let us get down to business.<br />At first, when I trusted my number with strangers from around the globe, I felt like Frank Warren when he said, "<span style="font-style: italic;">But I feel as though I took a leap of faith in humanity and humanity has not let me down</span>," when he was answering a question about privacy. Then, as more and more secrets kept pouring into my inbox I began to realize that everyone else that sent their secret to me were the ones taking that "leap of faith" right into my phone.<br />The secrets were all different and they each portrayed their own emotion, ranging from bliss to despair. Some made my cry, others made me laugh for several minutes and others made want to be able to converse with the person to gain more perspective in life. I think what makes this whole "would you text a stranger your secrets," thing different from Frank Warren's original idea of sending postcards is that there is a tangible connection between both parties. You are able to get instant feedback and relief that the world sees your secrets (instead of waiting until Saturdays, on the myspace blog, and Sundays on his site). (& thank you for calling me a whore, a great perspective of seeing what I was doing; it really did make me laugh).<br /><img src="http://i39.photobucket.com/albums/e175/hecfactor11/ChoeLaz1.jpg" alt="expression" style="float: right;" border="0" width="200" height="200" /><br />Here are the main classification of the secrets I received (key word here being "main," if you sent me a secret, and it's not classified here, it means that I only got a few of them relating to your subject, or I felt that in a greater scale it fits into one of these). :<br /><br /><b><i>Love, Romance, Heart Ache, Break-ups & Lust</i></b><br />There were many, many secrets about Love, and her sisters, Romance, Heart Ache, Break-Up and Lust. These secrets made me feel the most connected to all of you around me, because I share many of your secrets. I too wish that you loved me once. That maybe, that beautiful story in my head became reality. That I can stop drowning myself in those tears of that unhappy ending. I lingered on the decisions made by two individuals and how each affects each other after it is over. I also pondered if I should just go enjoy one-night stands. In the end, whichever sister decides to stand by you, there are vicissitudes, and there are definite consequences. See it both ways and then make a decision.<br /><br /><b><i>Death</i></b><br />I had the most trouble with these kinds of secrets. I could not really connect to any of you, and I am extremely sorry for your self-blame. I tried giving advice to some of you & even if you said thank you, I still felt that my few words were very inadequate. Your stories made me cry and wish that you were right next to me to receive a hug. Do not let the pain get the best of you, you will all make through your difficulties.<br /><br /><b><i>Sex, Virginity & Rape</i></b><br />Wow. Some of you people forgot that you were sending text messages to a seventeen year old. There are some kinky people out there. I do not think I replied to most of these because of several reasons. The "sex," reasons: I feel that sex can never be JUST SEX and even if you're just doing it to please yourself or the partner, there is still a connection that your body craves rather than just the whole "I’m doing a hot person right now," thing. (Why else do you think that evolution exists? You see something in that partner that will make the next generation survive, it is more than just an attraction, it is psychological). Also, I still haven't decided where I stand with the whole sex before marriage or not. The "virginity," reasons: we all have different meanings for virginity, for example, some of my friends don't think that oral really is sex, and thus no virginity is lost. In addition, virginity has different levels of importance for each person. The "rape," reasons: I think as long as you tell someone, it should be enough. That one little confession should kick-start the road to recovery, which only you can travel. (Of course, support from friends & family is needed, but you ultimately decide for your recovery).<br /><br /><b><i>Addictions and Disorders</i></b><br />I think these secrets gave me the most hope. To be able to admit your problem, seek help and conquer your addiction or disorder is amazing. Given that there is a negative side to this classification, it really was life altering. I felt heartbreak for those who could not make it through. (& to the one, who thinks you will not make it that one month, trust me you will. Wait for the 23rd, I know I am waiting.) This changed how I viewed disorders in general, because I never considered the human factor. All the will power that one human can have is incredible. Good luck to all of you.<br /><br /><b><i>Sexuality</i></b><br />I am a firm believer that sexuality is fluid. I have been raised Christian and been taught that any sexual preference other than heterosexuality is wrong. The good thing is that I do not believe in that. I think that whatever sexuality an individual chooses, it is his (male pronoun rule for the English language) own personal life. Granted, we all have our opinions and yes, there will be others who disagree with your lifestyle, but that is life. I think I used this for each of my "advice," for sexuality (only because I believe in it so much) "sexuality is part of you, it doesn't define you."<br /><br /><b><i>Marriage & Divorce</i></b><br />Although the divorce rates in America are nearly 50 percent (last I heard, not sure of the actual accuracy), I was still a firm believer that once you get married, overall there will be happiness despite the little arguments and differences between the couple. These secrets helped reinforce something I believe in, that <span style="font-style: italic;">love</span> is not just about feelings. It takes more to make a relationship work; it is willingness from both parties and the ability to stick to it during hard times. Divorce taught me another thing. It is not all tears (at least for one party) because that freedom from being in a bad relationship must be exhilarating. After all, your happiness is much more important.<br /><br /><b><i>Friendships</i></b><br />Any kind of 'ships' requires input on both ends. These perfect friendships made me feel fuzzy inside. (Like the one I replied, "That is the loveliest kind of friendship I've heard of"). Yes, there are also the jealous type ones. In the end, it held a universal truth; friends can either make or break you. They hold you together and make your days. You confide in them whatever your heart desires and hope that whatever that is they understand and support you. It is vice versa. As much as you would like to be your friend, she probably wants to be you. When one is weak, the other is strong. That is friendship, the perfect combination.<br /><br />Yes, I tried to reply to most of you, but if I did not and you wanted a reply, I am truly sorry. I did not respond to texts for four reasons:<br />1. I was not sure how my response could help or what to say.<br />2. I could not connect in a personal level, as I wanted to, and thus believed that I would cause more damage than help.<br />3. I thought that by just telling someone that should be enough.<br />4. You told me not to respond to you (yes, just one person told me not to reply, haha)<br />Sorry for my late replies, it takes a while.<br />Therefore, since I did not reply to some of them, I am giving you some of my secrets right now, one from each section. So here it goes:<br /><br /><b><i>Love, Romance, Heart Ache, Break-Ups & Lust</i></b><br />Although I do not like to admit it, I still wish that one day you would tell me that you loved me.<br /><br /><b><i>Death</i></b><br />I am afraid that my mom will not like my idea for my funeral. Invite only, no mourning, neon color dress code, my youtube video that will talk about life in general & that awesome huge raffle at the end of funeral. (Please do not steal my idea, but if you do, at least invite me [pay for my plane ticket if it is far :D] AND give me credit for the idea somewhere in your funeral).<br /><br /><b><i>Sex, Virginity & Rape</i></b><br />I actually do look down on teenage mothers. I do not care where the child came from. The one thing that makes me look up to them, is being able to work through all your problems, keep the child and STILL continue with your life.<br /><br /><b><i>Addictions & Disorders</i></b><br />I no longer want to personally experience the journey someone in an addiction or disorder goes through. I do not have enough will power to make it out of the disorder or addiction.<br /><br /><b><i>Sexuality</i></b><br />I dislike people who act like the stereotypes for their sexuality.<br /><br /><b><i>Marriage & Divorce</i></b><br />I believe that I am better off alone. I do not want to work at it.<br /><br /><b><i>Friendships</i></b><br />I always wanted to hear that someone could not live without me. I realized that actions speak for themselves. I love all my friends, very deeply.<br /><br /><img src="http://i39.photobucket.com/albums/e175/hecfactor11/lifestoo.jpg" alt="life" style="float: left;" border="0" width="200" height="300" /><br />The most important thing I learned from this project is that there <i>is</i> humanity. I had lost my faith in humans. I saw only negative intentions and viewed the world as such a sad sight. Now that I have received the influx of secrets, I view the world through a kaleidoscope. As Kate Havnevik's song, <span style="font-style: italic;">Kaleidoscope </span>goes, "Through your kaleidoscope, it's beautiful. A tinge travels up my spine, a cluster of colors and twine as we melt into wine. You know me, how troubled I can be, but through your kaleidoscope, I let go. 'Cause you show me the world as it could be."<br /><br /><br />"The world is not beautiful, therefore it is." I absolutely love this quote and I feel that it fits with the postsecret community. This quote is taken from the book "Kino no tabi: A Beautiful World," and it explains the simplicity and complexity of the book. A writer for a review once said, (something in the lines of, since I could not find the review anymore!) "Kino travels the world and visits different cities and through the hardship and terror she sees the beauty in the world." Of course, it was probably more poetic, but the point I am trying to get across is that, there is "beauty in the breakdown." (From the song "Let Go" by Frou Frou).<br /><br />Thank you to everyone who sent me his or her secrets. I treasure each one. I would also like to thank people in the following states, who helped me in trying to get all 50 states:<br />Alabama, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, Wyoming.<br />Alas, I did not reach my 50 state goal. (THANK YOU to the person in CANADA. I do not know if I get charged if I send to other countries, so I did not reply, sorry. & I did not count you as Alaska, but thank you.)<br />The THREE states that I did not get were Alaska, South Dakota & Vermont.<br /><br /><s>I would also like to ask all of you to not continue to text me anymore. I understand if you just need someone to be hear your secrets, but there are many other numbers out there. Send some to my California friend that only got one, so I sent him some. (I named you "secrets," btw). Or other people that posted their numbers. The reason I do not want any more text flooding my inbox is that it takes a LONG while to go through all of them, sort them out and then reply. I no longer have time. I start college in four days. I do not think I am going to have the time to do so.</s> <b> -11.16.08 edit-I HAVE TIME. College is a lot easier than I thought it would be, and I'm flying by with 3 A's and 1 B. So it would be radical if more people could make me smile (:, i also respond -11.16.08 edit finish-</b>[Also, don't sell my number, (this one is especially for Texas girl, sorry about your horse again) I don't want those herpes med discounts you were talking about ;)]<br />Thank you very much, you people have definitively changed my life for the better.<br />Although, we live very far way, I consider all of you thee best kind of neighbors. (Hence, why the post is titled "Neighbors.")<br />You guys are the best neighbors because you are close enough to keep in contact and just far enough to be private about each other. (& not to mention, I cannot hear your parties that last until 3am in the morning -like my real neighbors, every weekend.-)<br /><br />Maybe, we will see each other when I am lots older, I plan to travel. (:<br /><br />ps. - The quote above is taken from the song "My Dirty Little Secret," by The All-American Rejects. The song "featured" here was recently used for a postsecret video that was posted on Frank Warren's myspace blog. The book, I feel connects to the beauty in all of us. It really is interesting, you should take a look at it. The pictures I used all come from a site which is dedicated to street art. I am unsure of their actual titles and their artist, but I take the pictures I like from them to better describe what I write. If you notice the previous blog also has a picture, that's from postsecret. So, I don't own the pictures, I just really like them, so I save them.<br /><br /><br />-post edit-<br />11.08.08, I've been a bit hesitant on sending you guys all text messages about this post, but I would really like all of you guys to read it. So I'm sorry, if my text disturbed any of you. I'm sending them all today, so it'll be nice to hear from all of you. (:<br />-post, post edit-<br />I think most of you guys sent me a "Who is this" text, which lacked a question mark -__- haha, well, I'll try to get to texting all of you guys back on that question, but if you read the blog & sent the who is this text, then you'll figure out who I am, by the end of it, I Hope.<br />-post, post, post edit-<br />to answer who it is, I'm a stranger. (:<br /><br />-pleaseeeee comment here, I don't mind getting text, but right now, I'm in the midst of responding the "who is this question" and it's a bit overwhelming, but in a few hours, I don't mind catching up.<br />Online catching up doesn't hurt either.hectorr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10386741410947226086noreply@blogger.com15