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Colours!What is it to be a man?
We, as a species, are flawed. Insane, impossible and brilliant. Beautiful in our colours. Blue, red, green, brown, yellow, orange, purple.
We exist through each other. The colours painted through life.
They are flawed. Impossible and brilliant. Beautiful in our colours.
Politics; the pallet with which we forever stain the canvas of life. We instinctively, biologically, lie, corrupt and cheat to survive.
But we are flawed. Brilliant. Beautiful in our colours.
Yet why do we help? Profit, maybe; personal gain through relationships. But we are capable of emotion. Thought. Memory. There is no reason for us to be as we are.
Because we are flawed. And we are beautiful in our colours! We are impossible and we are brilliant in our colours. Blue, red, green, yellow, orange, purple.
SanityThe room was dark, very dark. It was one of those few places that exuded fear; even men with the cleanest conscious would instinctively draw their coats about them and force sinister thoughts as to what impossible shames lurked in the deep obscurity far from their minds. This small chamber had long-since been shut off from the world, forsaken, as a result, it seemed to contain nothing other than darkness; no memories of past joy, not a single thought had managed to penetrate the blinding dark. While being singularly intangible, there was an unquestionable physicality to the darkness, as if yet undecided on how to manifest itself. If one was so inclined, a separate darkness may be perceived within the thick gloom, one that was significantly and yet only fractionally, different to its counterparts.
This belonged to The Man. So long had he spent in penitent repose, that he had learned to drown out the incessant cries from outside by focussing on his surroundings; or lack thereof. By shro
our world, in sunshineThe most beautiful thing I've ever seen is the world in sunshine.
On December mornings, I sit on the porch and blow on my swirling cup of coffee, watching as a ray of light falls from the skies. It reflects off the windows and scatters rainbows across the grey sidewalks in shattered colors.
A garbage truck drives by. The grimy orange fades away as the sun strips away its layers of dirt. The orange becomes a dazzling shade of tangerine, blinding in its brilliance. Only a moment in the spotlight––but it is a moment more of glory and wonder, with only the flowers to witness and the trees to retell.
Not three minutes later, a young girl walks past, bouncy in step, her golden curls bright and her red coat glowing. The sun catches her in its embrace, dropping brightness upon her small figure, and though no one is watching, she smiles proudly.
There is a splendor here that cannot be denied. The charm of the universe and the loveliness we all possess is so often hidden in the dark,
Lib. Ar.She was a revolutionary in her head, the way she wrapped herself in the flag and sang herself to sleep with freedom songs and chain gang chants. The way she wore her hair, unkept and messy and slanted slightly to the right due to the many times she fell asleep on her arm after reading Das Kommunistische Manifest until the early hours of the morning. I never questioned why she always ended on the same page, or why we had to search through dozens of used book stores in order to find an old hardcover copy of the book that was peeling with dry-rot and plagued with dog-eared corners.
She told me her grandfather was a political prisoner, and she inherited his rucksack and his circular glasses--the ones that he used to read his speech the day he was shot by the police and thrown in jail for treason.
"But the Man diluted my spirit, leaving me here having to fight for the rights my granddad sacrificed his life for. They never did free him," she always told the newest per
SnowContrary to popular belief, this Christmas was not a white one. Rather, the air felt heavy with the smoke from the factories mixing in with the fog rolling in from the Thames which stank with the rotting detritus from the many warehouses and factories that used the river as a dumping ground for the byproducts of their particular industries. Coaches, merchant’s carts, and hansom cabs clattered their way up and down the cobbled streets of London amid the haze of fog. Gas lamps flickered guiding the way along the avenues for the various pedestrians who moved like shadows through the narrow streets.
This was the city of shadows, and amid the city which hid both pleasure and vice another world dwelled. It reflected that of the world above. Small feet dashed to and fro dodging cart wheels and horses hooves. They moved among the manicured gardens and through dank sewers, along rooftops and through the homes of the wealthy and those of the poor.
The Pumpkin SentinelsI sit on the concrete steps on the front porch and admire this November night. At my left and right are a few jack o' lanterns, their motionless grotesque faces staring into the street. It's the day after Halloween and my porch is the only one with jack o' lanterns still lit. They give off a faint pumpkin smell, likely a result of being singed constantly by the candles within their hollow corpses. There are no sounds, aside from the occasional faint rusting of leaves and the sizzle and pop of the moths that, every now and again, fly into the candles through the eyes and mouths of the lanterns and burn to death. The flickering, glowing faces give some security, as I'm not fond of what lurks in the night, and they look like plump little orange guardians, warding evil from my doorstep. A crackling of leaves, like irregular footsteps stirs me out of my daze. I see a shadowy figure, upwards of 4 feet tall walking down my street, giving a wide berth to my porch, much wider than any ot
Conscience InputSomewhere within the last few hours, she'd turned into a jitterbug. Sitting on the edge of a panic attack and not knowing how to handle it, she did her level best to throw herself into something that would calm her nerves. But every time she attempted to really get into the rewriting of recipes into a spiral bound book, she found only more setbacks that stopped her from really getting stuck in the work.
“That does it!” she swore quietly, yet the volume of the words did nothing to hide the menace in her tone. She picked up the cold chili she'd set down on her desk a few hours ago and promptly ignored. Digging into it like she hadn’t eaten in days. While the time since she'd last consumed food had been more like a few hours, it still felt like forever ago. She was surprised to find herself hungry, usually she did her level best to forget that she needed to eat, much to her irritation when her body finally mentally put it's foot down. She shovelled food into her mouth as
Leaving Southampton She was in the kitchen when he stumbled in noisily, tripping as he went past the shelves and catching the edge of the table to keep himself from falling.
Pretending not to hear the stream of curses that followed, she kept her eyes fixed on the dishes, letting her hand trail in the soapy water. There was a loud scraping of wood against grimy concrete as he drew a chair and collapsed into it. At this she looked up, and after a moment's hesitation, she said, unnecessarily, "You've been drinking."
He clutched his head and said nothing. He hadn't shaved in weeks and stank of sweat and alcohol; he looked much older than his eighteen years.
They sat in silence for a while. Then he announced, loudly, "Fuck."
She didn't bother to tell him off. She just waited. And jumped when he suddenly brought his fist down, hard, onto the table.
"Our lives here are s
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More