As Mister Jacobson actually vibrated with energy, Mort stared at him glumly. Life was simply the worst. Day in and day out, the sun continued to shine. Birds insisted on endless chirping. People everywhere stretched there faces into the most horrifying upward curves, as if that could accomplish something.(more)
Mister Jacobson was now jumping up and down, pointing at the powerpoint with the vigor of a soccer mom whose child is within shooting range of the goal. Mort sighed.
He supposed it must have all started with his birth. The most hum-drum of affairs, really. One moment in the uterus, the next not. He supposed this was when he discovered crying. If there was anything Mort could have been said to have "liked", it was crying. But even that was tiring and futile most of the time.
Mister Jacobsen was now pinwheeling his arms as if he were a bird. Or Gene Kelley.
Mort let his eyes follow Mister Jacobsen's arms. Around and around again. Just like the Earth. Revolutions. The same thing, over and over. Infallable. Impenetrable. Impossibly boring.
CRASH. At first he thought Mister Jacobsen had fallen off the table (again), but the Spandex-clad woman standing heroically in front of the recently shattered window seemed to be an indicator that this was not the case. Her hair blew in the wind.
"Come on, we have to hurry!" she shouted to Mort, extending her hand. "We're running out of time!"
Mort yawned, gathered his papers, and pushed himself slowly out of his chair. He met the woman's eyes. There was something in them-- a familiarity, a hint of a secret life. Adventure waited him in her hand, that was for sure.
He tucked his papers beneath his arm and walked out of the door. It was time for lunch. (less)
I gave myself willingly -- jumped into 'us', into 'you' -- and paid the price.
It wasn't enthusiasm and joy, but desperation and misery; the need to be loved by somebody or anybody to the point where I would take the least that you had offered and treated(more) it as the best I had ever gotten.
It was true for a while, but as always, I started to question things as soon as the euphoria wore off. I noticed myself giving and giving and giving and then eventually getting tired when I finally noticed the diminishing returns.
At this point, giving started to drain me, and what once gave me hope brought me only despair.
When I no longer had anything left to give, I left.
Wandering again, lonely and empty, bereft of human company, I drifted far and wide.
During my travels, I found bits and pieces of things that were useful or interesting, and started to rebuild myself. It was slow going, and it is still going -- I exist in patchwork form, constantly being built up and swapping out older parts for ones that fit better for the time being. It is easier to let go now, to watch things as they happen in the moment, and enjoy them while they last.
But this hunger for acceptance -- for love and companionship and being taken as I am -- still exists as a low thrum in the back of my mind, occasionally threatening to overwhelm me. It feels like a wildfire waiting to happen, bunches of bone-dry branches waiting for the slightest spark to ignite them.
I fear it will one day consume me, and I will merrily burn to ashes, dancing amongst the flames.
Too enthusiastic about your love life:
The woman you've been pining after for three years finally invites you into her bed. She asks you what you want. You don't know what to say. You don't say anything. You bite. And the bite bruises.(more)
Too enthusiastic about your career:
Finally, FINALLY, the CEO of your firm dies. You've been at this company for, what is it now, 29 years? It's your time. You deserve this. You stay up all night, practicing the answers to interview questions. At 541am, your body quits. You fall asleep. You sleep through your alarm. You miss your interview.
Too enthusiastic about fictional characters:
You start a new TV show. This show has six season. You learn everything you can about these characters, so much that they become a part of your life. They become a part of your family. The people in your real life you no longer understand. It feels as if you've lost the ability to connect to people.
You lost things you've never had.
You didn't know it was possible to feel so burned out.
I love people who love things.
People who love sports,
people who love anime,
people who love books,
or movies, or celebrities, or exercise.
(more) I love nerds and geeks
and people who can't hold it in.
I love people who cry at baseball games.
I love people who dress up
and sing and dance and create.
Because they love.
Love something, anything,
I'd rather spend all my time,
with somebody who loves,
than somebody who scoffs,
and points and doesn't.
Doesn't enjoy, doesn't care,
doesn't understand the appeal.
Because I have enough of that
I don't need anyone else
to take the wind from my sails,
or anyone's sails.
Cause I am sailing with a leaky ship,
on unpredictable winds,
tossed on the waves of my own voice saying,
Don't care so much.
That's why I love people who love things.
Because maybe enthusiasm is
"Do not get it too riled up, and do not become too enthusiastic; it may become violent when subjected to provocation and the intense emotions of those around it."
The velvet cover is drawn back. The polite English men in the audience gasp and chatter. This is not(more) what they had expected from Harringsworth. The so-called monster of his manor was supposed to be a fraud.
"This cage is built of silver and steel. The combination makes it unable to come into mental contact with anyone outside of its cage. This is for the safety of you and the Corbeau."
But, there he is, in the flesh, 200 pounds of breathing, moving flesh. The Harringsworth monster, labelled the Corbeau as an affectionate motion by the present Harringsworth's father, turns around. He looks like a distortion of humanity, but it is impossible for his feathers to be a mere costume.
"Do not be alarmed."
The Corbeau grips the bars of his cage, long talonlike nails extending from his fingertips and clattering against the bars. He makes a soft noise, his glowing blue eyes lidded heavily.
"No matter how violent it may become, I assure you that it will not hurt you."
His wings spread as far as they can, their fifteen-foot span stopped by the edges of the cage. The feathers that cover almost all of his body (except for his face, his palms, and the rigid bony stalks below his legs) bristle and stand on end. He surveys the audience.
"Though it may appear to be a monster, a mockery of bird and man, Corbeau possesses a redeeming talent in its singing voice. It will now sing for us."
He does not want to sing for the cruel man. But he must, and he does, and he awes them all.(less)
we moved again
but we won't stay
along the way
i will not fret
i will not cry
(more) i will not need
to understand why
but i can not smile
and my usual quick laugh
have both been replaced
by a sad heart
a swollen mind
and my willing soul
fights for breath
for air to breathe
and land to move
for within these walls
i am pinned, mis-used(less)
Dave squashed his nose to the glass. His eyes gleamed like a child at a candy store as he peered out from the moonbase. He had read about the gates. He had watched every documentary on their construction. Dave found the narrator's droning had done little to capture the(more) magnificence of a city-sized ring floating in space. He had thought himself prepared to see one, but my god was it a titanic thing to take in.
It's glowing mouth swallowed ships whole, firing them through the black towards the red planet. The thing made a six-month's journey cost but a week. And yet, it was so average to people. Nobody but the children looked at it with any awe. 'Mommy, are we going to ride that?' 'Hush, dear, mommy's buying tickets.'
It's presence was expected, like a spoon at the dinner table. It was like the trireme or the steamboat or the airplane. Gates were inconvenient because they took seven days instead of six. Never mind that only two hundred years ago, they were the stuff of dreams.
Dave must have stared for at least ten minutes. When he finally peeled his face off the glass, he found mothers grasping at their children, looking at the 'strange man' who was far too 'enthusiastic.'(less)
Enthusiasm is a powerful tool. Not everyone is blessed with intelligence but there is no excuse for a lack of enthusiasm. I'm in this boat. I bob about on the ocean which is mediocrity never really knowing what it feels like to accomplish anything of any intellectual worth. But(more) I can try. When I put myself into overdrive I can push forward anything. But I see the people around me, I see their bitter faces and I can hear their thoughts: "Try hard" "show off" "crawler". When did it become a bad thing to try? When did it become undesirable? Enthusiasm is relative. Enthusiasm is a deep burning fire which drives our machines. I don't believe in 'too enthusiastic'. The sentiment screams triviality and has all the hallmarks of playground politics. It wreaks of the banal. (less)
Many people think that enthusiasm and excitement is a good thing. Though with his passion, it's just disgusting and twisted. Why should he get excited about sharpening up his best knifes and loading all his guns? About sneaking around the city in the middle of the night? About climbing(more) fire escapes and crawling through windows? About picking out his weapon of choice for that night, and holding it over the chest of the victim? About plunging the knife deep into their chest, then watching the blood pour out over the floor?
Why should he get excited about watching his victims take their last breath?(less)
Overdone it again.
Stop, my brain shrieks, but in vain, again. The fervour propels me on regardless, knowing the irrationality of it all.But no, thoughts swirl and fingers itch.
Calm down, go slowly,gently now and all will be well.
"Alright girls, Big Al's taken the goods, see?" The mob boss' hint went unidentified as he sat watching his men look nervously at each other. Maybe they did understand, but Big Al's name was a great foreboding.
"We gotta do somethin', don't we?" He continued.
His men remained silent, none daring to volunteer their life in exchange for money. All except Joe, who raised his hand with a huge smile on his face.
"Should we go get it?" His tender voice was an exception in the group of brutes.
"Hmm. Good," the boss nodded," do it however you wish, boy, I just want them... goods in my hands soon."
Everybody looked at Small Joe, bewildered and amused. A boy half their ages was about to confront Big Al's men. One of the members brought Joe out of the small, cramped room that reeked so strongly of tobacco, into another that was merely cold. The arms room.
There, Joe, still smiling as brightly as ever, ready to enter the battlefield for the very first time, picked up a small pistol, slightly too big for his hand and slid it into his oversized trench coat.
Without another word, Joe left with nothing but a gun and a map in his pocket. Nobody tried to stop him, as for these men, no one else's life was more valuable than their own, no matter how worthless theirs were. Twenty pairs of confused eyes looked at Joe as he stepped out of their little warehouse, into the dark, silent night.
Back at the long, worn out table, the boss and his men had nothing more to say, until Joe's head arrived in a box two days later.
"Too enthusiastic," the boss briefly commented, "now for real. Go get it back."
His men just looked nervously at each other. (less)