What I Think is the End of My Dream (I Don't Know, I Was Awakened by the Alarm Clock

Tim cried himself dry. He went hoarse. The only sound he could make were small grunts and sighs, sounds that didn't require the use of badly damaged vocal chords. He writhed in his small room, like an animal in a snare, his caught leg half chewed through, trapped by his own thoughtlessness. He was grieving. The change was dramatic, the fire had been extinguished. His eyes had become milky and carried a hundred yard stare. His once rigid frame was now made more gaunt by drooping shoulders, and a deliberate walk replaced by a somnambulistic shuffle. He was placed on suicide watch and beside the omnipresent video surveillance, a guard checked in on him every hour. He didn't move from his bed, but instead turned, one side, the other, back and forth, for three days, then he stopped. He rose uncertainly from the bed took two stumbling strides and fell prostrate on the floor. He clenched his hands white above his head and tucked his knees up to his chest, face down, buried in the floor. He began to rock, forwards and backward to a steady inaudible rhythm. The guard decided to make his round a little early, goaded by his growing curiosity. He strode his confident cop walk to the door of the cell and opened the small slot where the food tray was usually passed through. A small hoarse croak grated its way through the slit.
"I'm sorry, Lord, so sorry, forgive me, you will always forgive me"
The officer felt the blood and bile rise in his throat, a well of repressed hatred and disgust. All these criminals, this scum crying out for forgiveness for their atrocities. The door of the cell flew open. Tim raised his head from the floor a moment before it was driven back by the force of the officer's immaculate, black polished boot.
"There is no forgiveness for you, for any of you, you sick fuck! You killed a whole family, beautiful little girls, beautiful wife! There is no forgiveness for that!"
The boot continued to fall without remorse, until there was little left that could even be recognized as human. The whole of Tim's face was a mess, destroyed by the force of the officer's hatred. The only thing recognizable was his mouth, amidst the broken teeth and blood was his dieing expression, it was his giant smile.

A Wrinkle in Time

Wrinkles are a record of life. They are a timeline of events and how they were taken. The tears run rivulets down the cheeks. The eyes draw lines out like a seed giving bloom into branches creating a permanent expression. They match the lines around the mouth, a dead give away pressed into a permanent smile or scowl. The forehead folds into a look of deep thought, a look of wisdom. I find it almost unfathomable why you would want to erase them, to return it to its youthful inexperience. The shallow and vain are ashamed they have lived so much life and yet are so little the better for it. Their faux-youth is a disguise, it is an attempt to reconcile their mind to their appearance, to create an excuse for their immaturity. True wisdom and perspective wear wrinkles as an honor and a witness to lessons learned and character forged in the kiln of adversity. Hardship is worn like a scar across the chest of a heart patient, a testament to the ability of the human spirit to overcome and thrive. The rich and vain erase this record, ashamed that they have no right to wear such a badge.

Joy to the World

So I officially have one week of school and its maddening. I swore I would never get sucked into the maelstrom of finals, but when I caught myself pondering the best spot to jump from our school's clocktower, I knew I had lost. So you might be happy to hear I didn't carry out my desperate plot and instead spent a little extra time in shop attempting to catch up. I am now in "the know." Through the grace of God (emphasis on that part), I have lived through yet another crisis, I feel ready to face the world, or at least the holiday season. They call it Christmas break, its anything but. They just had to lighten the load somehow and you can't stop a freight train like Christmas, so in a last ditch effort to reduce the pressure, all other systems are put on hold and the power is rerouted to the Christmas Drive. This lets the holiday gain a fevered pitch that accumulates into a one day orgy of covetousness, gluttony, and greed. This is the best way we could think to celebrate the birth of the Messiah. I love it, and you should love it to.

Short Christmas Rant

I feel like I should talk about something Christmas-y and festive. I've already being overexposed to bad Christmas song remakes and I had to go on a Christmas light run to WalMart so my friends could destroy any appeal their room had. So maybe its a better idea to keep my "bah, humbug" to myself. There is probably somebody out there who still in love with the holiday season. Good for you. Tis the season.