When you're a man-eating nomad tree, you don't have room for second thoughts. You plant your roots tenderly into each new place, wait for the bees to bring pollen to your ovaries, throw out the inevitable seeds of association half-heartedly, noncommittally, and unearth yourself deftly again.
You leave(more) just a dent from being there, just the tiniest bit of loose earth, not the raw, rubbing impression of a lifetime lived in one place. No, not you. You don't take from the earth, but you don't let it leach everything from you either.
And most of all, you don't let yourself live there long enough for second thoughts, long enough to leave that nauseating familiarity in your wake. Never mind that it doesn't quite ever leave you.(less)
That's what she tells me, anyway. She is older, taller, bad news. Once she was like me, though and she's got the paper work to prove it: certificates written in official calligraphy, essays ticked off in red pen (A(more) plus, gold star). She shows me them when we bunk off school.
We both know where it went wrong.
We see him in the park one night; we're stumbling, swigging vodka from her hip flask. He has somewhere to be and checks his watch, pausing under the thin light of one lamp.
"Motherfucker," she says and drags me behind a tree. I can hear her breath in my ear, hot and sour.
Seeing him brings up bile, coursing through my throat. I am wired, malevolent. I wish I could tell you that his eyes are evil, that his mouth is set in a permanent smirk, but he's just an ordinary boy. That's the problem.
I'm afraid, but it's okay somehow when I'm ensconced in the heavy dark, kneeling next to her. With a partner in crime, I'm less tempted to turn against myself. The feelings drain from my body, crackle between us in the air.
She stands up, clears her throat- I grab her, pull her down. Her skin prickles with fever.
"What are you doing?" I hiss.
"Don't think about it," she says "just do it."
Before I can answer, she throws her head back and screams: "RAPIST!"
He jumps, looks around. She screams again. Her voice is an unearthly howl. I add my voice to her own. We chant. He looks wide-eyed, but he will not find us. We are witches, invisible in the undergrowth. We will show him how it feels to be afraid of people in the dark.
I make up my mind,
Time and time again.
I get over you
And move on.
But then you stop me
And challenge me,
(more) To give it a second thought.
And here I am,
Time and time again...
Thinking of you...
Falling for you.(less)
"I really should go talk to her, I mean she's just sitting there reading a book" says John
John thinks about how long it's been since he's been with someone.
(more) "I don't know man, she's reading a book, she's probably all nerdy and shit" says Bobby
John and Bobby have been friends since the third grade, when Maggy Demarko had Bobby in a rear naked choke hold and John hit her in her face with his Pokemon lunchbox.
She looked like a Wookie had sex with a dump truck, and smelled twice as bad. His quick thinking saved Bobby and they've been friends ever since. Though later Maggy found them both and retribution was hers.
"And besides what are you guys going to have to talk about, she's reading a book about politics, what do you know about politics?" asks Bobby
"I don't know...stuff I guess" says John
"Then go say something to her, stop being a chickenshit oh and if you get the chance ask her if her ass hurts, because she must of fell out of heaven that one always works on girls" says Bobby jokingly
Thinking about the last time he had a girlfriend one infamous Maggy Demarko she stabbed him with a fork, and stole his Xbox 360. He called the cops on her, and she was arrested at Walmart trying to return his Xbox 360.
"You know what, on second thought I think I'll just pass, besides I think Maggy might be getting out soon" says John
"I still can't believe you went out with her, what did she weigh like 300 pounds" asks Bobby
"I thought she was nice, before the stabbing " mutters John
"On second thought, ask her out, you might as well live a little before Maggy gets out" says Bobby(less)
Alice's first impression upon entering the room is, Oh my god, I've died and gone to Starfleet.
The workshop is white and chrome, and blanketed overhead by a wall of glass-encased blackness. She is certain that if not for the tiny, hovering droids swirling annoyingly around her an(more)d dragging strange objects to and fro, she could spend hours staring up and counting the constellations.
"Finally, you're here!" calls a voice from across the room, and Alice has to take a moment to identify who's speaking. The man in question is completely upside-down, and despite his ruddy face she can see that he is very pleased to be standing casually upon the ceiling.
"Hover-boots!" he grabs a pair from a passing droid and tosses them to Alice. They're heavier than she expected, but she catches them. "Wonderful inventions, if I do say so myself. Got the idea from an old Looney Toons cartoon. So what's your resume?"
Alice stares at him. "I'm Alice. Who are you?"
The man yanks his foot off the ceiling and promptly flips upside down, landing not altogether gracefully on a mountain of papers. Looking sheepish, he stands up and dusts himself off. He's in his thirties and he's got a messy head of black hair under some kind of tinfoil helmet.
"Johann Henry Morrison the third," he announces. "Everybody calls me Snow, though."
"No idea," says Snow happily. "Well, are you gonna try those boots on or not? You are my new apprentice, aren't you?"
Bemused, Alice slips the shoes on. Without warning, she flips on her head and crash-lands unceremoniously into the ceiling. She looks down - er, up - at the immense blackness behind the glass and feels nauseated.
Snow just laughs. Alice is beginning to have second thoughts about this internship.(less)
We make too much room in our lives for second thoughts. Having to think things through once is taxing enough. If you put your ideas under the microscope, you're only going to realize how ludicrous the idea of thinking anything is.
(more) But that ludicrousness is a good thing! Or at least it can be, sometimes. It's that spark of the divine that sets us apart from the rest of this mechanical universe. The unknown quantity that makes life compelling to live. The mysterious compulsion that drives ordinary people on to spectacular things.
The answer to every question you don't ask is "no". I forget where I heard that, but I think it's an splendid way of framing human interaction. The result of doing something might be nothing. But the result of doing nothing is ALWAYS nothing.
Most of the good things in my life happen when I don't think too hard beforehand. Of course, a lot of the bad things in my life happen that way, too. But the point is: things HAPPEN. And that's almost always better than when nothing happens.
I don't know if it works like that for everybody. Maybe I'm just an all-or-nothing kind of person.
Of course, I don't mean that we should act with complete disregard for the feelings of others. But when I'm at my best, I don't second-guess my desire to be friendly and to say hello.(less)
On second thought, it now seems to have always been wrong. I’m confused, in shock, a mix in between or none of it at all. Things that used to paint a picture as clear as day now are muddled, blurred, faded… and(more) yet sharp as ever.
No, that analogy wasn’t good. What’s a better word, what is it… oh.
Yes. A lie.
The uniform I used to wear so proudly before the crowds now seems to reek of death. “Are my hands really clean?,” I ask myself. While part of me wants to claim I’m innocent, because I knew nothing at the time, the other half screams “guilty” now that the deception seems so glaringly obvious. Both halves agree at one thing, though: I was stupid, I have been used, and the only way to make amends with my conscience will have me killed.
That would actually be sweet justice, come to think of it. Curses, why have I always been so quick to use that word? Those words. Greater good, lawfulness, righteousness, the way things are meant to be… What do I think I am, a Man of Law? A stupid parrot, more like. An oaf with borrowed claws, their lender all too eager to have me use them given the slightest opportunity, all too willing to reward me copiously for saving the Powers from bleeding.
I’m a tool, and I was glad to think of myself as an instrument. “The Blind Mistress reaches out through me and has her will made true.” My most sacred tenet, their justification for my deeds, was my justification too. But now it sounds like an excuse, their way of keeping their hands clean.