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    Nick the Hero's Serious Writing Thread
    • Nick the Hero's Serious Writing Thread

      Hello everyone. I'm officially starting my ongoing writing thread. I've collected up various writings over the years, poetry and the like. I'm mostly a musician, but writing is also an activity I have taken up. It's very important to me, almost as much as music. When I write, I do not write in any way for entertainment or pleasure or even enjoyment. I write only to accurately convey my serious experiences, and to convey truth. Perhaps there will be elements that are enjoyable, but this is not the purpose. The purpose is only an artistic, and sometimes scientific one. Everything I post in this thread, I wrote in the quiet, dead night in my bed, usually in secret, in a mood that was wholly focused and serious. Therefore, they are all to be received the exact same way. Not with a mind that critiques or judges, but simply and only reads, receives, and attempts to understand. My writings are completely honest - I never take into account if someone will read my writing whenever I write.

      For those whole truly love serious writing, you can expect to find your place of solace right here. If you are looking for writing that has deep meaning, so deep that you never cease to learn from one piece after reading it ten times, this is your place. If you are looking for truth, this is where you will find it. If you are a thinking person or introvert, you know what to do. However, if you are looking for entertainment, then please move on. If you are looking for superficial pleasure, once again, move along.

      Every writing is a documentation of an experience in my life, and I hope they will also prove to be useful to the readers as well. So, this ends my introduction.

      I hope to have a great thread built up here in the near future, and I hope to receive lots of feedback from fellow readers and writers. I feel like I should say more, but I leave it like this for now. I may edit it in the future.

      Signature: FatChihuahua
      100%: Z1, Z2, ALttP, OoT, OoTMQ, MM. Playing: OoA
      Nick the Hero's Serious Writing Thread
      Narrative - The Influence of Majora's Mask on My Life
      2017 Zelda Veteran's Challenge!
      "To become the Hero of Time, you must play the Song of Time using the Ocarina of Time to open the Door of Time inside the Temple of Time so you can get the Sword of Time off the Pedestal of Time" - Me
    • Recently, I posted a narrative in the Classic Zelda about Majora's Mask. From the first two paragraphs:

      This is one of the most important narratives I have ever written in my expansive journey as a writer (and musician). And since it does obviously involve a Zelda game, I wanted to share it on this site, but I also wanted to share it because it is so important to me. I don't think a lot of Zelda-players (correct me if I am wrong) really understand the amount of gravity that is packed into Majora's Mask. But this is my chance to explain that fact, through my own experiences, and it's influence. Please note that this requires a one-track major mental focus, because that's how I wrote it. And, it is, after all, a collection of stories from half of my life. So please just take a few deep breaths and relax, or come back later when you are in your serious thinking mode. It is only to be received in this way.

      Majora's Mask is one of those somewhat hidden yet timeless pieces of work that have such a great affect on you that you can't help but think about it constantly. You think about it so much, it's almost a torment. Perhaps I just have too much time to think, but this game is so overloaded with so many lessons, so many messages and things to think about, it's nearly insane. And the strange thing is, they all connect. Whoever wrote out the stories must have really known what they were doing. Everything about it drew me in - the starry nights looking up at the sky in Termina Field, the conversations with those with regrets, the sorrowful music, the meanings of the masks, the people's faces, the seemingly unrelated yet related events, the emotions that practically oozed from every image and word and circumstance, the atmospheres of danger and fear and anger, the statements and actions that you still haven't figured out what they meant - everything drew me in. Maybe that's just me, maybe I just like it because I enjoy media that includes a study on the mind and psychological elements, I don't know. I've played this game literally about a dozen times, and I get something new out of it each time. That's how rich Majora's Mask is. I really think that it's a lost jewel that people don't give enough credit.

      Here is the link to the rest of the narrative:
      The Influence of Majora's Mask on My Life

      Update: I'm planning on posting an early poem of mine in the next week or so.

      Signature: FatChihuahua
      100%: Z1, Z2, ALttP, OoT, OoTMQ, MM. Playing: OoA
      Nick the Hero's Serious Writing Thread
      Narrative - The Influence of Majora's Mask on My Life
      2017 Zelda Veteran's Challenge!
      "To become the Hero of Time, you must play the Song of Time using the Ocarina of Time to open the Door of Time inside the Temple of Time so you can get the Sword of Time off the Pedestal of Time" - Me
    • This is one of my first poems that I wrote, during a time when I was thinking through a bunch of stuff from The Legend of Zelda games. Initially, this was going to be a descriptive poem about the forest as an element of sorts (like fire, water, etc). Then, it turned into something more meaningful, because of some truths that I associated the forest with (more specifically, the Hyrulean Forest). I'll have to say that my favorite type of landscape/setting on earth is the forest. The gentle caress of sunlight leaves, the secluded atmosphere, the quiet sanctuary, everything about them, I identify with. And that was one of my motivations for writing this. Ultimately, this is a description of a forest whose image is heavily influenced by the forests of Hyrule. It was composed in the summer of last year, for the writing contest (but I forgot to post it). Anyways, my writing, as you can tell, is very short and strict, which reflects my early simplistic style.

      The Forest
      By: Nikolaus Jones

      Not knowing what wait before me,
      I ventured so carefully within,
      Feeling the spirits of times past,
      Were now quietly calling me in.

      Like hidden a temple overgrown,
      The sanctuary lay out before me,
      Like a deep and yawning cave,
      That hungers because it is empty.

      What dangers lay ahead of me,
      Waiting for me past the light?
      Possibilities all were unknown,
      For soon coming on was night.

      The columns of this dark shelter,
      Were many a tree standing tall,
      Supporting the thick canopy,
      Indiscriminately covering all.

      But not all was yet black,
      And not all was yet night,
      Between gaps in the green ceiling,
      Filtered gentle rays of soft sunlight.

      Feelings were greatly secluded,
      Hidden and shadowed with fear,
      But somehow, ultimately within,
      Peace penetrated the atmosphere.

      Cool was the breeze that blew,
      And cruel the time that flowed,
      Kept safely were old days here,
      Cries for times past are echoed.

      What in lay within still hidden,
      Remains remaining concealed?
      Only inhabitants unknown knew,
      Or could reveal the unrevealed.

      And as I looked slowly upward,
      Seeing that blue permeating fog
      Again I felt those same spirits,
      Recite to me a strange monologue.

      Dense was the air around me;
      This forest was more than just wood.
      For it seemed to contain strange words,
      Language not to be understood.

      Suddenly I heard with my ears,
      And quick was my comprehending,
      Regret would not be in my lot,
      Shame would not be never-ending.

      Unfinished ambitions and dreams,
      Memories but half-completed,
      Resenting inactions done different,
      Feelings for loved ones depleted.

      These I would not conform with,
      Nor would I succumb to them,
      Not disregarding the life that came,
      Remembering the past as in requiem.

      As I strode out of that forest,
      Not venturing so carefully out.
      Hearing those spirits of times past,
      Rid me quickly of any doubt.

      Over-thought regrets won't comfort,
      And under-thought choices won't please,
      For in life when decisions are made,
      Be sure in your death they will ease.

      Signature: FatChihuahua
      100%: Z1, Z2, ALttP, OoT, OoTMQ, MM. Playing: OoA
      Nick the Hero's Serious Writing Thread
      Narrative - The Influence of Majora's Mask on My Life
      2017 Zelda Veteran's Challenge!
      "To become the Hero of Time, you must play the Song of Time using the Ocarina of Time to open the Door of Time inside the Temple of Time so you can get the Sword of Time off the Pedestal of Time" - Me
    • This is a short poem I wrote earlier this year, to sort of commemorate my growth throughout the past few years. But, nevertheless, as always, it is very personal. I did not specifically try to accomplish this, but I can say that it is very accurate to my experience alone. I wrote it in a few days, and it came out nearly all at once, with surprising fluidity. Later, because I began to see colors in the words (which often happens in my other writings), I decided to color some of the words. It seems the most oft-present color was red, though I only colored red the words that really stood out as red. Please find some solace and resonance for your own life in these words.

      A Thousand Deaths
      By: Nikolaus Jones
      Scheme: ACBC (with colors)

      A thousand deaths I've died,
      Each one within itself a part of or me.
      Elements of the past and present,
      Each one, somehow making me more free.
      The funerals are many,
      Each Nicholas carried out,
      One by one in grotesque procession,
      All born from an initial doubt.
      Every being or severed limb,
      Shows the sign of a battle or war.
      Against myself I have fought,
      And always dealing with more.
      Who I am, what I once was,
      Are constant questions before me,
      Definite commands with endless variables,
      Are the answers that come and flee.
      And with the deaths come
      The deaths of entities abroad,
      Of my mind's visions and objects,
      Even facts of life and friends are fraud.
      When will it stop and end?
      Are these cycles endless and natural?
      Or are my thousand selves and deaths,
      The ideal of the comic caricatural?
      The beauty of one is always
      Greater than the others,
      And the beautiful deaths
      Are always more so than the brothers.
      Elegies for them are always different,
      But somehow principally always the same,
      As each one passes the ear it is heard:
      First a common resistance, then burning flame.
      Mourning each time,
      Is the soul for its abode,
      Becoming new and human each time,
      Is not a wide or broad road.
      But time after time like silver,
      Is the spirit refined thrice forever.
      Burns defacing the current or former
      Are more strengthening than ever.
      An endless maze of locks and doors,
      Is the wall to my true, hidden voice.
      When will it be revealed to me,
      So that together we may weep and rejoice?

      Started on July 24, 2015 and finished on the 30th.

      Signature: FatChihuahua
      100%: Z1, Z2, ALttP, OoT, OoTMQ, MM. Playing: OoA
      Nick the Hero's Serious Writing Thread
      Narrative - The Influence of Majora's Mask on My Life
      2017 Zelda Veteran's Challenge!
      "To become the Hero of Time, you must play the Song of Time using the Ocarina of Time to open the Door of Time inside the Temple of Time so you can get the Sword of Time off the Pedestal of Time" - Me

      The post was edited 1 time, last by Nick the Hero ().

    • Hi Nick!

      I thought I would check out some of your writing. And I've come to see just how evident your opening post is. There's a very serious ton to your writing, whether it's in your prose or in your poetry. I think that comes from perhaps the deeply reflective nature of your writing, which all seem to be driven by very deep emotions, and as you said, you aren't writing for the purpose of entertainment, but instead to bring some sort of lesson or analysis about. I feel that you reflection on Majora's Mask was particularly analytic and did a very interesting job at effectively communicating your thoughts. It was certainly poignant, and I thing was delivering some form of catharsis. I mean, I know that your writing wasn't a plot driven story, but it was good to see at least some sort of resolution at the end, something that you could take away from the experience and look over with some sense of gain overall. It actually gives me some inspiration to write some things in first person, which I have done before, but perhaps this could be a kick to write something a little more ... authentic or convincing.

      As for your poetry, it seems to share some similar themes with your reflection. I gather you take a lot of inspiration from the concepts of time and regret and growth. Interesting themes, and it reminds me in some ways of a poet that I studied back in High School by the name of Kenneth Slessor. He dealt heavily with themes of mortality, mourning and time. There's a similar sort of melancholy I think.

      Also the search for truth is interesting. And I think most people can relate to that. Another thing that I noticed came into play with your writing, particularly your poetry was the use of rhetoric, which I think compliments the themes your portraying, in particular the aspect of truth.

      Nice read all in all c:
      I particularly liked some of the ideas presented in your reflection and its structure.
    • blackbird wrote:

      Hi Nick!

      I thought I would check out some of your writing. And I've come to see just how evident your opening post is. There's a very serious ton to your writing, whether it's in your prose or in your poetry. I think that comes from perhaps the deeply reflective nature of your writing, which all seem to be driven by very deep emotions, and as you said, you aren't writing for the purpose of entertainment, but instead to bring some sort of lesson or analysis about. I feel that you reflection on Majora's Mask was particularly analytic and did a very interesting job at effectively communicating your thoughts. It was certainly poignant, and I thing was delivering some form of catharsis. I mean, I know that your writing wasn't a plot driven story, but it was good to see at least some sort of resolution at the end, something that you could take away from the experience and look over with some sense of gain overall. It actually gives me some inspiration to write some things in first person, which I have done before, but perhaps this could be a kick to write something a little more ... authentic or convincing.

      As for your poetry, it seems to share some similar themes with your reflection. I gather you take a lot of inspiration from the concepts of time and regret and growth. Interesting themes, and it reminds me in some ways of a poet that I studied back in High School by the name of Kenneth Slessor. He dealt heavily with themes of mortality, mourning and time. There's a similar sort of melancholy I think.

      Also the search for truth is interesting. And I think most people can relate to that. Another thing that I noticed came into play with your writing, particularly your poetry was the use of rhetoric, which I think compliments the themes your portraying, in particular the aspect of truth.

      Nice read all in all c:
      I particularly liked some of the ideas presented in your reflection and its structure.

      Hey again, black. Thanks a lot for reading my work and for commenting on my writing thread. it's interesting how writers get into each other's work rather spontaneously, isn't it? Don't forget to check back, as I will be releasing more writing. It only get's better from here. And if you're not doing anything on any given day, try reading one of my writings a second time. I guarantee you'll get something additional out of it. Even to this day, I read some of my own old writings and learn something new. It's rather mysterious that way...

      Thanks for the analysis. I like how yours tells me what you saw and doesn't OD on the opinion part. That's more for the entertainment industry, if you ask me. So, thanks for that.

      Reflection is a word you seem to use a lot, and it definitely does fit. I spend a large portion of my day thinking about these things I write about, these themes of life. Lately I haven't turned out a lot, psychologically or on paper, because I'm trying to deal with a sense of purpose to a lot of my life. It becomes increasingly difficult, the more you recognize truth and accept it. It's like wading through a mud puddle that keeps getting thicker and thicker until you're practically in semisoft clay. It seems only to get more and more idiotic and meaningless, and also beautiful.

      I'm glad you recognized the themes of mortality in my writings. It shows your perceptiveness. As for emotion, it's sort of ironic the way that this comes out of me. I feel as though perhaps I don't even realize what I'm saying (in writing) sometimes, and it just comes out and strikes people as emotional. And although that is certainly not incorrect, I've always taken a very reserved and logical stance when actually conveying the emotion.

      Once again, pretty much all I have to say is a sort of positive nod. Thanks for viewing and giving feedback, I'm glad that it did effect you enough to comment and potentially inspire you, and I did enjoy reading your analysis and thoughts on my work. I'm not sure what kind of things you write about, but I do look forward to also seeing some more of your writings as well. I'm definitely liking your writing style so far, but we'll see.

      ​Don't forget to like my Majora's Mask narrative and also this thread, as it gives me more attention.

      Signature: FatChihuahua
      100%: Z1, Z2, ALttP, OoT, OoTMQ, MM. Playing: OoA
      Nick the Hero's Serious Writing Thread
      Narrative - The Influence of Majora's Mask on My Life
      2017 Zelda Veteran's Challenge!
      "To become the Hero of Time, you must play the Song of Time using the Ocarina of Time to open the Door of Time inside the Temple of Time so you can get the Sword of Time off the Pedestal of Time" - Me
    • This is really my only short story, although I do write other prose. I started on it late last year, in September, then waited for the longest time until I finished it in a few days during the month of April earlier this year. During both of these times, I had been going through some things that forced me to reexamine myself - how I wanted to live my life, what I was going to do about it, who would influence me, what principles I would and wouldn't adhere to, deciding and making some important choices about inventing and shaping my self. All of these culminated into a few specific conclusions that I still hold on to. I began, and continue, to draw more and more away from the influence of other, away from what other people think about me, and into my own person, fulfilling the things about myself that are completely my own. And in this, I took a passionate attitude towards anything and anyone that would oppose the idea of an individual. the true individual. Bourgeois. over-reaching government, schools, institutions and programs, organization, parents, basically any medium of group that put someone in a position of power over someone else. I hated everything about it. My mindset of nonconformity reach a zenith during this time, and it continues to do so.

      It is not that I wish for humankind to become have strife, or friction, or hatred, or isolation, or anything negative between each other. No, I wish for the exact opposite. Someday. I envision a world where all humans are living in harmony, because each one accepts the other, and doesn't bother him/herself with the problems or fortunes of others. Each person is totally an individual that thinks for himself entirely. Influences may be present, but every person is never pressured into a state of being, but entirely independent. And ultimately, I believe in the theories of Johannes Kepler, that the harmonies of the universe are inter-weaved into the harmonies of music, hence, the power of music and art will bring this about. And if all truly does come about, then mankind will be able to live in harmony.

      But I do not know if this is even possible. Humans will always seem to be power-hungry, hungry for control and money, always wanting to mess up someone else's life. Just like my dad, until I rid myself of him. Will humanity ever be able to live in harmony, gone from the confines of culture, of unnecessary organization, of class warfare, of governmental power slots? This world often touts individuality and freedom to "be yourself", but in reality, what most people mean is, "Be yourself as long as you're not too nonconformist, and as long as you don't make us feel uncomfortable." That's what they really mean. People are insecure about their own purposes in their life, so they wish that everyone else sink to their level, or to not mess up their mental bedding they've laid down for themselves. It's certainly a vicious cycle...

      But, enough about that. This short story I wrote is a stream-of-consciousness structure, in a way. In the story, I try to use symbolism in the characters. The brother and sister represent humans who are struggling to be individuals and only themselves. The parents represent slightly reluctant sub-dictators, and the distant characters are the extreme bourgeois and rulers of conformity. This story is quite painful to read, as I tried very hard to make it entirely truthful to the pain that would be going on in these people's minds.

      Purpose, Passion, and Peace
      By: Nikolaus Jones

      Dedicated to all the people in my life who have shared my passion for the individuality of personal dreams.

      Twenty-three-year-old Hannah walked gingerly over the finely manicured graveyard, her dark dress passing over the crowded gravestones like air. Though it was evening and getting more cloudy, she kept her face lowered, knowing all too well where she was going. No one else seemed to be bothering themselves with the dead today, even in this large graveyard.

      Hannah bore no flowers, no decorations, no plans, not even knowing exactly why she was coming here. She only knew she had to come. She didn't tell her family, knowing they would tell her not to. There was no need to search the vast expanse of lifeless resting places. She knew exactly where she wanted to go.

      Hannah eventually came face to face with the tall stone she had come to know all too well. It seemed almost to stare at her, like a stately face of macabre. Yet somehow, it was a peaceful stare. She dropped down slowly on her knees, not bothering to worry about the damp soil that might cling to her clothing.

      At first her mind was empty. Devoid of anything that might begin a chain reaction of sorrowful thoughts, devoid of that strange matter that fills a person's mind when they come to terms with someone. What could she think? What could she say that would speak to the constant nagging nothingness? Then, she remembered that familiar question, the one that had sent her here in the first place, the one that had provoked her all day.


      This question did not demand an answer along the usual lines as someone might seek for this image of graves and unrelenting sorrows that coupled with anger and oft-invoked hate. That answer was not of much interest to Hannah, and even if she obtained it from the most celestial of sources, peace and order would not come to the feeling that was caused by the real question she was asking. And who was she asking? Was she asking herself, depending on her own contrite-filled mind, and intellect? Was she asking the unknown, hoping an ego of infinite wisdom would descend and speak to her broken spirit?

      Hannah closed her eyes and remembered that day. That day when she had first asked that question, the one that had puzzled her ever since.

      It had been a Friday night. Hannah was sitting beside the head of that large hospital bed, the usual scene of approaching mortality, in that small, dim room. No one else was there the comfort her. It was just her and the occupant of the bed. The son of her mother. The son of her father. Her own brother.

      His eyes closed, he seemed to be at peace. Three years older than her, his shadow had been both protective and contentious throughout their lives. But their constant love and bond had never been broken, and rarely questioned. His spirit had always been free, and that free spirit had affected her. He always seemed to be free from the cares of the world, free from self-infliction of stress and fear. Other's opinions, their demands of him, their criticisms, they never caused him fault. Not surprisingly, that caused him to have adversity.

      There are many people in one's life who wish to exact their will upon others, to dictate their moves, aspirations, methods, tokens. They are never happy with their own egos, until everyone else sinks down to their comfort level of simplicity and ignorance. But never would those traits be expected to embody themselves in those you love - the ones from whom are required support. Your peers, your colleagues, your friends, they can be rid of. No, toxicity only occurs in one realm.

      Your family.

      Your flesh and blood, your fellow biology. Why does is seem that inheritance and logical relationships are never successful at grouping like-minded elements? Why is chance always cruel to itself?

      The word free seldom was in their vocabulary. It seemed to be non-existent. Traditions, heirlooms, heredity, lines, heritage, surnames, money, possessions - the usual suspects of psychological captivity. Love for the euphoria of merry-go-round history seemed disgustingly prevalent. Like a giant game spinner where all the colors were the same, or a dart board with the same points in every spot. Fear that if they move their mental furniture, that they will lose their life, and what they thought they were.

      His mind did not conform to that. He loved his own time, and spoke his own words. Life was a blank canvas, and his tools were thousands in number. He loved those around him for who they were, not what hung from their fingers and ears. He wanted to see like other eyes see, and know what was and what was not, or what could be. When he touched, he wrenched, or held with dear and tender love. Preforming graces for the superficial acceptance of others, love from those with sick want of something physical, pretentious mental battles over petty and worthless accomplishment - they did not satisfy him.

      Anger and laughter are strangely related; they both are reactions to conclusions that are sad about something meaningless and futile, or simply about truth and realism. And that was what he brought to the people around him - truth. And in their wallowing of their substances that are only wisps of vapor, or psychological figments, or total nothingness, their anger for anyone that would resist or expose them would also seep through. First laughter, then rage. Truth is cruel, it is no respecter, and it cuts everyone who fights it. Their disdain for anyone who might remind them of their deception of themselves and others was eminent.

      Perhaps his ways were reactions to the world around him. A passion flourishes under fire. Maybe he was one of the few nonconformists in a world where conformism meant social survival. Human nature often is inclined to resist. But those were not the hidden principles. He loved for love's sake, he did for the sake of what he did, learned for knowledge's sake, created for art's own sake, everything he did, he did because he found purpose it it's own being. A besmirching act for the purposelessness of those around him and their legerdemain. All that they accomplished was for some ulterior motive, a means for an end, whether evil or selfish.

      But immediate ancestors, parents, they are caught in the middle, surrounded by conflicting forces. Their love for their child, their hatred for conflicting methodologies, their love of their lives, their hatred for those smaller in stature, fear of the reactions of other forces, it tears them apart on all sides. But, in the end, humans are weak, unwilling to change or turn or consider, or even think apart from themselves. They are desperately weak. In the end they crumble under the weight of the things they love the most. Deep down, they would give up everyone and everything that they had for that something that they secretly relish above all elements and substances. A cycle of insidious treachery and betrayal.

      And Hannah's and her brother's parents were not exempt in that circle of exclusiveness. Oh, how they tried with all their hearts to gain a middle ground between the two forces of hate and love. As always, it started with laughter - a love for wishful dreams is kindled for a short time. Then, a humorous jab or two at an oft-expressed dream that seemed imaginary and vaporous in their world. A jest or laugh at declarations and aspirations spoken in front of social entities. Passed off as childish whims and stupidity, they secretly grew greater under the influence of their indifference and cynicism.

      Hannah was also caught in the middle. Her personal love for her brother and his dreams, and the wants of her parental slave-drivers. Her heart wanted to please everyone. Days when she could simply rest in the embrace of her brother's arms and rid her mind of her struggles and pains were the happiest. In all this, she often became flooded with conflicting desires and choices and interests, some affirmed, some passed as "hobbies". Caught between two realisms, two lifestyles, two smiles and beckonings. Absence of peace is very much present in this state.

      But, for a time, dreams are even accepted by overseers, except when the times of decision come. They invoke doubt, unbelief, and anger. Questions requesting perfect planning and answers of the origin of future material things, "sensible" direction, the usual jailers of pure dreams. Conformity is the easiest when they come. A resistance of stone was in her brother's veins. This kind causes hatred and endless regret and tearing of hearts. Scoffing, laughing, stereotyping, generalizing, pretentious apathy, fretting of social backlash, and finally, rage and unending regret. The kind that lasts for a lifetime, the kind that adheres to soul like wet sand, even if in small portions. This is the result of true consenting dissension. A shunning, an anger, a sorrow, the clenching of fists, the gritting of teeth as if being cut by a sword. When all decisions are made, when elements are full-grown, when matters come to light and fruition, this is when true natures are cast forth like weapons to injure others, whether intentional or not. Inner darknesses, deep layers of the self, they all awaken to finally flash their menacing smiles. The revelation of their birth will come. The dark side truly is shown to be evil.

      Hannah remembered that day, when the truisms of hearts were then revealed. The usual emotion of warring forces were present - desire to exact foreign wills, resistance on both sides, conflicting wishes, threats, summoning of hidden fears, memories invoked. Her brother came to the crossroads of paths. One path, well worn and followed, seemed safe and serene, no particular happiness, but no great sadness, either. The other was both painful and paradisal, and appeared in want of travelers. And he choose the latter. His dissension and estrangement from his family was like an amputation. Even slight feelings of evil gladness for his riddance could not comfort his former wardens. Every conclusion, every emotion, every decision and action involving him ultimately only carried sorrow and pain and regret. A sickening, never-ending, nagging regret that is incessantly pulled by powerful and long-lived multiple stances and views and feelings. Once again, those same feelings tore them on every side. In a word, it is pure, refined torment. Whether eminently manifest, or hidden as a subconscious, distant throbbing, it is only torment. A torment that affects all who come in its presence.

      And Hannah, though partially at peace for the love of her childhood, was tormented. She also became torn between many feelings. Her heart was burdened. It pleaded with her to follow the love she beheld. Yet, her fear and uncertainty gripped her like a sinewy arm of slavery and dungeons. It blinded and shook her, like a shivering that will only stop at death, it smothered what little power she had over her mental enemies. But the almost gruesome sight of the disownment of her brother, and the beauty of life that she now beheld that embraced his being - the pleading feelings pulled her, as they always do, almost into their midst, but with anguish never fully succeeding. Her enlightenment was never fully realized.

      And then, when pain had thought it was fully realized, that humans could no longer enter into its misunderstood realm, when the torment of itself seemed it could multiply no longer, a new catalyst entered their lives: death. It is a rather strange substance in itself. A state of nothing is itself a piece of something. In no dimension does there exist such a gentle, yet powerful substance. Distress and disease may be preludes to the fury of a final requiem, but death itself is incomparable in nature.

      States that took extreme and almost weird and sinister forms were now altered into a strange and enigmatic beings, the full state of convulsive surrealism. Feelings of the guardians, some still partially undecided and without full foundation, became even more capricious. Thrice rent between countless emotions and conclusions, they could no longer keep themselves in peace. Even the façades and pretended indifferences were ripped apart within their inner selves. Always wondering, always questioning, but never fully knowing. Wide ranges of action wishing to be done differently, wondering of results of inactions, even thoughts as evil as relief were sometimes not questioned. Hatred and love both fought for recognition.

      Hannah, even in her initial grief of her brother's leave, had never ceased a flow of secret contact with the one she loved the most. She knew his life had had happiness and fulfillment that could never match her own. But, when the hand of death came beckoning, she felt she had lost her only tie with freedom. No longer could she hold back her hesitance to see him. But she had been too late. The images of last farewells and imagined words she'd say were not to be hers. And then, the image of the small, dark room with the only person she felt that she had left in this cold, distorted world - it once again was in her memory. It is almost funny how the matters and elements of this world connect to each other, isn't it? Just when you believe that you've discovered a psychological frontier, a path unexplored or an experience or atmosphere inexperienced, the nearly laughable reality strikes you back down as if in disgust.

      And then, another memory came to her mind. Her last encounter with her brother. She had confidentially traveled to his home, in a small but lovely, peaceful town. Those visits were like refreshing gasps of air to her soul, as if her breath had been held her entire childhood and life, and now she released it. The last place they visited was their favorite park, the loveliest place she knew of. Cherry blossom trees, the songbirds, the walks, their favorite bench.

      "How are Father and Mother?" he had been asking as they sat on that bench.

      "The same, as always. They never speak of you." She had trailed away her eyes, not wanting to think of such things.

      "....And you?"

      "....Sometimes. They don't seem to care much for it, though...."

      "I've forgiven them. A long while ago I decided I wouldn't live with regret and hatred in my heart. I just pray they forgive themselves."

      That was enough to cause sorrow in her own heart. Tears are strange things. What causes them to flow; what is their true instigator? It is as if they attempt to wash away past sins and hurts. And, for one of the last few times, she felt the same comfort of the arms that had held her as a child. She felt that graces such as forgiveness could never flow into her heart as they could his. How could she ever have that same peace? It seemed unreachable, a dream of a dream, a wish for nothingness, and yet for something. Peace is strange. It demands that nothingness.

      "I hope that you will experience the same things I have, Hannah." That was last she ever heard him say as she left on the last day, when they departed. Hope. It too puzzled her mind, seeming only useless to her. She seemed to have nothing to look forward to in her life. Just one of the curses of the life she never truly wanted. What could she really hope for? The pursuits of materialism, of social senselessness, and "higher" education, as they called it; they filled her life. Forced upon her, framed as the only option, it was her lot, it seemed.

      She remembered the day he was laid to rest. Her parents had been present. They showed little emotion, as if they were starstruck, or horrified by a gruesome sight. At the last, when all had left, she had stayed for what seemed like an infinite amount of time. And then, her memories ended, as if they too had died and grown cold.

      And now, Hannah once again trained her eyes forward at the stone in front of her. Light rain gradually began to fall. She laid her forehead on the stone's surface, letting own rain of tears also fall. Sorrow. It too is a strange substance. Want, anger, humor, pleasure - they all seem to have the same purpose. A postponement of reality, only half-accepting physical objectivism. It too is a coping with that which will always take place. People realize risks, sign agreements, assess possibilities, and once realism is fully realized, what do they do? They rage and they weep, only want more and want less. Expectations are never filled. Never. What do they expect from a cruel world, from the cycles of life and death, of time and space?

      Finally, when all had passed her mind, when the limits of the soul's reflections were exhausted, when her mind could no longer hold back her own hatreds and naked truths, she bitterly let them present her with her own question once again.


      Why did chance choose him and not her? Why did peace always have it's hold on him? Why did he risk the distant psychological world of opinion and reputation for something so seemingly small?

      They also inflicted torment. Questions like those are also strange. Her heart and soul were both swayed once more, between desires. One to have knowledge, fullness of discernment to be present, the rest of a strange matter incomplete. And one having fear; fear of truth, fear that she would no longer have excuses of ignorance. Fear that she also would encounter her own wretched self, and suddenly choose to burn the refuse that made the eerie skeleton of her ill-gotten life. She began to feel what her brother had felt. Fear of possibilities, those things which exist in minds, but having no power, create a gripping hold on realms that it does not have dominion over.

      It was then that she, once she had reached the depths of truth, of height and depth, of nothingness and reality, of joy and sorrow, that she, for once, and only once in her lifetime, looked upon that stone and understood it's inscription. Her hatred for the figure had blinded her. Strange, isn't it? How anger and and sorrow cause one truth's revelation but blockage of another? Hannah trembled as she spoke to herself, the lines that would forever be a cornerstone of every aspect and element in her life that was left:

      Over-thought regrets will never comfort,
      And under-thought choices will never please,
      For in LIFE when decisions are made,
      Be sure in DEATH they will henceforth ease.


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    • Just some thoughts today I thought I'd share in my thread. If you (whoever you are) have any questions, then don't hesitate to shoot:

      Been thinking a lot about sound, audio, hearing, and more importantly, perception. I find myself all the time disgusted at perception. I want a perfect, logical perceptiveness that only hears and does not in any way use application or association. No psychological processing, no coloration, not perception, no nothing except simply and only logical data being processed. Music, of course, gets involved in this. It seems so hard even for me, of all people, to listen logically to music, and even then, I know that that my mind, subconsciously, is interpreting and processing emotionally. All my audio stuff I'm into also seems useless, because I know that nothing can compare to the instrument or voice going directly to the human ear. Same with speech. I'm sick, even for myself, of the processing of ideas. Words have limits in conveyance, and they are only as effective as their accuracy, and ultimately, how they are processed by the other human(s). And especially in today's age, there no hope of uncolored reception. The human experience is horribly limited. My of my enlightenment, I've realized this, but it seems like every day, I realized it more and more. I hate not being logical, not being able to process musical and speech data with total efficiency and no psychological effects. It's annoying as hell. How will I train my mind to receive pure logic, pure efficiency, pure data in a lossless format? Why do the electrical impulses of the mind have to go through so much freaking sludge before they get to the heart?! It's sickening! Absolutely sickening.

      Here's one stride I think I will make as a composer towards this delima - I will NOT allow any music of mine to be recorded. At least not by me. It is, truly, an insult to what music truly is - sounds coming from creator to the listener. From nature herself to the receiver. And to add a dirty middleman such as audio and digital media is a slap in the face as far as I'm concerned. It's funny how these little pushes into greater realization in different matters come about, but when they happen, I make sure to take advantage of them. And eyes, oh don't get me started. The perceptions and perspective and influence of the eyes are even more numerous and even more sickening. It affects my ears so much so that sometimes I wish I could gouge my own eyes out so as to force myself not to see anything. I hate this world, these people, this condition, this human experience. I think that heaven is described as so glorious because it is truly a purely logical experience. I'll be so glad once I rid myself of this world. If I have trouble with these problems such as processing and perspective and perception, even myself, when it comes to my own music, how will that play out once the listener hears it? Is my music even worth it? Is it worth it if there is no one worthy enough to listen to it, if there is no one there to truly receive without the influence of their own mind? I feel as though each word I type here even is a fraud, that true conveyance cannot come about without the application of paper and a writing instrument to convey my feelings, with all its distorted letters and font styles, with custom penmanship and punctuation. How can I ever be truthful to myself in all these things?!

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    • Alright, so up until now my poetry has been more supplementary than "meaty". But this poem is one of my first major serious poem (or, what I consider to be major). I consider to be a milestone in my life, as it ties in with my narrative, "The Influence of Majora Mask on My Life". I put more time and effort in this work than I usually do for my poetry, and the last verse was written months later (see bottom footnotes). I went through much mental suffering composing this piece, so I hope that it is accurately conveyed, and is appreciated by the reader:

      My Lost Memories
      By: Nikolaus Jones
      Scheme: ADBDCD
      Nothingness, in total comfort and then,
      In the distance, the far reaches of my mind
      Of my imagination, I look. And I gather
      A faint glimpse, one of a foreign kind.
      One which possesses conflicting traits.
      Of idyll and fear, of peace and a suffering mind.
      But what is here, and what is there,
      What is at my touch and what is not?
      Almost an emptiness that causes anguish,
      But no, not at all, and my mind is but a spot,
      A spot of field, with soft blooms as a bed,
      It's setting, facilitation of some scene is my only lot.
      Then, once again taking away peace and comfort,
      Are sounds that give, and also take minds away,
      And dread once again is their effect on me,
      As I taste happiness, but consume disarray.
      Why is this my vision of hearing, why is this here?
      Something I never had, or had to ever listen to anyway.
      The cries of glee, of play that is without any care,
      Of children, those without burdens in thought,
      The mind is free from psychological borders,
      Word of gladness, of idleness, where color is taught.
      Screams of surprise, and laughs without trouble,
      Word without condition or purpose, or feeling distraught.
      But before I can look away in disgust, and reject,
      It appears to me without character or intricacy,
      And my life being that of complex form,
      I stand in torment at the sight of its simplicity,
      The force of it nothing but yet now everything,
      Being it the very nature of stark, unattained felicity.
      Courage in a father and grace in a mother,
      Care in a grandmother and advice from a grandfather,
      Two friends in marriage that adore each other
      Love from someone who bothered to bother,
      The touch of the caring and comfort of the dearest,
      A kiss to console and hush, encouragement of an author.
      Then I see another, one sight and a dream after itself
      Flashing in my face with the constant nature of total
      Forgetfulness in the obscurity of non-existence and
      Darkness of reality that is cheated, and its consequences
      Stolen for other use in my being, each one tormenting
      Me without fail, unrelenting and bringing me to my knees.
      Finally, each one whisks away with the air of its arrival,
      And the last images of my heart number only one,
      Of love untinged by a litany of trivial regrets and choices,
      Or petty sins and frictions that makes familiarity to shun.
      Fierce passion conveyed by the gentle hands,
      Falling under scales or darkness of power in none.
      And even burdens aloft worthy of some sorrowful song,
      Wrongdoings, worthless romance by one's own making,
      Never stand in the sight of its honesty and truth,
      So that to express is without shame or need of faking,
      Even its origins being unfound or unfounded with chance,
      Only mysterious in that there is giving and no taking.
      Then just for a moment, a chance of vision and mind,
      I caught hold of an object to touch, to hold and grasp
      Nearer and nearer to realism than ever I had known,
      Never was I so inclined, my hand to now unclasp,
      A delicate flower in a fragile vase of swirling nothingness,
      Almost a deception gone that makes one to gasp.
      Images and memories, an idea to behold,
      Ones of grace, almost with romanticized glitter,
      Beauty in one must make ugliness in another,
      So should present absence make the opposite bitter?
      And when existence itself is but a dream of the mind,
      What is there left to make one a submitter?
      Engravings on the heart, embraces of the arms,
      Elegance in the filling of the voided soul,
      Warmth of presences numerous with common joy,
      Idealism not far from fulfilling its uncommon role,
      Humanity not meaning to destroy itself or another,
      Tears and blood, companions not taking their toll.
      But, more. More it is, than just vision or sight,
      More than hearing and having a jealous taste,
      It is truly a substance of no descriptive words,
      The emotion and circumstances gone to waste,
      The feeling of something that maybe is really nothing.
      Knowing knowledge that we have never really faced.
      And for that last moment before it vanished away,
      I felt a comfort that I had never before felt without flaw
      Lasting with my spirit for many moments thereafter,
      One of safety and closeness, totally perpetual in its draw,
      Of true love and of bonded spirits and graces not fleeting,
      Not encumbered by obedience of whims and social law.
      But even as I captured that embrace of love around me,
      Of the arms of truth that would rarely my spirit caress,
      As soon as it flashed it tore away from the unforeseen,
      Reflections in a devious, deceptive water in acts of duress,
      Sand sifted and poured out in unemotion before your feet,
      Nothing existing to have, and something to not possess.
      When those ailments, the broken shards of mirroring glass,
      Cause me to crumble, dropping hope and onto my knees,
      Feeling a strange endless sorrow on the edge of my lips,
      Thinking of the moments past paid out like government fees,
      Wasted for want and want of the nine yards, ten, eleven
      And the chronic 'never' of this or that for the little q's and p's.
      But no, they are lost. Gone. A fantasy uncreated,
      In all the worthless glory with facades to destroy,
      They keep me only sane and sedated,
      A substance cruel, merciless in its job to toy
      With me, constantly without fault to keep me baited,
      Torment and fusion of stupidities with which to annoy.
      In the final requiem of my mind, are voices mourning of nothing,
      Seething anger at the touches, and the one never manifest,
      Even the past unchanged, the catalyst, is not yet touched by hate,
      Cringing in passive disgust at this life and its worthless funfest,
      But mocking my inexistence, the thousand selves buried in time,
      Strings of a harp plucked and cut one by one, and slashing at all the rest.
      But finally ending, what? What is nothing, or its effect?
      Is the state of everything the endless multiverses of random histories?
      Creation of torment is the sin of if's and when's, perhaps even never,
      But whose right is it to decide what could be even just mental allegories?
      Even my own mind and whims cannot create the idealist dream,
      The supposed perfection that comes by way of my lost memories.

      Started June 9, 2015. Mostly finished by the end of June. And, of course, small tweaks in grammar, structure, and spelling throughout months Jun-Aug. 19th verse created August 7.

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    • Some thoughts I wrote this morning, about knowledge of aesthetics

      Perhaps one of the largest issues I'm having trouble with is the digestion of philosophy, aesthetics, and art, and also the analysis of them. Sometimes it seems like just a connected web, or a merry-go-round of interweaving facts and truths about nature and mathematics. And really, it seems to come down to perception. How astute is your understanding, from how many angles can you look at things? What are the intentions and personal influences of the creators of art? It all seems to be a huge mess of understanding and knowledge. Knowledge that I wonder if it only comes from one's experiences in life, and not from any lecture, book, teaching, or writing. And anther question in my mind that always seems to come up is, "Who's right?" Endless opinions, endless thoughts, endless perspectives and meanings, endless guesses about the minds of philosophers and artists, of statesman and logicians. History repeats itself, so are their creations and the pieces of the mind ll ultimately the same, or a progression that always adds onto itself? For one, I know that I am one-up on everyone else in this world. While it is important to study the past, the enamor oneself in the philosophies and works of art that question the nature of our existence, what is it if one cannot only apply this one's own life, but affect the lives of others by once again repeating history and expressing nature in yet another method, just as the generations of people before us? My goal is not to be above other intellectuals, or the "one-up" itself, but this is simply a by-product that gives me some reassurance about myself that I lose whenever I start diving into the world of intellectual analysis.

      I'll be posting some more writing (not journaling) very soon.

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      "To become the Hero of Time, you must play the Song of Time using the Ocarina of Time to open the Door of Time inside the Temple of Time so you can get the Sword of Time off the Pedestal of Time" - Me
    • My entry for the 2015 Writing Contest.

      A Boy Meets His Mind
      By: Nikolaus Jones

      I sit--

      No, I only sit. I sit, I've sat, and that's all I seem to do. What do I want?

      The endless field. The only one that I could go to and call a solace, or heaven, however cliché that may be. Away from idiots and people, away from discord. The only place that made me feel comforted, and feel that I could love and also have love.

      Almost endless. That’s what I'd call it. Only hills and mountains in the distance. But one landmark stood out. The spreading tree, in the very center on the field. Large and tall, shady, and perfectly green. I felt like Adam in the garden. It was my only true parent, my only true friend. It stood against the test of time, never faltered in any weather or trial. Funny how complex humans are so prone to fail, and simple trees are not.

      But the day was like any other day, except for now; things had begun to come to a head.

      What am I doing here...? What is the reason I'm even sitting here. I've always come here, but today, it feels as though even my personal place of peace is not safe from torment.... ...Why? Why do I feel-- No, it is not a feeling, it is now a state in itself. It is becoming a part of my existence. And that is becoming a truth.

      I shook my head. Who am I to judge why I am, anyway. I'm just a kid. And so it was for me.

      About this time, I heard footsteps crunching the stiff grass, and before I could turn around, an old man came up on my left, looking out towards the field in the direction I also had been. He wore an older style long coat, with a scarf around his neck, and an old top hat atop his head.

      "Bah! Why didn't he tell me to leave my winter garments! So much trouble..." He quickly began to take off his scarf and large outer garments, revealing his 19th century formal clothing. I was about to speak in perplexity when he turned to me, as if looking at a new store product. "Attempting to discern the cryptic question of the meaning of this life, are you, mate?"

      I said nothing, and he looked out at the scenery again, nodding his head. I did the same (minus the nodding), not know what to do or say.

      "Yes," he began, still keeping his gaze fixed, "I too avoided such a question. A stubborn man I was, a miser, a hoarder, a penny pincher, ha! even a thief, if one desired to say so! Yes, yes... Greedy, unliked, unloving, unforgiving, coveting, resentful, and most of all, uncharitable. Profitable, but unwilling to share or give to my fellow countrymen. Hm-hm... Yes, but then, I saw what I was doing to myself, to others, to the poor. I saw that I was a wretched man, a man who would simply be forgotten in the end. People wouldn't remember me simply because my possessions were great, or for the success of my business! No! I saw that my life would end in a lonely old grave, with no one to grieve for me or remember me. Oh, terrible it was. It was certainly a terrible awakening."

      "So what did you do?" I asked him quietly.

      "What did I do? Ha! What do you think, my lad? I lept for joy and shared my riches with all who passed by my shadow! That Christmas was a jolly one, my boy." He nodded his head in an assuring manner. "I could not stop giving. What a joyful feeling... To give and share with others is truly the greatest feeling you will ever have, lad."

      "Is this your meaning? Is this what the purpose of your existence is?"

      He turned to me. "Of course! For what else is there, if you cannot give to others? What is it worth?"

      "So you gave because you saw that people wouldn't remember you? And you gave because there's simply nothing else? I don't understand..."

      "Oh, child, someday you will understand the meaning of what I say." He turned back to the field.

      "But please, tell me, sir," I said more earnestly. "Why do you think that giving to other people out of your possessions is the purpose of life? Isn't it the exchange of material that caused the need for charity in the first place?"

      "Well, yes, but, this is why we do it. To balance the scales which are in favor of the more financially capable. No, no, that isn't right. No, we must give because in the end, we have no other reason to gain the possession we have, and..." The old man shook his head. "Why must you argue, lad? Don't you know that it is exemplary for young boys to listen to their elders and not question them? Why then do you besiege me with so much questioning--"

      I closed my eyes and put my forehead in my hands. "Stop! Stop it, now! Get away from me!" I looked up to scream more at him, but... He was gone. Where did he go...?

      "You shouldn't be so hard on the old gent, you know." I heard a voice on my right. I looked, and saw a man in his 30's, in a 1930's standard suit and slacks. He had his hands in his pockets nonchalantly, his wavy brown hair combed to one side. He stood a few yards away, and looked out beyond the field, as the old man had.

      "What do you mean?" I asked.

      "Well, when folks get set in their ways, you just can't do anythin' about it, you know?"

      "I guess..."

      "Yep, I used to complain about my life, too. I thought it was rotten, and that everyone didn't need me, and the world would be better off without me. I nearly even killed myself. But then I saw that I was wrong. I saw that I really did have a wonderful life. I had a beautiful wife, great kids, and most importantly, I had friends I could count on. I think that's that greatest thing a man can get in his life. As long as he has friends, he's truly a rich man. It really is a wonderful life."

      "So you have a wonderful life because you believe that it's the greatest achievement?"

      He turned to me and shrugged his shoulders. "Well, yeah. Sure. That's all a man can really hope for in this big wide world. You can travel and go a thousand places, but your life right where you are is bound to be the best."

      "I wonder, what is it you are striving for?

      "What every man is. Purpose in his life, a sense of belongin'. Just like you are, kid."

      "How will you know that where you are is where you belong?"

      "Well, I don't rightly know... I reckon if a man feels at home there I guess, and he has friends, then he belongs there."

      "I wonder.... Those people who are your friends - do they also think of you as a friend?" I turned to the field briefly, thinking over my own question, then back to him but-- ....He was gone.... What the heck is going on here?

      What are these images appearing to me? Images from my past, from the things I’ve seen and read. They've all tried to answer the tormenting question I've had my entire short life, but never had enough courage to answer, or even ask. Why now? Why this place and time? Why the onslaught suppressing my mind with truths I wish to consider another time?

      And suddenly as I had finished my thoughts, I looked up, and coming up the slight rise of elevation was an older teenager. He wore strange, Dark Ages kind of clothing. A lot sashes and shirts on his upper body. Slightly ragged, and also seemed to be handspun. He had slightly tight leggings, and walked with a bit of sense of being where he was for an obvious purpose. His hair was dark and wavy.

      I watched him for a while, until he stood only a few yards in front me. "Mind if I join you a while, lad?" He spoke in the same accent as the old man. I nodded my head slowly and shrugged. He came over and stood next to me, leaning against the tree.

      "Ah, quite a lot... This place does not cease to remind me of so much from my life. Especially the bright and shining sun... It behooves me to think upon my love, my sun....

      "Who was your love? The one you call your sun?" I asked.

      "She was... I cannot say. I cannot say what I have already expressed. It falls before me like a musket ball having lost its power. We were madly in love. There is nothing more that can be said. We declared to each other our love until death parted our ways. I think that this is of the highest regard in a man's life, that he can find the one he loves, the one he loves more than any other in any land. This, I believe, is truly a good end - any way that he may gain his truest love."

      "But what happens then? What will you accomplish by finding the one you love dearly? What will you do?"

      "I do not understand. What accomplishment does one ever gain by this than finding pleasure?"

      "Then is that what you want to find? Pleasure?"

      "There is nothing I want to find more than my truest love."

      I looked out towards the field, and shook my head slightly. What the hell is this? What are these people looking for in their existence? What do they want to accomplish in the end?

      I looked up at the young man again, but he was nowhere to be found. I felt like he had wanted to tell me something important, but now, I felt nothing at all. Before I could think anything else, I saw a little girl coming up on my left, about 7 or 8 years old. She had a simple, European-style girl's dress. A nice blue color, in fact. She looked quite at home in my field of solace. For the first time, I smiled. She skipped along and then ran the rest of the way when she saw me looking towards her direction. And what could this one have to say to me?

      "Would you allow me to sit with you?" She said, stopping just short of me. Her feet had no shoes, they were bare.

      I paused. "Of course," I replied, a little surprised. She readily sat down and leaned against the tree next to me.

      Neither of us said anything. I did not think it strange, though. But, I felt a sense of age, being young myself, but older than this girl.

      "...Where do you live?" she asked, turning to me from facing towards the field's expanse.

      "Not far from this place," I replied, smiling. She smiled back, and we turned to the field again.

      "It must be lovely to live there. This field reminds me of my home very much."

      "Where is your home?"

      "In Switzerland. I live with my grandfather there. For a while, I lived with my aunt, but she was quite cruel to me, and then I got to live with my grandfather for good."

      "Sometimes, I wonder what a home really is..."

      "Huh? What do you mean?" She looked at me, but I did not return her gaze.

      "I wonder what makes a home just that. What if home was something we never thought it was? What if it was really something that we would never consider it to be?"

      "Such as what?"

      Such as this place. I don't eat here, or sleep here, or go to school here, but this is where I am at any other time. Perhaps this is my true home."

      "I hope you find your home. I know that my home is with my grandfather, in the mountains..."

      I sighed at the simple mind of this girl, wishing I could be just as sure of the many parts of my life as she was about her home. I didn't bother looking down at her, knowing she'd be gone sooner or later. When I did eventually steal a glance, I was confirmed in my assumption.

      With stark curiosity, I wondered when this charade would end. I wondered what this was supposed to mean, what this was supposed to accomplish, and who the culprit behind it was. Was this engineered by my own mind, my subconscious? To tell would be impossible.

      So what? So what if someone achieve these highest goods, a lover, a home, a feeling of charity, or friends, or a life that is considered wonderful? Huh? What then? What occurs afterwards? Will no one tell me? I stood up in rage, glaring at this field I called my own. I clenched my fists in rage.

      "What do you want, yeah?!" I screamed.

      "Your mind seems quite stressed."

      I turned around, looking past the tree. An old man, with an ancient-looking tunic and cloak, both white. He had balding hair and a full beard. "What?" I said. "Another person wanting to tell me what the highest regard is, now isn't it?!

      "Calm yourself, child. Please, sit."

      He walked towards me, and I sat down against the tree again. He also sat diagonally from me, gathering his garments towards himself as he did. He faced somewhat to me, but also the field.

      "I also have a place of contemplation such as this... I can tell you are tormented with the most important question a human can ask."

      "And let me guess, you're going to try and answer it for me, right?"

      He shrugged slightly. "Perhaps. But let me ask you this, child. What did each of the individuals you already met have in common with their pursuits?"

      "But that's not the point of my questions! They involved discovering the meaning of our existence, the purpose of it, not the pursuits of our lives!"

      "What else is there but to pursue some end? Isn't that what your metal of a question is refined to?"

      I thought for a moment. "Perhaps. I would assume so," I said quietly.

      He also lowered his voice. "So let me ask again, what did their pursuits have in common?"

      "I guess they were all trying to find some sort of happiness in their life."

      "Precisely. Let me introduce that we all try to find good. But what is the good we are looking for? Not all ends are ultimate ends, whereas the supreme good is something final. So if there is some one thing that is alone ultimate, this is what we are looking for; just by itself makes life worth choosing, and lacking in nothing. And in the end, my child what is this supreme good? It is happiness. And the most final end, the ultimate end, is the most right plan for achieving that happiness."

      I stopped, but then stood up and stomped a few steps away from the tree, my back to him and mad with rage. "Do you realize how little that does for me? Do you realize that all you say is a swirl of labels that you paste upon everything I have thought about? What use is this to me? Happiness, goodness, living well, what of it all? What is it all to me? It is nothing! Yet you sit there and expect me to simply accept that the point of this life is a pointless state of ultimate euphoria!" I whirled around, but he was gone. Should have known...

      I sat down at the tree again, and gathered my knees to my face, weeping. Why did I feel the need to torture myself so? But I sensed I would experience even more torture if I did not approach this with all my being. Perhaps that was the reason for this occurrence.

      Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the point of existence only held true in the fact that existence was true, the fact that we existed. And since we only experience, our highest end and ultimatum was to experience happiness, the greatest and most enjoyable state of experience. I did not know. But this was all I had - the idea of us existing only having a point in itself, and nothing beyond it. To me, whether we went to the highest heaven or the lowest hell, it didn't matter. Someday, however, my answer would come.

      The End

      1. List of Public Domain appearances (in order): Scrooge from A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens; George Bailey from the movie It’s a Wonderful Life; Romeo from the Shakespeare tragedy; Heidi from the Johanna Spyri novel by the namesake; Aristotle the philosopher (some of the things he said were directly from his writings).
      2. In Romeo’s speech, I tried to keep it a simple yet formal format, because it’s very difficult to replicate Shakespeare’s style of writing, and even if I did, it would be exceedingly over the top and unnecessary. So, in general it was kept to a minimum.
      3. If you are in doubt that Heidi speaks the way I wrote her dialogue, go read the book.
      4. In closing, I want to say that my general idea was to put together a few of the incidents in literature/media where popular stories/characters attempt to put answers to the question the main character presents in the story. In general, they are based upon my own internal experiences. The conclusion dialogue between Aristotle and the boy were also based upon my own writings, and Aristotle’s. In general, I put a lot of thought and work into this, but I feel as though it’s not as hard hitting or gripping as I’d like it to be. Perhaps it’s the because of list-type format or the limited words available, I don’t know.

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    • A random song I wrote that doesn't have a name yet. I'll probably compose the music for it later.

      Oh why am I here,
      Why is my life not alone?
      The stars are coming down
      to drench me to the bone

      Why is my life getting the best,
      The best of me even now,
      It's not mine, it'll never be mine
      What it is is just your show.

      Take your hands off me, do.
      Your tongue must stop,
      Don't touch me anymore,
      In season you'll reap that crop.

      Do your flags boast freedom,
      Do your heart burst joy?
      What is it you want from me,
      Why are we dealing with a toy,
      Why are we being the toy?

      Your training made you do it,
      Your mom made you do it,
      Your friends made you do it,
      You were just doing your job.

      Head wrapped over heels,
      All because you didn't get feels,
      And the times when you didn't
      Just made you reject the deals.

      Never, never, never.
      Always saying to never...

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    • Some writings in the past several months, since I haven't posted in a long time....

      By: Nikolaus Jones
      A Narrative

      1. Yes. I see your breaking heart as if it were breaking bread in a Satanist ceremony, I see the shattered glass of decorated lashes, the tearing flesh in your soul. And I saw your tears, even after they fell to the earth, when no one noticed as they broke against the soil. I saw the dreams in your spirit become crushed by powers not your own, and by things you couldn't see, even as you cried in pain, trying to take a breath as you were crushed under the anguish... You didn't deserve this. You were better than this. Those who harmed you, those who molested you, they should've reaped death as their consequence, they were so evil. I can see flowers inside you, the pillars of fragrant cedar, as they burn into a shrivled mess of ashes. You should've never had to have dealt with this pain. I feel every bit of human suffering that burns through your eyes. Everyone has shunned you, haven't they? They didn't understand you, they didn't care to understand either, not a thought more than they felt like they could. They never wanted to. I saw this, this shame that they caused you, even as the world around your world crumbled into shards. Even as this happened, and they knew it, they continued, as if they were ignorant, but they weren't ignorant. They knew full well, and yet were completely malicious. I saw the disorder that took over your mind. Even when no one noticed as an inky darkness evenly spread over your untainted soul. Even when no one cared that you slowly spiraled into a drainage, as sewage drains into a system of endless pipes.

      2. But you know what? Because I'm a self-righteous piece of shit, I DON'T GIVE A FLYING CRAP ABOUT YOU OR YOUR SADNESS! YOU'RE JUST WORTHLESS, NOT WORTH THE AIR YOU BREATH OR THE GROUND YOU WALK UPON, YOU MAGGOT!!! EVERYTHING YOU TOUCH SLOWLY ROTS AWAY IN DISGUST AT YOUR VERY EXISTANCE, YOU SON OF THE SCUM OF THE MUD OF THE LOWEST PART OF THE EARTH!!! Heaven and hell, the gods above, and demons below likewise turn away in contempt at the very sight of you. Why you exist, why you were born, is a mystery to every living creature, natural and supernatural. GET AWAY FROM ME, AND EVERYONE I KNOW, FOR MY HATRED FOR YOUR PRESENCE IS ALMOST UNBEARABLE TO MY OWN SELF. EVEN MY OWN THOUGHTS OF YOU DISGUST ME TO MY BITTER CORE. YOU DON'T EVEN DESERVE HEAVEN OR EVEN HELL, YOU DESERVE TO WANDER THE EARTH FOR GENERATIONS, IN A GAP BETWEEN THE UNKNOWN DIMENSIONS!! May all the blood in your veins slowly drain from your worthless body as you stare into an abyss that you wish you were inside. THIS IS YOUR DESERVED FATE, YOUR PERFECT LOT!!!

      3. You wish every day for a lack of existance, you wish that you never knew conscienceness, never were born or concieved as a thought. But you will never get your wish. You will forever torment in this fact.

      4. I love you. Heh.

      begun 5-27-16, ended 5-28-16
      Damnation of Time
      By: Nikolaus Jones
      April 14-20, 2016

      When I think, I see what is lovely, but no?
      And whence does one stop, so to see what is there?
      So to see, would be futile, for how can I?
      Purpose is not even present, not here or anywhere.

      How must I pour it out? How to do what isn't?
      A formed reality seems to have run away.
      An absence of existance isn't something to ponder,
      So then what can I do, and what can I say?

      All this nothingness! All this unabashed decay!
      Have all these ideas of nothing become my place?
      To hide what continues in a "waste", only a taste?
      I torture, even in my hate, that it isn't for me in my case.

      But the filth of rules, and beauty, the love of it,
      How long may one go in sheer defeat?
      And the struggle, all against one another,
      With the dead of them lining the street.

      My cherished brother, your hands are so tightly tied,
      And my dearest sister, you love and care is disgraced by the undignified.
      From whence have they spoken in utter denial?
      And to what child of sorrow have they lied?

      But now the thought of death, as small as seed,
      And fly, in one's face, so as to do the deed!
      The sharp edge, noose, bullet, blood of faceless skulls,
      Oh the torture, the sweat, the tears collected in bowls.

      Indeed, my loves, please, no longer weep,
      Though the soiled sins are your everyday dish,
      Soon shall come a saving, revenge of the sun and moon.
      Soon shall there be peace, many a granted wish.

      And when it comes, truly you will fall away,
      You'll have no reason to keep the faith, or to stay.
      Breaths that once were, will sadly be no more,
      The you once bestowed will slowly become a chore.

      In the end, the last straw will be ripped and pulled.
      Of the love we once felt I'll no longer be told.
      Your heart will overtake, you'll think of nothing,
      The lonesome will be left, nothing left to hold.

      My Father, be with them, if not for them, then for me.
      I care not what they might say or do, dare I say hurt,
      For love in me, without condition, it should be,
      But a sin, from others, is it, to desire comfort?

      In minor, have I felt pain, the son of pain.
      Principles never failing or leaving, like a stain.
      The filth of them, the persons of the past
      Will once now embody those who seem to hold fast.

      Of time and place, how I cannot concieve,
      Even the hated cycles, I will once again receive.
      The very elect, those I never thought to retreat from me,
      Will forever follow suit, something I never thought to believe.

      Seconds after waste, seconds wasting away!
      Please, death must come quickly, after,
      Before this ungodly rue, it's not worth it anyway...
      The minutes will dance, and the hours will fall.

      After so long, what shall distiguish me from others?
      And endless love, to be consistent, or perhaps no?
      Grasping fights of freedom, or be there for another?
      What, and what, I say! Is it so? Is it so?!

      The rains of sorrow shall drench bird of solace,
      The same, the brook of time and days, sons of perdition.
      You love slowly shall turn to deepest affection,
      And childish play, that becomes fierce ambition.

      What shall I do? What is this, anything?
      Fighting laws about fights, such a beautiful crime...
      Founts of music, once again the cycles have begun -
      This is the mystery of God, the damnation of time.

      Notes: 16 verses.
      begun 3-21-16

      Me, or mine? Is it really?
      Parts unknown, were to me, but not?
      Perhaps later, or never,
      Something I never did, but also never got.

      Something was taken,
      So they had to take from me.
      Something was stolen,
      And the only thing to do was to be.

      The whiteness of its purity was stunning,
      Truly a sight as rare as a precious stone,
      A canvas on which anything at all could be,
      Such things that are endless in color and tone.

      Falling leaves, and the softness of the air,
      A presence that touches not even a hair,
      Absense of something, yet totally complete,
      Emptiness, yet always characters that meet.

      5-27-16 update: decided to end. Everything was written 3-21-16. Nothing else to add.
      Out the Window
      Nikolaus Jones
      April 20, 2016

      The sight out there, the true,
      And the one around me; mostly a rue.
      The sight out there, why must I look?
      The one in here, something from an old book.
      Tossed around, how I see! A look out!
      I turned back, to see my latest bout.
      And see, for such size, the sun and rains,
      Turn back, see all of the black chains.
      Uncertainty, observing beyond, and far,
      But look back once more, how solid they are!
      Down at the notebooks, chronicling the day,
      And then look up, and see the stars.
      From inside, I see love, and fear,
      To outside, though, nothing is seen or very near.
      The moon will soon fall, and I'll be forced to go,
      What awaits me is not clear yet, but soon I'll know.
      This is what occurs from both sides of the window.

      Late notes: I felt as though having a continuous verse would help me with the freedom to explore various rhyme schemes whenever I saw fit.

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    • A very long piece I wrote last year. One of the worst-written yet most honest pieces of mine.

      Art of my Life
      Nikolaus Jones

      Notes: Originally written on paper. Started composition 9-27-15, shortly after I moved from dad's. Second to last verse written sometime in November 2015 I think. Ending verse added March 29, 2015. Started copying to text doc Dec 29, 2015, done copying March 29, 2015.

      The pictures on the walls always telling stories
      But mine's not there or any of its glory.
      Those people don't care for what doesn't tickle their ears
      Or whateverit is that doesn't calm her fears.
      Truth or reality, what is it now?
      Those images ablaze don't care for it how.
      What is it and what is it not?
      What is your fate, and what is my lot!?
      Always reverse is the nature
      The smake screens never useful
      Clowns not, trees blowing noses
      And sailors fighting the noose
      But off with you, dictator!
      I'm tired of your teddy bears and toying.
      The games you play talk down to your own self
      And the fighting of egos is so annoying.
      Fires in the trees, children hidden in photos,
      The moon everywhere out of sky
      Who did this, the imposter of the day?
      Who set the date when we were to die?
      You friends of old, friends always not,
      You were just like everyone else, more so.
      Off with you faces and speeches that always seem to rot
      And jokers with filth up to their ears to blow:
      Mental salt shakers worthless to show.
      Miles of people, their works of influence
      Bombarding the matter into which it is also always woven.
      What is best, worst, true, false, never, or moot?
      So much to gather around, not with the millions of Beethoven.
      And just when I'd never gain another,
      One came to me closer than their brothers,
      Taking the time to end themselves
      Or once again be stored on the shelves.
      That place, oh the place of fields and flower,
      The place of neutral prism showers,
      Of beauty and of pain
      Which is always difficult to obtain.
      The key always seems lost like in a bad dream,
      To unlock its entrance and time streams.
      It's always been hard to go anywhere in there
      For fear of realism that I'd discover and prepare.
      But once again, they don't care;
      I tried to buy them sample from one of it shops
      And they threw it in my face to dare,
      "Come to us and be us for us to us like us!"
      They all say it, every one of them:
      Coming at me growing like a stem.
      The moon is coming to me once again,
      Getting slapped with books and words times 10.
      Why can't I just say, and say it right?
      How is the image craziness that should sight?
      Mind, Heart, Soul, Spirit, Fold;
      Whole really knows, and who has been told?
      Abstract, narrative, impression, emotion,
      Choosing between guns or magic.
      Guts, feelings, spirit, principle, notion,
      The choosing of "right" becomes so tragic.
      The scribbles over his last sentence,
      He wonders when the worth will come.
      Those trees of hers get in the way.
      It's either science or the bottle of rum
      All the things I ever despise;
      They quickly become part of my eyes.
      Away, away with them and run,
      No more face, and no more sun!
      People think they are the establishment or standard,
      But they are nothing but bloated feeling,
      Their locusts will do no good for me.
      They can, for all I care, pump it up to their ceiling.
      They think they know, they think they know,
      Oh how their stupidity begins to show and show.
      Stop the endlessness, and constant event!
      Stop everything I wish to circumvent!
      It always flow, it always flows,
      Stop the show, the meaningless show!
      Nobody knows, no one ever knows.
      Why can't it stop, why must it always go?!
      Her apple is there, the lies unfold,
      Nothing can be done, for she has been told.
      Stop, stop, you are being decieved!
      Logic will come, and you won't be recieved.
      But yours is different, though the same.
      Once new, but a million times old.
      Your footing won't last long, logical grace either.
      Don't go so far as to your soul you've sold, you've sold.
      What do I do, what do I do?!
      The longer the chain, the less I knew.
      Will it start over, the knowledge of direction?
      My mind undergoing convection?
      Never what they think is what I am!
      That person they think they know so well is a sham!
      No one stops to examine, so I have nowhere to go.
      That bird of theirs never flies so low.
      And silently, this, I realize is a struggle,
      Of arms and blood who fued and fight.
      The decision of nothing, and ultimately all,
      The fear that motivates is a sickening fright.
      They attack me, in this fight I am alone,
      I am doomed because everything I seek is my own.
      Hatred abounds for the "selfish" view
      Because I know who I am, but what are you?
      Their smoke, their ashes, fake fruit on their trees,
      Or the children of despair hanging from branches.
      The potion I drink not, and I use not my knees,
      So their arrow pierce me from river's bank.
      They stumble around, with nowhere to go,
      When I seethe at their authority, the true nature will show.
      Day in and out, they climb opposite elevators,
      And their apples never hit their heads
      Ravens, beauty, the harmony of the universe.
      My world ejects all but these visions of mine.
      Their nucances are but reflection in all.
      Nothing to do, filth they think that shines.
      And every place I go, the king and queens are all the same,
      No one cares for the alternate worlds of space,
      They only fight over the meaning of a name,
      But I seek to find its rightful place.
      But never! None shall again rule my soul!
      My own world, my person, my character, my name!
      But when their rule is gone, they have nothing left.
      The only fruit in their basket is but a mind game!
      Damn them! Damn them all!
      They quake and break when they realize I'm not their toy.
      My fruit and flower will grow with passion.
      And these transcend them, like man over boy.
      But it is nothing, never nothing,
      The ravens of the past are themselves nothing.
      Even those which I hold are not quite dear.
      I know that I am always alone, year after year.
      My own world is my dwelling, no one ever sets foot,
      They always look in, scoffing and feasting.
      They'll never experience anything different,
      Their courage is but chaff in the threshing.
      The rabbits hop along in my world,
      Every tree is blue with redness.
      Nothing is understood, nothing is there,
      But the chances of crazed struggle are far from minimal.
      Know not I, nothing it seems,
      Will there ever be beauty, or ever be lace?
      No, not mine world, for it never stops.
      Every conclusion is a portal to every place.
      Whatever in this world I hold, I always will
      Let go because it seems to never last.
      Is there but one, one at all?
      One even grain sand, that won't dream,
      One that will stay chaste never to draw upon the past?
      What is this art, the art of my life?
      What is my life of living to the extreme?
      What is my truth, over these lies?
      My answers seem to be never, making me scream!
      Oh God, what will you say to me,
      Say to me in the time of need?
      Never are they gone, like flows of time,
      So should be your presence dancing on my spirit.
      I wasted, destroyed my time,
      The wants of man incarnated my only hope.
      My heart races faster than ever before,
      Bandaging the false moves that always grope.
      The strokes of question wipe their bloddy mark
      On the door posts of my holy places, they do.
      When, when shall they was by the power of tears,
      The spirit never again will it puncture through.
      I thought I rid myself of you long ago,
      Yet your thousand incarnations permeate the closets.
      Things I thought that were not, would not go,
      The truths I never saw would burst in show.
      Opposite the elements are that live.
      Lord, do what you will with me, even to take me.
      My weakest link, I thought was my strongest.
      Do you desire that which I thought was my life's nemesis?
      My time for you I hope will always be what is the longest,
      For more is the suicide of purpose.
      Will ever, life for my spirit be at home, ever set on stone.
      My spirit and space are so alone, have always been so alone,
      The forests, the woods, the fields, flower and fjords or rivers,
      Just one will do, I want to have this piece for my own!
      Houses and lands that were once filled with dream
      Quickly invaded by raiding screams!
      Note of grace and harmony, breathe! Will you ever breathe?!
      Note of love and truth, will you seek, find, or seeth?
      Fights of a fall, outcomes decided by men?
      When will it stop? After they count to ten? Ha!
      Your power, just as their's, blinds you.
      I won't lock my soul in your dungeon at the sound of your "achoo"!
      By my art of the escape, so I do everything else-
      My single will permeate all my ideas and creations!
      The relative water and air never ceases to fail.
      Insanity of falsehood permeates their combinations.
      But my mind, it fills not with natural or images fantastical,
      Sure you want one? The fill up with the blood of May,
      As the daily massacres of rabbit ears fill the want bowls
      Of conformists and the artists gone astray!
      May the dragons of ice and the cats of fire never
      Set foot in my spirit's door,
      And will swords of iron and gold fill the gaps of silence
      When all epiphanies are no longer realized anymore?
      Your bells and smoke trees are pleasures from your own mind!
      Your serial notes, to the earth they are wholly unkind!
      Some sanity or truth, will I/we ever find!?
      Bloddless battle are the worst that bind!
      What is it that I love, or desire to be set afire?
      My affection ssemm unfounded or nowhere; I feel like a liar,
      The realms, the fields, the worlds, the things and places,
      All the attentions of capture rest upon their gazes.
      But what is mine? For I know and yet do not.
      Formula or fortune, are they element for the laughing stock?
      My spirit and mind, how terrible the war they've fought,
      Unlimited labrinynths and puzzles will everything unlock.
      I am running, and running out,
      Come to me now my jewels of epiphany!
      Will someone, human or god, at my face shout!?
      Or will the sky and ground record my days as infamy?
      What? What! What is wrong? Out of place or time?
      Fullfill the prophecy unsaid, or slay my existance now!
      How long will the particles of nothing in me dwell only for the sublime?
      How long shall purposes go unreached by so little? How?
      As always, though, it is all and nothing together,
      Each face and memory are once again smashed into wisps.
      Worth, it eludes even my actions of knowledge.
      All existance for me turning into mists.
      It never ends, it never seems to stop,
      And worth once again eludes my specimens and thought.
      But worth for existance only occurs within itself.
      So shall we not cease unless the soul is falsely bought?
      And then, I am brought back, "reality" they say,
      The scourge of the people who embody the scorge of human existance and interaction.
      Run, run! All life's filth left behind in the dust!
      Every idea and particle seperated into faction after faction.
      Action I don't want, and self-contained anti-purposes that I don't trust.
      No, nothing will end, hoping as much as I will it not,
      As long as the idea of relationship exists, will it not cease?
      Perhaps the state merry-go-round purposelessness will stop
      When all the spirits' truths are for all they always see.
      Never will mysteries of earth torment me more
      Than the bonds of entities relational,
      Relative are the elements, inconsistent are the chores,
      And yet the falsehood of them makes purpose operational.
      I find nothing in them! Worthless to me!
      As much madness as Captain Nemo under the sea!
      Petty! Trivial! Worthless! Meaningless!
      But this - the point if the world - has no point to me.
      Just obliterate me! Wipe conscience from breathing!
      World world created - when does it end?
      Fun and feeling has no place - neither lover nor laughter.
      I find no point in the idea of a "friend".
      But how could I ever find You wrong?
      Outside of this, is everything still right?
      Moment after moment, it gets so long,
      Requirements are so much slight.
      But perhaps the purposelessness of the never-ending
      Is purpose itself - for the state is total everything.
      And since only the absolute can compute,
      But accomplish, I never can, this elusive piece of nothing.
      The trees of blue and green still on my mind's screen,
      The battles are silent, so everything is serene (right?),
      A vacuum of silence, and resolute absolution,
      The world out there is moving infinitely blind, leading one another.
      But I am unwillingly trust in this land, against my will,
      Everyone pushes me around, expectation against my fill,
      This and there, no and somewhere, I live the life how you want,
      But I'm out, free, gone, I won't think how you will, or be your runt!
      Out of my face! Be gone! Faces of percieved burdens,
      Don't touch my soul, I don't allow such,
      But so many will succumb, control given over willingly,
      They live to die, and they don't consist of much.
      I'll live my life - let me be! Your life' lack isn't mine!
      Do you think I'll give over to you for nothing in return?
      Your created curses, your worlds of fate don't turn me,
      Add fuel, more! My days forever will burn and burn!
      67. (added 3-13-16)
      Oh the horror! The sickening horror of them!
      Those moments massacred by seemingly nothing,
      And those tore open by the state of which.
      The life that once bore absence - its breath, its bloody huffing.
      But you, oh how you embody so many I speak to and of,
      These epigrams are for them - their worlds are all the same,
      All mindless rulers of many kingdoms over them psychological,
      Sacrifices of themselves menlt on altars of ignorance with a name.
      Powers are nothing - I've given over far too long,
      Ability to resist seperates the weak from the strong,
      You'll never again have my soul oh wretched world,
      Every imposter's kingdom falls in my mind and sight.
      You won't tolerate, now you care to say?
      You won't have any more, my alternation to much?
      But my purpose outweighs your "at the end of the day".
      So you'll occupy yourself with rocks, grain, money, statues and such.
      Opposite! But always reversed!
      Backwards, upside, and cursed,
      Reality is bitter compared to that which has been versed.
      And the trees of old days still here will always be the worst.
      Oh, what have I now? The sweetness of utter existence and hell,
      May I please be a part of time, dare you tell?
      Oh grace, are you weeping? Weep not for me,
      I have taken my share, but I will not depart from thee.
      Ever shall I be, ever shall I ever be, then never be.
      Moon, shall you fall, a million times upon my earth?
      Seven times it will nearly fall, until I realize the worth.
      Until I realize love, forgiveness, time, friendship, and regret.
      Until then, my impending destruction is forever set.
      And emptiness, your elegy so resonates within,
      The air not there wisps from outward to in,
      Believe, belief will never seem to adhere,
      For it is shallow ground and relativity I fear.
      Thousands upon thousands, they quickly so slowly appear,
      Images, memories, analogies, fate, all distant and very near,
      The people search and search, endless until ending of time,
      Strike and smite them, worthless is that wasteful crime!
      Sick and sickening, their filth, pathetically they cherish,
      They'll stupidly hold on, ignorant until they perish,
      Kill them all, those haters of themselves!
      They fight and tear me apart for their own insecurities,
      They only live for others' nonexistence and empty shelves.
      The quiet rage, unseen laugh, unspoken hostilities,
      Eyes who never see the fullness of the hidden abilities,
      You will never set me, set me as a person of your kind and place
      Never will I accept your blind ignorance, the lust of power,
      And never a label of the monster will I allow you to hinder my journey and race.
      I won't allow you to play both sides of the coin in my mind,
      You won't be unexposed as the hypocrite any longer!
      You won't portray me as the sinful one for fighting you!!
      You won't ever do anything at all, for I will always be becoming stronger!
      Oh, land of my, and oh fruits of my dearest flower,
      Your waters for your thirst flow towards you,
      Over stones of time and ache, of space and history of trials
      They will come to you, just as they always do.
      And world, as I look at you now,
      Ever are you ready for truth?
      Few times have such been true,
      But soon shall I again bring those jewels of the mind,
      And the enchantment and epiphanies of maturing youth!
      Strike the bell, time after time,
      Your end will always be drawing nigh.
      Have nothing held back, nothing to lose
      Before the last breath, and the final sigh.
      The sweat of my brow, the blood of tears,
      Pain always spoken into the distance,
      To excuse the willingness to refuse,
      As a coward, conformist, every day and instance.
      Day after day, all is the same,
      My journey to fight is not the way to fame,
      For these things are the elements of universal strife,
      For others and myself, it is the art of my life.

      Signature: FatChihuahua
      100%: Z1, Z2, ALttP, OoT, OoTMQ, MM. Playing: OoA
      Nick the Hero's Serious Writing Thread
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      "To become the Hero of Time, you must play the Song of Time using the Ocarina of Time to open the Door of Time inside the Temple of Time so you can get the Sword of Time off the Pedestal of Time" - Me