I am nothing

His mind blanks out again. He can't control his current state of being. He feels he is spinning up high. How high, he can't comprehend, his vision is disoriented from the circular ascension. In his discomfort he wonders what is happening? What now? What power wants me now? Why am I in a position of being controlled. Not this time. Not now.

"I am Freeeee. I am fucking freeeeeeee." He ascends higher and feels he has evaporated from all the spinning.

He wakes up. He's naked. He finally sees himself , his body since his death. Something feels different. He feels new. He feels pure again. He hates nothing. He feels he loves all. He wants to love. He wants to feel love. But there is no one around him. He wonders where he is. He feels he is a place of nothingness. It does not feel sad but it feels empty. He emotion for love all of sudden feels unneeded. Why should he feel and want love in a place where he could not spread it or give it to a particular person or creature.

He all of a sudden feels mad. What evil trick is this now? What am I into now? What's happening to me now? Where the fuck am I now? He starts to cry. He continues crying for long periods of time it felt as if he had cried for days, maybe even a week. When he stopped crying. He looked into the depths of nothingness and shouted with all his might.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He kept at this for what felt like a month. His lungs and throat never felt like it was caving or felt tired. He stopped because he felt there was nothing else to shout about. He remembered the countless times he wanted to shout and cry when he was alive.

There was this girl. He could not quite remember her name. But she was to him the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her eyes were round and bright like a black and white sun. Her eye lashes were curled and thick. Her cheek bones rose higher to him whenever she smiled. His first kiss, his first fuck, his first real true friend who was a woman. He wanted her , she wanted him. But woman like her were also wanted by other men. Mostly powerful men. Well at least men with more means than he had. He lost her to one of those men. His resentment for the elite and powerful began at this point. What could he do? He always felt. It was a humbling moment. He was a strong physical man. But there are other things in life that are stronger than mere brute strength.

He didn't mind being a subordinate to them but losing her to them was hard to take. He was a proud man. A farmer that toiled the land. Work hard and earn your keep. But not all he could keep. He couldn't do anything but keep his fury inside. Use it in war. From then on he would march with his company until its annihilation. Never to talk about her. Tried not to think of her. He would fuck whores and rape women from pillaged villages. That's the closets he would ever come to the comfort of a women.

When he lost her he accepted his place on earth. He felt a lesser human. One that was not able to get what he wanted. One that had to succumb to the command of others. Insubordination meant a whip or a night in a stinky pit of shit. He shouted and cried for all those times he felt helpless and controlled.

Now he felt an immense sense of peace. This was not a peace you feel when you have an unrest less sleep. No. This is when all your sorrows, envy, grudges, hate , fear , ego and stress are filtered out your being. He felt his soul glow and his breath take a full exhale as if it would never end.

He was floating no where. He was nowhere as far as he was concerned. He did not care. He wanted to enjoy not feeling any heavy emotions for as long as he could. He was not happy but he was not sad. He does not feel love but certainly not hate. No hope, no despair, no desire, no pain, no strength, no aggression, no passivity. Where the fuck is he.

Drifting in the middle of nowhere. Savoring this moment as much as he could. He did not care if he was in this state for years, decades, centuries. If somebody was controlling this state of mind or this place, he would like to thank them. If it was a place created by no one, all the better.

He drifted for years. Meeting no one or nothing. Saying nothing, feeling nothing. He was just constantly in a state of nothingness. He was nothing.

The Pawn soldier

The brave agile warrior sprints through the field of battle. His company, close to annihilation. He keeps fighting. At this point its just survival. He's no general, no commander, just a pawn moved around by the planners of war. They flick their fingers, they wave their flags, blow their horns, signaling an attack, a flank, the release of arrows to the sky.

Whether they blunder, whether they triumph, the pawn warrior follows. He's train to follow. Trained to be submissive no matter what the cost. In his mind is planted the idea that retreat is for cowards. Retreat deserves severe punishment, the slash of a whip. He's seen it before his eyes. His fellow comrades being made examples of. He saw their skin crack as the leather soaked whip slashes their skin.

The pawn warrior charges to a point of no return. His shield strikes a cheek. The sound of a cracked bone is enlightens his ear. His enemy lays helpless. He drives his blade through his spine while he lays on all fours. Through the corner of his eye he senses a strike heading for his back. He rolls to his left while the assailant strikes forward to no avail.

With one swift motion he rolls back to his right and strikes and strikes the hip. The damage is not enough but his company seems to be dwindling even more. What now. To his right come charging two other enemy soldiers. In front of him one of his comrade loses a head. The cut was not as clean. His head still clings to his body with help of a few strands of nerves and skin.

His emotions pause but it doesn't last a second. He immediately blocks a blow from one of the two charging soldiers and speedily trips him on his heels and dives to plant his sword into the others calf. He's instinct are so heightened because of his will to survive he pulls a sword out of a dead soldiers scabbard and thrust it into the lungs of the remaining soldier.

What now, who's next. He's never felt this barbaric. He feels no lost, he wants to be vicious, tormented and mad. He keeps swinging his sword. It slashes and tears skin of a few more of his adversaries. Now his adrenaline rises even more.

He glances to his back and sees the tents at the top of the hill where he started his charge have disappeared. Cowards and cunts. He's infuriated. Yes sir, no sir. Thank you sir. My loyalty is to you general. All those words and the discipline and loyalty he showed them has come to nothing.
He knew they were corrupt fiends. Only going to war for the idea of glory and conquest at the expense of the commoners who do most of the fighting. Commoners like him.

He always knew that some deserved wealth. Wealth creates prosperity but it also creates more wants. Wants at the expense of others. Wants at the expense of him. He was not born in the position of power. But he sure wished he was now. So he could run away just like those cowards. Even if he gets out of here alive. There would be no reward for him. No glory and no sympathy.

Fuck them. And fuck all you around me who want my head. He says to himself.

"If there is a greater being out there. A greater being that sees all. Remember my pain. Remember my sorrowful life. My shitty life. I don't ask for much. I don't ask for power , not the riches of kings. Just grant me peace and a beautiful death. "

The pawn warrior continues his rampage severing a few heads and thrusting into an eye. His end, he never saw coming. A spear plunged from the back of his head and bursts through his forehead. A complete shutoff, his brain and memory collapses. Not a chance for a flashback of his life's past. A swift death. Somewhat close to beautiful. A barbarian's death. A death fit for a soldier.

He wakes up in a beam of bliss that surges through his soul. Where he is, he doesn't know. He doesn't care. Finally he's not a pawn anymore. He knows he's finally free. He gazes upon the place of his death. He looks at his lifeless body. Its face painted with his blood, or what used to be his blood. He sees the victorious. They celebrate with a fury of brutality. His former head, staked on a branch and paraded in through the celebrations. He remembers being victorious. He remembers those sensations. But he remembers being a slave of war. A human weapon. He vows to seek redemption in his current state of being. To redeem himself from the destruction he has caused in his past life. His life as a pawn soldier.

Teapots

Little teapots on a shelf. Black, blue, red and white. Which one would you choose. If you choose the black one would that be saying a particular thing about you. Why do you like black? Are you dark inside. Are you gloomy. Are you tense or are you thinking that it would make your tea warmer because darker colors absorb heat faster. Or does it only apply to human skin.

If you choose blue. Would it be because you're wanting space? Vast spaces. Like the ocean or the sky. Does it depend on the type of blue? Does it make a difference if it is dark blue or light blue. Does it make you feel more like a boy to justify your masculinity?

Now red, do you pick red just because you have started reading the Communist Manifesto. A fan of Che Guevara. A little financially tight, so you think a little red in your life would bring some symbolic essence of prosperity to your life. Or are you just lacking passion and basically just horny. You want sex and just want ot see red. Red, the color of passion.

Does white just say purity for you. Wouldn't it be just nice to see your hot tea streming out of your new white teapot. Does this all fucking matter. Colors and teapots. If one puts so much emphasis on what teapot color they want does that say something about you. Are you a teapot racist because you don't want a particular teapot because of its color. A certain color doesn't fit in your life because it doesn't match various other aspects of your life. Does everything have to symbolize something for us?

With teapots don't we just want to use it to pour tea. Why does it matter? We do like to complicate things? So much questions. So complex we are as consumers. Just drink the fucking tea. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Pick your teapots and just go.

Mr. Milito

Calling Mr. Milito, Calling Mr. Milito, Hey hey hey. Do you want to buy my phone? Come on. Come on now. Please...

I'm not Mr. Milito, who is Mr. Milito, what is Mr. Milito, I mean what kind of name is Mr. Milito? Who are you? Come up here calling me Mr. Milito like you know me. Why would you think I' am Mr. Milito? Do I look like a Mr. Milito? What does a Mr. Milito look like? Jesus Christ!!!!

Hey hey hey .... come on now..... Mr. Milito. The name. Very famous in Argentina. Alberto Diego Milito and Gabriel Milito. Big time footballers.

What!!!That's only two. How does that make Milito famous? I've never heard of Milito named footballers being famous. What are they kickers? I've never heard of kickers named Milito anyway? I do the fantasy league Mister. I know all of them kickers.

You don't follow football. If you follow. You know. So how about buying this phone?

Hold on Mr. Chong. How do you like that? You like it if I call you Chong? Just like that without knowing you.

I'm cool. No biggies. You buy phone. hehe....

See here. I follow football. Believe me. Don't need to explain to you. I know my football. Do you follow football Mr. Chong?

I'm Mr. Liew. I'm Barcelona number one fan.hahahah....

I see. You mean soccer. hahhh..... Mr. I can't pronounce that. Leee uuuu.... See at least I try to pronounce your name.

I call you Milito. Because I feel it is good ice breaker. Plus you look like him.hhahaha.... And it's actually called football. Because we use foot.

Okay here we go again. How do I look like a Mr. Milito? And over here in America we call it soccer. We have our own football.

But you don't use your foot. You use your hands. So why you call it football?

Hey I'm not here to argue with you about why we call football, football and call soccer, soccer. This is America. You live in America, I live in America. This is how it is. Like it or not.

But you haven't answered my question.

Christ! Come on Mr. Chong. I have no interest wasting my Sunday morning on you. I have calls to make. A football game to watch. Yes, the ones that we use the hands.

You call me Mr. Chong, I call you mr. Milito and before you make call you buy my phone.

With all due respect........

Solace in Isolation

Here I am alone again,

I feel at peace alone again,

Like the tale of the Loch Ness beast,

Its solace on that lake comforts me,

I’m jobless,

I’m broke,

But I don’t feel like choking,

Isolation is my strength,

Silence is my comfort,

I’m in a burg of peace,

Protected from the downturn’s,

A broken promise to my generation,

I wonder,

Is it a punishment to my time?

Has my peers, my generation and me lived to easily,

Why can’t we go on just like past inhabitants of the free society,

We invest to the rich and the powerful,

We were promised the fruits of capitalism,

But all our achievements all seem irrelevant now,

Have we always lived in false freedom?

Or are have we just run out of things to exploit,

Sometimes I feel we are blinded,

So many events occurring elsewhere,

Some places painted with different forms of power and law,

Places plundered to serve the so called free world,

This is one world,

Our world,

But for now I’m solace in my isolation,

I’m only a man,

A person,

My burg is surrounded by the troubles of my time,

7 floors high two furballs and I,

Waiting and creating while greener pastures come.