Here's to you, kiddo.

We come to regret the things we said when we were young, but never regret. Never feel like you've got to have an explanation. Fuck explanations. Who cares what you think anyways?

Today I had an epithany. Looking at Alfred Lord Tennyson's 'Ullysses', I realised, that everything we do, at any age, doesn't matter, as long as we see that it gets done and we get pleasure out of it. Because as dumbassed as it sounds, we always question the meaning of life. We all want to get the best out of a situation, mostly one that gets us what we want.

A tale of midlife crisis can also appeal to a 20 year old still. I mean, in those days, we'd be seen as ancient. If you lived to 40, you'd be heralded as the old wise man who no one really cares about opinion-wise. Right now, I'm contemplating about what really matters. Right now, you matter. Yeah, you, person who for some odd reason decided to peek at this rubbish blog. Usually, you get some piss poor attempt at poetry or prose, but here's some profound love instead.

I mean it. I appreciate that you care enough for a minute to glimpse at my predicaments, my issues, my troubled and always fucked up love life, and also the moments of happiness and joy. Your dedication is my muse.

So, here's a cigar. Raise an invisible glass, and wish yourself a happy day, and a night you'll remember.

Adolescent Youth

Child was I, now adolescent youth
Sixteen a dream of uselessness in time
Played such mindgames, drinking without a care
Become a man: now leave your past behind
Naivety and foolishness of pride
Once lust was love attainable in life
But bittersweet it seemed to me a lie

I Remember.

There was nothing unusual about that day. It was still warm for September, but I reckon that was about it. The windows remained shut in Mr.Cooper's class and we were all waiting for our texts books to be delivered so we could start History. 

But something happened. Screams, wails, sounds of hysterical crying from nearby seemed to spread across the halls. Somehow I knew something big had happened, and a lot of commotion seemed to come out of nowhere. outside the room, suddenly the door opened and the whole class was taken to Ms. Lyons' classroom. For what reason, I didn't know, but everyone suddenly seemed to be dead silent.

Weeping, but still silent. I was around 10 years old at the time, and it's nearly been over a decade since, but seeing something so shocking and life-changing with the words 'LIVE' at the bottom of a screen can change everything. I was crouched on the ground surrounded by about 20 of my classmates, sitting right in front of this beat up 1970s coloured screen. I was watching the second plane crash into the second tower of the World Trade Center.

Some people laughed. Others cried. But mostly everyone stood or sat in shock. That's the one thing I remember, more than the colour or size of the explosion of the plane, or the buildings collapsing, or even going home (which to this day I can't seem to picture) or even having those tears stream down my face. It's something you expect to see in Hollywood movies, not at the age of 10. To see something like this happen on live television, it remains to this day the most shocking and vivid event I've ever witnessed.

It's as if time stood still. Someone behind me said "Wow", another had to be taken to the nurse, who I'm sure of now needed a nurse herself after seeing that. We all did. 

What's made me angry is not the attack itself, don't get me wrong. What made me angry after all these years is that I know that was the moment my childhood innocence was taken from me and came to an abrupt end.  At age 10, of all times to end. To see such utter devastation, complete carnage and chaos, and that amount of human suffering, it was something out generation should have never had to face.

I've also thought about why the teachers put us in that room to feel the need to let us witness something as horrific as this. It's the worse comparison I could ever want to say, but in a way it was like our generation's Moon landing, our freeing of Nelson Mandela, our Berlin Wall collapsing. Why were we made to see this?

But we did see it, one way or another. I'm sure the person sitting next to you, behind you, or near you seems to be able to picture where they were on 9/11. All I want to say is, that after nearly a decade since the event, after 10 years of growing up, I can say that this moment will forever remain a part of me, like a stain that never fades completely. But with time, this stain becomes less and less, as I'm sure whoever is reading this feels as well.

Speechless.

That's what she makes me feel. When I woke up at 6:22 this afternoon, I was dreaming that a phone call was going off on the side of the cupboard. I don't care if you don't believe me, but after seeing the number, and waking drowsily, she said 'Hello?' and that's all that she had to say. But we spoke, and thirty minutes later, somehow we're together.

We met each other a long time ago. And if you saw my old post 'The Biggest Regret'... Well, she's given me a second chance, and that is the biggest and most brave thing I've ever seen anyone do. I'm actually speechless. I'm lost for words trying to describe her, honestly. If you saw her, you'd know why. I mean, she's absolutely gorgeous, and that's without the make up.

If beauty decided to descend and grace one human being with her face, it's her. You have no idea as to what she means to me. She's not the 'ex', she's not the girl you meet for one night at the club, she's not my Winona, but she comes absolutely damn close to it.

I just felt like everything that she said in the letter before I left was just the most amazingly heartfelt thing anyone had ever written or said to me in my life. Upto now, it's still like 'wow' as to how you could pour your feelings into that letter, and when I first opened it, I remember there were like small wet places, like tears had hit the page, and that just completely shocked me.

I realised that I'd lost someone close, someone so special in my life and that I'd made the biggest mistake of my life, and that you had shown me nothing but love. But now, now, you're back in my life, and I'll make damn sure I don't throw you away. Because, sloppy love stuff put aside, I can't think of anything or anyone who could make me feel the way you do.

Hygiene and the Modern Student (or How I Learnt To Stop Worrying And Get Along With Dirt) part 1

Clean rooms, a neat bed and a fresh scent. You can leave those little things by the generic uni door, and come inside a world of absolute filth. Well, that’s what everyone says about the average student. Me, I live with a bunch of clean freaks, ones that think any type of bacteria inside their room could exterminate the human race, so plenty of Cif, sponges and rubber gloves seem to pass by my place.

My room doesn’t seem so much of a tip, but it does have this feel of tardiness that lingers, as I’m writing this on an overcluttered table and a laptop that’s about the only thing new in this room. Discarded cans and bottles, remnants of several good nights in and out, and also a bunch of wrappers, tissues from my flu inside a Co-op bag and a bunch of papers all stacked on top of each other, waiting to fall.

I’m not a messy person, although it’s been a nickname once in while used by the parents, I’ve always stayed 

moderately clean, and that reflects in this place I’m staying at. Washing usually seems to accumulate inside the baskets and at the last minute, I always seem to be bothered enough to do some washing, I do.

The floordrobes most people I know have in their little caves seem hilarious, as they usually say a lot about the person. If I ever use anyone’s loo, I never try to judge their bathrooms, it’s like World War III decided to pay a visit to most of their places. Usually, it’s the female side that lets us university students down big time, because most of the time I visit, it does seem like at the worst times, or maybe it’s because they don’t care or something.

Not that I’m saying every friend or girl’s place I’ve been to is a ridiculous mess, but it’s near to that idea. The floor is the main issue, not the walls, or the bathroom, or even the cupboard, but last Halloween I went to a party, and after using a friend’s loo, I saw the most ridiculous room in my halls. 

A half broken TV displaying white noise whilst the centerpiece was covered in clothes, pants, shirts, empty polystyrene Ken’s chips and nugget boxes, books being used as coasters for cups all full of God knows what liquids, and a stench that could only be described as something of a combining quagmire of sweat, weed, and  week old milk.

Sometimes I wonder if the whole generation I’m in forgot what a presentable room was, and the word tidy is. The expected view of hygiene for us isn’t just about the place we live in. Mostly it’s about appearance, and also acceptance. People judge others for not only their looks but for how others perceive the place they live at, basically the music they’ve got on show, the books they read, the TV shows and movies that they watch, and the poison they drink.

Hate.

I hate you. I hate your smile. I hate your way of logic. I hate the way you seem to want control over the most decided things. I hate the postures you take when we've all reached agreements. I hate how you change your mood like you change your hair colour. I hate the way you laugh. I hate the way you seem to act all innocent, when we all know you're far from an angel. I hate your language. I hate your Facebook comments. I hate your chats with me, acting interested then switching off completely.

I hate your ignorance of the world and expecting to be all belligerent. I hate how you seem to only need me for an answer to a question you already know. I hate how you drop in and out of my life whenever you feel like it. I hate how you have to have a say in everything. I hate the way you look at me. I hate your height. I hate your lack of decency over touchy subjects. I hate your lack of love. I hate your music taste. I hate the way you dress. I hate your smell. I hate the way you seem to be some kind of a better person by ignoring people. I hate the way you hate me. I hate the love you gave me and then took away.

I hate the stupid things that seem to always be linked to me and you. I hate that you gave up when you never even knew me. I hate your 50/50 mindset. I hate your childish outlook on life, then act like you're the mature one. I hate how idiotic you make people feel. I hate the fact that I know you. I hate that we never talk. I hate that we share so much, and you seem to have got it all now. I hate that feeling that whenever we're near each other, we're the furthest apart. I hate that I can't even look at you anymore without feeling a sense of utter regret. I hate that I messed up with someone like you. I hate your sense of knowing so much about absolutely nothing. I hate that you're content.

I hate your whole existence, Flynn. I really do.

Yours hatefully, your super ego.

Heresy

The rows of men all shuffle to slavery’s beat,

Remind their heresy as they bloody their feet

Blasphemed aplenty, they are now tongueless voices,

Cut out and hung on their chests, their choices,

Faceless and blinded angels all strung high in shame,

I have turned my back and forsaken my Lord’s name,

Above they bleed on rocks and barbed chains of misery,

I see all my sins crawl in front of me,

Wearing ropes made of mortal skin,

Burning away on grounds that do not grow,

Tear blistering flesh of fallen angels, hear them sing,

As infernal heats rise from the hatreds below,

Forests of the Suicide shriek and howl of lives took,

As fires rage around fueled by His word and book,

The never-ending sound of souls torn apart,

Set ablaze on Lucifer’s heart.

My Lennan Sidhe.

The clock doesn’t strike, because there’s no time in this neighbourhood. All I hear are screaming sirens sailing off into the morning, with echoing whispers from the wind that slides from street to street. In the middle of nowhere, and not knowing what I’m doing in these robes and sandals when its minus degrees outside.

They thought it’d be funny to strand me in this desolate place, and now I’m trying to figure out exactly what this place is. To be seen in this is something no one should have to endure, especially the natives of Southsea. It’s colder than a witch’s tit here, and not even God knows how I’ll get back to civilization.

I’ve had more than enough and it’s the proverbial blanket that surrounds me, not the Primark ones that cover my torso and arse, and equipped with about as much sense of direction as a blind man without a stick, I might as well face it. I’m fucked.

Each shivering second as I pass each generic road and each crappy hedge or wall, everything suddenly emerges. It’s just all one big joke, me, this, everything. I try to laugh but the air escapes my frozen lungs like the thought does.

I would worry, but the temperature’s the only thing seeming to cling onto me bar the toga, and I don’t think it’s funny anymore. Banter? They can stick that banter right up their third year arses.

I seem to have some form of a natural instinct of being absolutely useless with directions other than when I’m completely shitfaced, and in this case, I seem to be absolutely proven right. But every step I take, the buildings I recognize seem to have this ability to hide somehow, mask themselves from my own eyes. I must be high, or something.

I stop for a second to think, but thinking is about as useful as pissing on your own shoes. I try my phone again, try to ring, but clichéd as hell, the battery seems to have committed cellular suicide. Shit.

Suddenly, I look up and she’s there. Middle of the road, red dress. Hot. One shoe lying there askew next to her bottle of Smirnoff, lit cigarette smog seems to linger in the air. I recognize her, partially, one because she’s got her back to me and two it’s three in the bloody morning.

Thinking I’d look a dick for asking directions, especially as incapacitated as I could be, I try to act as normal as humanly possible and fail miserably. Instead of being cool, I act as if I haven’t seen her and she hasn’t glimpsed me. Play around with the dead phone, try to look like you’re actually popular, or some nonsense like that. Yeah, act popular.  I then somehow slowly make my way past and towards her. 

She turns. Sees me. Smiles. “Looking good, I see. What the fuck are you doing here, Pedro?”

Taking a long drag from the Mayfair fag, she stands now, holding one hand on her left bicep and blows smoke straight at me. “Just having a stroll in this shithole. Got one I could pinch?”

She offers one before I can finish my sentence, and I act cool about it. Getting one, she lights it with hers and passes it along. Her fingers touch, but they’re warm. Warm like fire. Mine are ice, and she quickly jerks them away. “You look wasted. Good night then?”

We shoot the shit for a few more minutes, but it seems like hours long. She seemed to listen and laugh, and for some reason, listen. This was shocking, but I downplayed it as much as I could. I also try not to let on that my balls are freezing and pretty soon I won’t be able to feel anything again. I’ve had a few and that’s helped, but there’s a threshold for everything and everyone.

But she distracts this coldness with her casualness. Another cigarette, another set of jokes and lines you wouldn’t want to repeat to anyone, ever. As I finally pluck the courage to as her for directions, she interrupts me by asking a question. “D’you wanna come in?” I’m a bit shocked, but don’t show it. Well, I’m wasted so I think I don’t show it. “Yeah, if that’s cool with you.”

She half smiles, and pushes a door open, walks in and then looks at me. Then I do the same and shut the door, quietly. I must be wasted. “Crash on the couch if you like.” I’ll still say this, it’s been a rough few hours, I’m standing inside this one floor flat, on the kitchen tiles, with a cup of tea, in a double bed sheet, looking worse for wear, but I need some form of warmth. “Thanks. For like…”

Then she sits next to me on the huge ripped up leather sofa, and grabs my shoulder, pulling half of me towards her. All of a sudden, the tea doesn’t matter. She starts to kiss me, and grabs onto me. Well, I drunkenly reciprocate, like anyone would. I don’t remember her name right now, but names got left on the doorstep. My hands on her torso, it’s odd, but amazing. I’m jerked towards her and then her room upstairs.

The next morning, I wake up, head smashed in like a box that’s been sat on by someone heavier than its contents, and the cup of tea’s there, lying on a mantelpiece, the cup grinning its message Have a nice day! whilst I try to contemplate just where the hell I am.

Her and everything hits me suddenly, and I smile, but still grimace. I’m missing my toga sheet. All I’ve got are pants, a phone, wallet full of receipts and two shoes with odd socks. Where the fuck is my sheet?

As much as I search I can’t find it. Instead, the smell of last night lingers. Her perfume. 

But what was her name?

The Ocean of Storms

///MESSAGE ALPHA ONE CLEARANCE RECEIVED AT 02:10AM\\\-----

Please, whoever this reaches, this is an ALPHA ONE MESSAGE. I repeat, an ALPHA ONE MESSAGE.

This is former Captain Leon Temple of the UFA vessel Fortuna speaking.

I guess this is my last message, as it's too late to save me. I pray to God that somehow this will reach Terra Major in time, but if it doesn’t, then may God be with us all. If you don’t find the vessel and me in time, you must destroy the ship. I repeat, you must destroy the Fortuna.

It's been 12 days since the incident occurred. We landed midday on April 24^th 2030, with minimal damage report, stable ground logistics and an all green from Cape Julius. I was part of the first exploring team mission sent to extrapolate and correlate data on activity found in a region of Luna 1, on the dark side of the moon. A place registered by scientists as The Ocean of Storms. But no one had a clue as to what we would find.

Where do I begin?

God, how the hell can I explain this?

You must believe me. I found it hard to believe at first, as everyone else did, and now everyone is just me. Everyone is dead. Please, believe me. You have to.

After reaching our point of destination, the scanners immediately picked up electromagnetic disturbance, the likes of which put functions and sensors miles off course. This should have been the first warning sign, but our three expedition members; UFA’s Major Fox, Sergeant Richards, and Private Mason all were set on being the first recon team to reach the first five miles of The Ocean.

As they reached the inside boundaries of the dead crater, one of the terraforming vehicles started to read correspondence from inside the vessel. They had reached their destination within optimum time, and began to correlate data immediately upon arrival.

What they reported on their logs were signs of growth. Unbelievable growth. There had never been any activity ever on the moon, and within this one territory, sudden activity meant everything had changed.

It was at first containable. The specimens and samples taken from Site 1 on The Ocean of Storms was unlike any form of life we, mankind, had ever encountered before. It seemed like the site, to be a pod of some sorts.

Science Division wanted it immediately quarantined, under orders of the UFC regulations, yet certain members of the crew believed it to be a threat if taken aboard. I made the decision to overrule Science and allow its transportation. If I had the chance, I would never have let that thing on board.

To this day I regret and take full responsibility for my actions. I am responsible for the deaths of over 45 crew members. My friends and their families. They are all dead, all because of me. Because of my decision. I’m still alive, barely, by the skin of my teeth. Just because I was smart enough to get out before it had the chance to get me.

My God... What have I done? What have I become?

I’ve let everything die. It’s all my fault, and I don’t know if I can carry on anymore.

Years of work, all gone, all wasted, billions lost, and all because of the discovery.

I managed to escape in an Medivac Pod, and currently I’m holding the last of the food/drink supplies. It’s been over a week, maybe longer, but out here, the machines are malfunctioning. I don’t know what time it is right now. I can’t think about it. Everything is gone to shit. Everything.

I’ve never been so scared in my life before, of what’s out there. I know it’s waiting for me. It knows I know, somehow. I don’t know how the hell I know this, but I just do.

It mocks me, The Ocean of Storms. The waves of electromagnetism, they look as if they lie still, dormant, almost peaceful. Yet, they are ever changing. They are violent. From time to time, the shields and hull sometime feel the forces hit as hard as a photon shot and causes everything to rock.

You’ve gotta believe me when I say that it is alive. The Ocean is alive. It’s not what it seems at all Goddammit, it’s not just a huge hole on a planet. Something must have hit it, like a meteorite, something must have caused some form of a fissure to split the surface of the rock. Or whatever hit it must have had something on it which landed, because we’ve studied this piece of crud for years, and nothing lives on this. Nothing.

Sometimes, I ponder on whether or not mankind made the right decision, to explore, to wonder into the vast great unknown and stick their greedy fucking noses into something which absolutely no one could understand.

I have gazed into the craters, into the deadlands of Luna 1, and it has stared back at me. I have seen forever, in the glimpse of a servo eye, and it has a mask on. It wears the face of death.

This will be the last entry. I can't live in fear anymore. 

Oh, who am I kidding? I died a long time ago. I've got to leave, before it is too late.

I've become trapped, trapped upon this vessel; this ship. No. not a ship. A prison.

I hear noises. Scraping noises. They’re calling out.

I’ve got to go now. May God be with us all.

-----///END OF MESSAGE\\\

Blood and Wolf

The wolf’s moon is coming,

Lands once prosperous now harvest nothing,

We hear the howls of day and night,

For man a sky lies in darkest shadow that once shone bright.

Blood Moon had passed, and Snow and Oak too,

The starting winter comes around and through,

October’s Luna stains red the sky,

Here a dark season will come to lie.

Come Novembertime we stand on unsteady ground,

Little or no food has been saved or found,

No water arrives from our air,

Once more the moon tests our prayer.

As logs are cut and thrown onto fires,

The winter winds still cover us in a great white attire,

We must survive come moons of new,

For what is life without living tests through.