Myth

Would it be possible,I wonder, to re-work the Narcissus myth to include both Ameinias (who ran himself through with a sword) and Echo? 

Nemesis took Ameinias' revenge, (he wished for Narcissus to feel the pain of unrequited love... ) made Narcissus fall in love with his reflection and Narcissus drowned.

Echo got in trouble for talking to much, so she was cursed with only being able to repeat what others said. She fell in love with Narcissus, but he had eyes only for himself. He died, and she wasted away, until only her voice remained. (Or alternately, she wastes away first, and then one of the gods gets mad at Narcissus, and makes him fall in love with himself. He wastes away and dies.)

Either way, I'm fairly certain at the end of the myth, the gods feel kinda bad for Narcissus, and they turn him into a flower. 

A flower of the genus Narcissus, is actually a daffodil. Resilient, they bloom in the early spring, and they're bulbs, so they bloom year after year. (Extra bonus points, into making that into character traits!)

I wonder... 

the truth

in the end it becomes all about not hearing

not listening

not acknowledging 

the little voice

repeating

liar liar liar

Home

And they're swimming in hurt

in the tears

their own tears, backed up

over the days, weeks, 3 months.

they can look at each other

but sometimes

they just

they can't 

they forget to touch

and the whole house shakes with voices.

they stand far apart from each other

sitting right next to one another

the screen, the idiot box

the T V.

sitting in silence, laughing here

or arguing there

its almost like conversation.

so the hurt sits

fetid between them

explosive between them

miles and fathoms between them

and they keep themselves afloat with tears.

They leave the Captain to his own devices, little contraptions that whirl and twirl and print out list of numbers and strange symbols. He flits about the room, eyes big and black behind multiple lenses. He pulls the papers and reads them, up and down and sometimes sideways humming to himself at the insights they afford him. His calculations and, indeed, his variables, are unknown.

One day a particularly stocky instrument made its way over to the Captain, trailing a long list of results, like intestines.

As he ran his eyes over the long thin strip of paper, his wrinkled face smoothed in shock. His black eyes looked over-large, magnified. He scrambled towards the nearest device, which flailed slightly as he grabbed it. Frantically, he looked over its train of numbers, his eyes sliding back and forth as he added and subtracted. Checking the equations in his head, his face folded again, like a paper crumpled in frustration.

Days later, when the chaos died down, someone noticed the lack of smoke exiting the Captain's chimney. When they tentatively entered, they found him on his back, limbs curled like a spider, and the solitary, still intact device shuddering in the corner, the symbols contorted and twitching across the paper it continued to spit.

uhm. something new? maybe for the lit. mag. but i dunno if its good enough.

the killing feilds

calluses

aren't enough to

save

us. smiling

send us to our

deaths.

torturing confessions

or their confessors

doesn't take away

the truth

in them. if they are

written down.

EXAM

read the instructions.

they'll tell you what to do.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

maybe, a little caution

can be applied to them.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

indefinitely? well, probably

if you follow the instructions.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

apply

your own

mind

read the instructions

do you want to follow them?

i did.

do you dream?

no, she says, maybe.

next, later.

she's asleep, perfectly still.

later, next.

we're running

            running

            running

the city is a sudden forest

snow grey then

colorful trop. with flowers

then.

do dream people dream?

I don't know, she says

why don't you ask one next time?

but.

Hamartia

those with destinies

spend forever trying

to escape them.

(they tend to fail, too.)

those without destinies

spend a lifetime worrying

if they make the right plan

(they tend to have, too.)

counter-communication

forth

back

forth

.

forth

.

just

type the message!

forth

.

just

answer the question!

forth

.

just ---

back

forth

back

.

back

.

back

.

Breathing is all A matter of Pressure.

When someone tells you grades and numbers and assessments mean nil,

in the long run, they're actually

lying to you.

Because,

really?

They matter. They matter,

a lot.

Life is secretly a long line of people all waiting to pass judgement on you, looking to see if

you're 

GOOD ENOUGH.

So you have to have your credentials ready, 

you have to be GOOD ENOUGH.

Good enough for them to look at you.

Good enough for them to want

you.

Bosses, teachers, friends, colleagues, bankers, lovers, investors, the government, your parents.

Everyone.

Wants to know.

If.

You,

(yes, YOU)

are good enough.

Good enough for them.

Good enough for their money.

Good enough for their

TIME.

Because if you're not

worth it, that is.

If you're not GOOD ENOUGH, that is.

They don't want you.

And

time is short.

So,

they want your numbers.

Because,

numbers are fast.

Numbers are

GOOD ENOUGH, for them.

For them to know you

For them

to know

if

YOU are good enough.

City Song.

she'll spit the streets beneath my feet

traveling me

taking me on

a journey.

maybe if i look hard enough

i'll see her shadow on

the skyline

bright neon, like a beacon

like a calling

like a fresh breath to 

a choking soul.

she'll envelop me 

take my hand

she'll lead me into her

heart

the pumping and thumping

blare of car horns.

the flashing neon lights

beaconing 

me

her

calling

pulling away the streets

leave me

chasing after

her.

Funnel cakes, in the end, are not funnel shaped at all... Which might be mind-blowing, for someone who wasn't expecting that... 

They're actually kind of squiggly, wormy looking... 

Nonsensical, we call it. 

Not quite funnel shaped

Then why call it funnel cake?

I really don't know.

However, the real question is: Is 'shaped' one syllable or two?

untitled.

the first time around

isn't nearly as exciting 

as the second

when you know what to expect

and when.

laughing disarmingly

at the not funny

parts. its only natural.

maybe the sadism

will kick in.

kicking and screaming

like an ant

covered in napalm

or was it pesticide?

and curiosity

never got you anywhere

but trouble. so

they tell me.

Cigar.

its something in the smell of

cigarettes, when your sinuses are dry.

they smell of comfort and a remembrance

of death.

the quiet orange light

in the dark

can be a comfort,

you know they're still

breathing.