The Parable of the Two ArtisansOnce upon a time there was a travelling merchant. He was an esteemed gentleman who enjoyed many quality things. He knew what he wanted and he knew what they were worth. Today he was searching for ornate ceramic pots, ones that were aesthetically pleasurable as well as structurally sound. He came to a village which, despite its small size, held two artisans. He ordered a pot from each of them. Whoever had come closer to his vision would obtain his permanent service. He would judge their pots in three days.The two artisans had different ways of making their craft. The first artisan had studied for many years, honing his craft. Each of his pots were sturdy and proved their function, yet they weren't much to look at. The second artisan came about his own techniques. He chanced designs and structures that the first artisan dared to try. Some of his pots crumbled under their own weight, but others became the envy of the town. The two artisans didn't like each other, or each other's work. Th
CaesuraThey called her Caesura.It wasn't her name, but then she never said it was. Whenever she was introduced to someone, she always said "You can call me Caesura."It might seem odd that a woman would choose to be identified with a line break, or a pause in a line. Indeed, for those who were unfamiliar with her, it certainly seemed odd. But then, if they spent time around her, they always saw that the name fit her like a glove.Conversations tended to peter out when she was around. Not because of anything she said - she was always perfectly cordial, saying nothing more than was needed at the time. It was as though there was a great lake of stillness that lay just behind her eyes, and when she spent time with other people it would just spill out.She didn't move much. Every action was considered, measured out, exactly what was required, nothing more, nothing less. If she had nothing that needed doing she just... stopped. It wasn't that she was taking a break. It wasn't even as though she wa
1901, Somewherei. I submit to you that perhaps we do not need a miracle.ii. Kneecaps never meant much to me. For half a year, I found myself in the spaces between slabs of cement. Sneakers meant escape, and breathlessness was one step short of invincible. God, I loved to breathe until my body became my lungs. I thought that if I could beat the clock, then I could beat the world and, for once, gravity would be the one laying flayed open on the ground, screaming for a taste of atmosphere.Sometimes I wonder if I ever even beat myself.iii. There are days when I want to descend into weather patterns and just exist. I want to succumb to tsunamis and drift like a bloated cadaver, to look a hurricane in the eye and let it twist me [break my legs and perhaps my fucking useless writing arm.] To step knee-deep into the ocean and topple backwards, arms outstretched, the water reaching up like a maw, ripples chewing, pieces of me settling to the bottom.There are mo
The irony of the colour redI find it strange how the colour red can symbolise;Hurt HatedSufferingBloodPainAngerLiving hellBut it's can also symbolise love.