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All-My-Darkness on DeviantArthttp://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/https://www.deviantart.com/all-my-darkness/art/Didactic-Pyramid-Tactics-284624040All-My-Darkness

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A Just Readjustment

I have noticed a certain word used as if whatever follows afterwards holds little significance or even less consequence… It is just just… just… that words can imply so much they are easy to take for granted Like when a person just opens the door to help someone encumbered to step through or when the gloomy skies clear enough just for a shaft of sunlight to cascade onto the darkened landscape or when a nurse just does her or his duty to care for a sick patient

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I Write...

I write… to illuminate the dreams inscribed within my soul pockets of consciousness which if left unattended might fade into obscurity I write… to awaken from hypnotic dazes caused by routines composed of one task after another until the mind gets stuck in an automated mode and loses sight of all the possibilities that exist throughout our universe or await their birth from an active imagination I write… to break free one piece

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More often nowadays I have counted my blessings and gathered them one by one like coins dropped into a jar …a calm springtime morning amid the verdant countryside …a gentle rainstorm in the night …a bedroom lined with books to draw off the shelves and read at any hour …a friendly cat who makes regular visits to my home . . .the ability to write about whatever wonders might come to mind …the gradual recovery of a father

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the halloween train doesn’t stop here, but knives do and menace does menace does whatever the night might disguise as a form of charity; its giving, an act of giving back to the ground and sky the moon might shine these ideas as bright to some, its clarity dilutes this liquid atmosphere; here, fear in its truest form is no monster it takes on the shape and weight of familiar indentations in the seat beside you yet, this halloween train never stopped to pick you up and will not stop to let you off touch the empty seat beside you and commit to memory, how life looks streaking by in fogged over windows, in droplets collecting and trailing like comets touch the empty seat beside you and adjust your belongings; pretend you’re simply preparing to disembark at the next stop, now lose yourself in the window in the slow song of click clack and its side-to-side sway; look around for a cord, a handle to pull look anywhere but down into the empty seat beneath you

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What Things Cost

What Things Cost the best things in life are the farthest thing from free; they cost everything i know this as i wake up, aching in the same position we eased back down to earth in; powering down, still entangled we do adjust, eventually, but not away and i focus just long enough into the dark, to realize that we still have a few hours left to sleep here, the rise and fall of your breath, against me slows time, fogs my ability to fear anything but its departure and i know the act of making memories like these only defers the pooling pain of the present deeper into the trench into the dark seafloor mix of distorted time and the lost lonely continents that, in their descent, left behind the very same spirit and power vacuums we’ve settled into i know a day is brewing below that will one day rise to strike me down, like the earth pounds a single raindrop into mist i know little, yet, of what things cost, little, but enough to not let go

Literature

The Fading, Muted Lamps We Are

The Fading, Muted Lamps We Are there’s a place, besides this one one where we actually belong and it’s not that we’re unneeded there but, perhaps here is not yet ruined enough for those who’ll deserve it next things move in cycles just like how the dead don’t stay in the clothes we bury them in, in either place and there will, eventually be nothing left of the cities where they, and we, lived much of our lives lives clothed in nothing but a collective memory of pedestrian frictions and a ragged grasp of cause and effect there is a link between how long you live and how long you wait to admit you don’t want to and it’s a black hole strung somewhere between the stars we think resemble us and the fading, muted lamps we are our memory burns slowly not like stars, but cooler and louder like blood rushing back into the oxygen-starved set of vessels we pilot things move, with or without us

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Moss Green

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cultural dissonance

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Blood Brothers

Brookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it. Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't h

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Liar

~ "You're lying, Mommy" the girl with pixie hair mumbled as she skirted near the woman's side. "I never lie," Her mother responded as her hands ghosted across her son's hair. "That's a lie everyone lies, the teacher told me so, she says I lie the best, too. " Her eyes glistened with malicious splendor as she said the words being the best liar was a brilliant thing to be, simply perfect. "I never lie," Her mother simply repeated bending over to gather ingredients into the grocery cart. The girl grumbled, "Nu-uh, you're just bad at it." ~ "Tell me another Mommy!!" he screec

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Does that make me Different?

I wear make up. Does that make me fake? I cry. Does that make me emo? I have male friends. Does that make me slutty? I smile a lot. Does that make me weird? I laugh loud. Does that make me preppy? I have anxiety. Does that make me a freak? I have Bipolar Disorder. Does that make me abnormal? I respect people. I change for me, and only me. I have a past, but I know I have a future. Does that make me different? Maybe. But at least it makes me Me.

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'nothing' is a raptor

*** Listen to me read this piece: When I tell you "it's nothing" you usually hear: the clouds are dark and rough like elephant skin and I'm caught up in the folds of an ear, tangled and desperate for relief but unsure how to flip myself an escape. You usually hear: the world is still turning on its axis and I am left breathless, breaking.... broken in more ways than I can count on my hands, broken in more ways than I can put a name to, broken in more ways than I can ever explain. It's not that simple, really. Really, "nothing" is a raptor dragging furrows down my sides, screaming unintelligible. "nothing" is horseshoes and handgrenade

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Didactic Pyramid Tactics

All-My-Darkness

Published: Feb 12, 2012

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Description

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2028x2726px 860.48 KB

Make

SONY

Model

DSC-H9

Shutter Speed

10/130 second

Aperture

F/2.7

Focal Length

5 mm

ISO Speed

400

Date Taken

Jan 29, 2012, 3:42:39 PM

Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License

Comments9

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nalina24

Dec 15, 2018

I really love this – great idea & detail. At my uni, I know a guy who does something similar; he uses pages of newspapers, cuts them apart and tries to create new articles. (but in german ...

)

However, I'm not sure about the background here... maybe the whole work would have more impact if it the different covers were laid out on a floor or hung-up on a wall like really expensive paintings... just an idea

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