He was shaking again.

Down to the very foundation of his bones he was shaking.

He felt the desire and the need and the want and the horrible, ugly LUST.

The Man felt these things and he shuddered at the thoughts that passed through his head, at how appealing they seemed and how ravenously he was willing to see them through and pursue them at how easily it would be to just let go, to let go of his self-control and let all these things happen and be so, so happy and content and TRUE.

But that was lies.  Filthy lies fed to him by the LUST.  TRUTH was not what the LUST could offer, only a vague, admittedly appealing version of it.  TRUTH knew what he was, but TRUTH could not simply tell him – could not tell anyone, for the sole reason that that was the very nature of TRUTH – to not be simple, or more accurately, to be not simple.  And TRUTH knew how LUST had so ruled his life.

LUST was something that existed in his life by necessity; that was so damnably important to his sanity, to his well-being, to his happiness.  And yet the last thing he ever wanted was to LUST ever again.

For once in his life, he wanted PURITY.  He wanted TRUTH.  He wanted to look at something and not feel the sinful, wanton urge to either wrought destruction upon it or mate with it or abuse or extort or hate or rage or any number of foolish, immediate things that had no bearing on the long-term.

But the LUST was still there, regardless, and it called to him as a mother to a petulant child, urging him forward into acts of great artistry and hedonistic extremity.  He was, by his nature, by his profession, by his chosen path, LUSTFUL.  It was, perhaps, his fate to feel these things and do these things and know these things more intimately than any other who might shirk the responsibilities he so bore.

LUST came in all shapes and in all sizes.  It came in all sins, big and small, colorful and strange.  It came in all good things, too, big and small, thoughtful and kind.  The LUST was there, simple desire, and it colored life in shades of happy white and horrible black and all manner of grey in between.  But none were forced to be so intimate with LUST as was he and his kin.  LUST was something denied by the fatecrafters, who so denied all other emotion that they might “control” their sinful urges.  LUST was something worshipped by the fatedestroyers, who so foolishly fell to it that they might as well be nothing more than tools for the LUST.  But for he and his kin, LUST was nothing but a fact of life.  It was not what consumed two extremes of the same philosophy for him and his bloodkin.  It was just something that was, older than time and history and man and the stars.

They existed in a place between the crafters and destroyers – a blessed place where the LUST was not all-encompassing, or all-deciding.  And yet, with lives as short and brutish as they had, those that picked up arms – for whatever reason - were forced to understand the LUST more intimately than either crafter or destroyer.  Rather than childishly indulging or virginally denying, The Ungifted slowly prod and explored, in methodical seriousness, the LUST.  They saw how it could be harnessed, and used, and the Armsbearers quickly did so in whatever way they could.  The Armsbearer was LUST’s greatest champion, as his life, even more brutish and simple and passionate was the epitome of what the LUST so embodied.  And the LUST loved its champions as its children.  It gave them many a great gift, and empowered them to feats unimaginable to the Crafters or Destroyers – things that were unimaginable for any mere Ungifted to accomplish.  Yet even the LUST had its price, and it was perpetuity.  An Armsbearer could never leave the LUST once it so took them, once it gave itself so wholly to them, and them to the LUST in turn, the LUST never released one from its hold.

And so the Man shook.  His body screamed for action: glorious, immediate action.  Something physical, something real, something that he could hold bleeding in his hands as he drained the last of its life, something that he could chase and corner and savor the ending of.  Something that he could end casually with 3 muscles in the trigger finger, something that warrants only the feeling of recoil.  Something that cared only for the carnal pleasures, something that forced him to rip and claw and pull and thrust and perform feats of sin and debauchery that would cow even the most depraved of souls in fear and awe.

But the promise of TRUTH and PURITY stood forever as a shining light, just out of distance, in the man’s peripheral, constantly alighting out of his vision even as he turned his head to gaze onto it.  And so the man shook.


And then the voice – the sweet melodic voice rang through the doorway, and the shaking stopped.  Suddenly TRUTH and PURITY were attainable, they were there, they were talking to the man, and he stood, clad in clothes he hadn’t remembered donning, in a room he didn’t remember entering.  At another perfect call, he answered, and joined the woman in the other room.  TRUTH.  PURITY.



Orange and yellow and red mix in an angry combination that knows nothing but consumption.  In its single-minded purpose it has become exceedingly good.  It devours all that is fed to it ravenously, wasting as little as possible as it food fuels it to grow ever larger, to consume more, to grow brighter, to destroy, to CLEANSE.

Faces.  Faces are what is seen in the fire, the holy symbol of protection and intelligence and safety and food and comfort and warmth.  Faces of loves past, of loves lost and loves won and loves to be lost and won.  Faces of men who will never get to see those loves of their own, whether they spoke fond or ill of them.  Faces.  Faces are all that is left, and they too are packing up to go.  Memory is imperfect, as all things are in the realm of mortal thought, and the details of every man, once so stark and contrasting so hideously against their fellow individuals now blend wantonly in the scope of memory.  Names had vacated shortly before the faces, rank and cause of death and time in service and the more trivial details leaving long before that.

How far is it to fall, that cause of death becomes a trivial detail?  How far is it to walk, that it seems okay to allow the mistake of remembering one man’s other half as another’s?  It must be far indeed, as the legs upon which are stood are weary to the point of collapse.

A lake.

A ripple in the water as brown eyes stare into their reflection, gazing into the depths within the depths within the depths within the depths within the depths within the

Blues and whites coalesce in this tranquil pool, and know placidity only for the lack of any particular place to go.  It simply exists, it simply is.  It is there not to serve any single purpose or perform anything, truthfully.  It is whatever one wants it to be.  It NOURISHES.

Yet the lake is not unlike the fire, and in it the faces return as his features morph as the water is eventually disturbed.  Light reflects queerly off water, and what once was brown is green, or red, or dead, or all thereof.  But where the fire was fierce, the lake is somber.  Two halves fulfilling the same purpose:  Damned Remembrance.

Imperfection is


The eyes close, before opening again to view the much warmer ceiling than the one he expected.  The eyes- the man, looks to his side, and the space is found empty.  Crushing loneliness comes to rest at the pit of his stomach before his sense of smell returns to him.  The comfortable, wonderful aroma of home-cooking finds its way to his synapses.

The man greets the day with imperfect memory of his dreams, and thus with a smile.


A question is posed in simple, nebulous wonder.

What am I?

A voice, harsh and grating, carved from the unyielding stone of pain and blood:

I am the vanguard of death, the harbinger of your destruction, that which the strongest of men and the most stoic of ladies is so shaken to the very core by.  I am that which lurks in the dark and that which guards against it, I am the provider of justice and the cause of so much injustice, I am the contradiction that contradicts the contradiction of contradiction.  I am the bringer of death, I am a murderer.

Another, softer :

I am the bringer of joy, empathetic to the fault I notice all around me, and I learn their mannerisms quickly.  I see those around me and I know their faces and their names and their very beings at their core.  I see them and I wish only to leave them happier than I met them.  I am the friend, my attention and ministrations intended only to guide those around me on a path that can lead to sustained joy.  I am a lover.

Still again:

I am the spirit of persistence, that which never quits and that which never rests.  I am as eternal as the night and as relentless as the coming dawn, I shall always rise and I shall always fall, waxing here and there as my mood so suits, and so to follows my body and my mind, my spirit existing in a place between and outside of these, existing only to link the two and represent myself in the physical world.  I have no purpose and never will, I am that which shall watch those around me wither and die, and remember them in the world born of their ashes.  I am a survivor.

More voices.  Each growing louder than the last in an attempt to assert that no, they are the answer to the most base of questions.  That they are the final, simple, clean response that has been so sought after so many minds, and found so wanting by endless hordes of voices that came both before and after.  And as they stumble over each other, their volume rising to an unbearable roar as all understanding is lost in a cacophonous symphony of inanity, all is suddenly quiet.  A final voice rings out, soft and timid and sure:

I am the contradiction.  I have no explanation and I need no explanation, I have no purpose and yet I pursue imagined purpose in a clumsy flailing of sin and foolishness.  As a newborn babe, I am unknowing, grasping desperately at straws in the dark, attempting to make sense of the world around me with as much success as a madman attempting to convince passers-by that the voices in his head are indeed real.  I am doomed to repeat this forevermore as no explanation exists, yet my existence is defined by my attempt to understand, for I can imagine no other purpose than explaining what and why.  I am insane.

The voices recede.  All is quiet again, but not for long.  Slowly, a whisper pierces the darkness, almost imperceptibly at first, slowly building and building and building in intensity until they become a murmur, then a chant, then a drone, and then a roar.

iaminsane…  I am insane…  I am insane.  I am insane!  I AM INSANE.  I AM INSANE! I! AM! INSANE!  WE ARE INSANE!  WE ARE ALL INSANE!


Brown eyes awaken in a cold sweat as a body yet again shoots upright.  It lies in a meager bed, thin sheets falling from its body, the grip of moisture not enough to cling them to the body as it heaves in heavy draws of breath, attempting to grasp and banish and understand and fear and hate and deny the darkness with which it was just faced.  The eyes look down, as they so often do when the body is alone.

But the body is not alone, streaks of glorious, beautiful red strands lay haphazard across the other half of the small bed, undisturbed sheets veiling the only argument the body – no, The Man – has to deny the voices from which his slumber was disturbed.  The woman.  The sum of all his strife and woes and pain and why he chooses to suffer still.  She is all and is forever and is necessary and kind and good and great and amazing and- and she is why he is not insane.

She is the only reason he is not insane.  Insanity could never produce something so perfect.

Quelle Heure Est?

So my writing’s been kind of shitty lately and I can’t really bring myself to care.  I’m so tired lately - especially after today.

So I spoke with Vy again.  She and I had spoken earlier about various shit that was going on and she’s all concerned about the shit with Nea.  She thinks I’m all freaked out due to the Dear John and I’m just grabbing for any sort of straw there is but.  It’s not like that.  I told her I’d be okay if she went back to her boyfriend, I kind of expect it.  I shared something with her though that was extremely special to me and I’m happy to have simply had that moment.  Whatever happens, I’ll be there for her, at the least.

Goddamn I sound like a hippy.

Anyway, so she told me I was in love with her and- I dunno about that, that’s a bit fucking much for having only known someone for a few days but- Jeez man, it was some pretty heavy shit.

So anyway a few days after that she and Jerax both decided to talk about me and just fucking tried to talk me out of it.  Apparently they both think I’m a moron and are completely overreacting to the unloaded-weapon-under-my-chin thing.  They thought that was some serious shit or something and I call BS and just god.

I’m so fucking tired.

Then I get a call from Nea, a short one, just thanking me for everything before she hung up.  I hope she’ll be okay.

THEN I get a comm from Vy.  Apparently there was an explosion in a hangar on the Imp Fleet.  I dunno how she get access to this intel, but it was a live feed or something, and she was listening in.  Two Males, One Female, one DOA, One Heavily wounded, and one got off with a broken finger and not much else.  I’m hoping Nea is the final one and she’ll be okay.

Worst breakup ever, though, if that’s how it came about.

God I need sleep.