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What I Want is what I’ll never get..

Talking about hot cups of tea, this one blanched the rough of my tongue, what a nice gesture from the waiter.

The wicked green brew kept plopping with a wedge of lemon. But what annoyed me the most was the gnashing prickle of her perfume, that lemony zest of delight, promising all of the sweets of summer. Yet, denying me the mere touch on her perfect marble skin. I wanted to warp the soft dotted freckles on the pale mounds on her face. To suckle on the sweet nectar, oiled with a strawberry chap-swipe on those small tight lips.

She eludes me, even though we similarly exist on the same solid plane. Somehow, she floats and gloats above me, like a mocking demon, looming down on me as I wallow in the pit of my own spittling misery.

She slices through with her cackling laugh, and teases me with a glance, hidden with sparse yellow wisps of hair tickling the flitting summer breeze.

I watch this maiden. Claiming my soul from afar, I hate her, I hate the fact that I should love such a thing and call her my muse, my goddess, my sole destroyer. The name that summons my nightmares, the cold sigh of windy nights.

I hate her for all she is and would ever be in my head.

The she-cat takes off with her cup of brewed coffee and joins her clique of giggling friends. My hearts starts to pound slower, as the memory of her perfume begins to slip from my mind.

I regain my grip over my senses and begin to imagine how she looked like. She appeared again, from under a veil of rippling water, she started to laugh, at me, for me or with me. Who knows, who would ever care to know than to just relish in the warmth of her gleaming face.

Her face morphs back to the way she was a few days back, that time her hair was jet black, guarding a light colored contour, with two electric orbs of blue, A week ago, her hair could set the sun on fire again, with a flowing sanguineous mane of red. And two yellow eyes which would haunt for days and night to come.

I am the sole survivor of this slaying summer beauty delivered by sentinels of lust, and I bear witness with words hardly acknowledged or heard.

Should I trade this voice for a warm whisper to my ear?

No one should live the monstrous summer without a warm moist hand curling inside their own.

I am one with this misery, I breathe its breath and chant its hymn, wondering, when would I shed this awful cloak?

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The Vague Ridge between Flesh and Metal.

It is by far, one of the most intriguing facets of our psyche. That blurred fascination with this hybrid art-form; The biomech artwork distilled into its purest form. One questions his own mind when so much pleasure is born from a mere glimpse into the abyss.

The site of flesh and metal twisted, bolted and folded into each other. Why is it that we crave such an outlandish union?

Lately, I noticed that my interest in the Alien franchise had been rekindled. I spent many hours per day consuming footage of H.R Giger’s Xenomorph and the legacy of horror it had awakened several decades ago.

But is it all horror?

I took a few steps back to examine this strange inclination to delve deep into the cold, coiling labyrinths of Bio-mechanic art. How a metallic bone twisted and turned, with ribbed cables protruding from ever curve; arched horns turning from under metal flaps overshadowing a piece of vibrant white flesh. Chaotic, unhindered and beautifully terrible.

We cannot satiate from such a nightmare.

So why? Why is such a strange facet of imagination, repulsive at first glance, nevertheless revealing to many truths we forever seek.

Does the mind silently cherish this union of flesh and metal as a euphemism to the bare nature of reality itself? How light and darkness are constantly into one hybrid reality. And the mind sinks in comfort from an inherent understanding of such a primordial reality. In other words, these hybrid images could be considered vignettes defining with crude images, the essence of all that is about life and death.

Or maybe, this could be an awakening; how we prophesize our end on the hands of our techno-progeny. And that future holds a grim promise to all biological life forms, and deep inside we’d already surrendered to that utter prospective.

Nothing left to do but to worship and cherish the path ahead.

Why does contrast flood us with pure untamed emotions? And with such ease.

Is beauty nothing without a rim of black haze and darkness surrounding its curved exquisite features? Should we even stop asking why? Should we just hold our fingers to our lips, and let our eyes tell us what we want to know? To succumb under an obscure logic far beyond what the mind could ever conceive.

In a way I consul myself into that conviction, and allow this fascination of mine to withhold any explanation.

I settle with the gift of sensory explosion bestowed by the conjoined masses of metal and man.

A Man and His Way.

Reading time: 2 min 48 sec.

“Let me fill that up for you, ” said the happy face behind the bar, tilting the warped bottle into the huddled man’s glass. Each drop of bitter, tangy sweet. Dipping and swirling with small bubbles forming around the edges.

Life was hard and sallow, with days to call your own, and day you never conquer.

That’s what came to his mind, the fresh rays of summer, battling off the cold gnashing winter biting into the bone. What a glacial thought, he contemplated, as the liquor in his glass finally settled into a serene ovoid lake of tawny nectar.

It was all back again, after every two-bit rush, came the soothing, monotones grind of the usual. No matter how many glasses he could gulp in one sitting, or how many warm bodies in his bed. It was all the same after a while.

The same old, good old, same old.

As if disappointment was the most loyal friend. And the zest in life was but a jilting mistress, that only promises but never keeps what she sais.

He finished the last cap of his withering night and commenced his voyage beyond that cozy mahogany door. The wind welcomed him with a sucker charge to the chest; he had to cover himself for what be called his way home.

On the way, he heard the soft scuff of hard leather on the soft dusty concrete, soft taps complimenting the waving howls of the night.

Not a soul in sight, only the specters he could conjure before his eyes. How he could forget what was in front of him, yet his head floated to a time of far and past. When he was happy.

No. Now he can remember. He was content, not happy, happy was for the suckers. Content was for the winners. No one triumphs over the usual. You could wish and pray all you want, but the reality was that no one answers your solemn pleads, because no All-Mighty could get what you want. Better speak of easy things, like smiling back to your wife without faking it, or actually enjoying a game with your child. That’s what we should wish for.

The man struggled to contain his tears, it was far late than he’d expected. The way home was usually short and rough, but this time, he wished if he could get there faster.

Then the old faces came back to him, the tears, the sighs, the turned shoulders, the now absent souls in his life. For what did he trade them for? What was the craved prize he gave everything for? And by everything, he thought, was everything he truly loved.

He dipped back to the same marble-hard conclusion, there was no victory in the life he had. No one short-changed this man. Not even the devil could make up such a travesty. It was only him, and just his sore soul was able to commit such evil, unto himself and others.

Nevertheless, his sins cost his beloved a fast scalding price, but his sentence was for the long haul. It defined him, another morsel of remiss wisdom brought by a lashing afterthought, we are defined by our regrets.

The man clicked open the lock, and pushed the door into his sullen realm, the same white blankets, the ashy dust crawling into his resigned senses, and saw the same hollow figures dancing by the spell of memory. They sang, with closed lips, the melody vaunting his undoing.

The man pulled back his hair and tumbled to his creaking chair, his tears had no more salt, all dry, stale…beyond bitter.

Then he saw her, the one to claim his soul. By his armchair she sat, sweet to the eyes, wicked to the heart. He wondered why she still smiled back facing him, even after everything he’d done to her.

But then he remembered, that he’d deserved that smile, the same cloying emotion had the same gravity mountain pounding on his pulverized self.

It was part of the deal. You drink, laugh and enjoy the best of your years. And never think about it at the time.
Eventually, Regret would come, and like a caring mother, she would never leave your side.

The End.

A Man and a Hundred Marble Walls

He departed from his bed. Ready to start that still unformed morning; his eyes hadn’t a coherent vision before him. He washed his face and dabbed with a perfect wool towel. His eyes muster all possible fascination by the fading fog departing from the cold sheen mirror. His body was headless, now his visage got more and more familiar. A thought delivered those famous three words he dreaded every morning.

“Oh, it’s you again.”

He trod down his suspended wood-plank stairs and dipped with a twirl around his favorite Andulesion staircase. His perfectly pedicured feet touched those dark varnished tiles, and into the vast chasm of a living room, he stares into the blank space, and wonders if the place got any bigger. Perhaps the northern wall required more pictures or other dangling ornaments. Yes, that would fill up that horrid bloated white wall.

The toaster beeped, his favorite crunchy delight was ready for his ravenous teeth to sink in that charcoal action coating that once a fluffy blanket of pure whole-grain bread. He gulped his tall glass of full-bodied milk until his coffee was ready.

He took the steaming cup and leaned by the nestled caramel-wood sill. His eyes sink down to a rectangular labyrinths of navy blue, rimmed with pale pavements. Several scruffy dots dash along the pale arms of concrete while other loiter in pairs. He closed on a minute binary system of two people–a mundane human interface.

He relished the sense of height and grandeur from looking down at such a distant experience. Yet the feeling would barely last, it had always left him with a lingering aftertaste of bitter, tangy metal. Why does it press on his ribs, the mere sight of two souls, entwined into one.

Now he witnesses the two move in unison, with a colored covalent bond between them. So elementary, yet essential to the very fabric of reality.

He finally remembered his perfect exile. Even prisoners send letters and receive some words back. But he was now an obscure captive behind perfect marble walls. His sandal wood surfaces, brushed till the quintessential final finish wouldn’t hide the subtle rusty rife of old ash. The corners filled with floating cobwebs. And a dingey ceiling is all that he sees now whenever he saught the milky blue sky.

He felt up the side of his face and felt the coarse brush of thick quills. He plucked several strands. How long had it been? How long had it been since he had heard his voice? Had it been years, he refused to believe the extent of lost time, almost mocking his efforts to fight it and forget. Why was love abandoning him with so many gifts, tangible objects made of cold yellow steel, yet the very thing that mattered became forgotten like a vague childhood memory? And nothing is left but walls, white-washed walls, perfectly symmetrical screaming of desolation.

This man cared and loved, but no one would ever know the gifts he possessed in his heart, forever to be left under his shadow. Collecting moth and dust.

In this fancy uptown loft, This man was all that was

and less.

A Man Of Too Many Names.

Haunted by the ongoing blizzard that sucked all remaining heat from the leaf strewn ground of Bucharest. I fight the blowing wrathes of winter. Barely avoiding their snatching mouths on my bare hands. I pushed through the heavy door guarded with a spiked iron grid.

The tavern was bustling with laughter, and chittering conversations. There at the far end, stretched the hapless column of drab fatigued seekers of the early morning Buzz.

Yes I am taking about my morning coffee-run at Starbucks, don’t dare judge.

As the line shrinks to its eventual stage, the cashier asks for a name. As mundane as it could be, I amicably offer my designation with a wide beaming smile. It was like I’d crossed a necessary rite of passage. And now I am catapulted into that other line of people waiting for their respective cups.

But while I wait, another revelation comes into mind. A silly one, nevertheless, rich with fascination and wonder. What if next time I could invent another name?How would that make me feel?

I could choose a modern francophile name; Andrei, George…that would give them a story, right?
A brown colored mid-thirties guy, with a pure European title. How their shoulders would flare, or perhaps their eyes would open a little bit wider.

What if I invent a new persona that would completely shift the aura around my appearance. Perhaps I was adopted by a European family. By now my very identity had been morphed by the incessant education and training bestowed by my wealthy parents.

Or maybe I could give myself a traditional African name. That would swirl their minds for sure. So many inquiries would bubble inside these bored heads. A caramel tanned man, who perhaps escaped the raging jaws of war in his original country.

Perhaps I could fulfill the prophecy triggered by my particular facade, a middle-eastern expat, wading through life, fighting for his survival. Tempered and pressed against the backdrop of society, melded with the denizens of this glorious city.

How can a story be told by a mere name? Why does a name mean so much? Why does it ring differently when it comes together with an unusual face? Why do our brains allocate so many assumption stemming from a sound that our mouths make? If a name meant so much, why can’t we get to choose it ourselves? Perhaps it’s too much of a respnsiblity. Therefore, only our parents get to deliver that honor.

Perhaps, a name is just a reminder of who you were. Or who you were supposed to be. And then a person takes on the rest of the construction process by building the rest of his/her attributes.

That being said, I love my name, it’s my anchor to who I am. From that stable foot deeply entrenched into this moist muddy world. I get to stem, grow, bud and flourish all around in the eyes of those who love me. A trail of smoke forever expanding into this vast expanse of possibilities. Then one day, all my wisps will fade.

I am Aaron Dawbot, nice to meet you.

Haunting Of Hill House Is Deeper Than You Think

I’m sure by now, that everyone is talking about the new hit Netflix show, Haunting of Hill House. And I’m more than confident that almost everyone had taken their full of YouTube videos, blog posts and online reviews raving the show and how deep and psychologically endearing it is.

But this post, as far as I can hope, will be quite different. I will pick one episode in particular; “Two Storms”. And sift through its nuances to reveal the true essence of this unique show.

I still remember the words of Larry Brooks in his masterpiece of a book, “Story Engineering”, and how he adamantly insisted upon the power of a theme, and how easy it is to overlook such a powerful element in your story.

In other words, theme is the powerful concept of any story that relates the fictional premise to our own real world. In other words, theme should speak about one of the issues which take place in our lives.

The clearer the theme in your story, the brighter it resonates with your audience.

As I watched the episode a few days ago, I couldn’t miss the idea behind what was going on along the scenes.

Even better, it was summarized in one word that defined every behaviour, every infliction of emotion.

It was full blown Grief.

Of course the concept of grief is well familiar to all of us. There isn’t a day that passes by, without someone losing another loved member of their family and friends.

But in this episode, I witnessed the shifting stages of such a powerful humanized process, condensed into the time-frame of one episode. Thereby, it amplified the sequence of events, blurring the margins between the flowing phases of grief.

At first, we see the Crain family unite under the gruesome banner of loss. They exchange their usual stale pleasantries, each word barely scathing the surface that hid the turmoil inside each and every grieving character. Then as the scene progresses, no camera cuts, just a swirling continuous thread of agony slowly fraying away.

Theodora drinking herself into denial, cowardly sinking into her own misery numbing what is left of her senses than to deal with hard cold reality.

Steven shed his calm composed facade. He breaks down and finally succumbs under the weight of the event. He starts pointing accusating fingers around; a complete, yet understandable transition from his previous usual state.

We see Sheryl falling apart after she had barely kept herself together. The jagged shards of her hardened self, cannot hide the anger boiling inside.

And in that heated moment, more revelations come to light. More secrets are divulged exposing the charade that had been in play up to that point.

In a way, their common torment acted as a cleansing fire, burning all pretense, and under the harsh bright light, all is seen, felt and touched.

Even more interesting, is how Luke, the most troubled character, from whom we’d expect to break, mysteriously fades into the background. As If he belonged to the gloomy atmosphere. He is rarely seen, like a specter. Silent, calculating and watching while the others fall under the burden of sadness. Luke is a denizen of this venue. A place very well recognizable to him.

Two Storms, in my opinion, is one of the most endearing, engaging pieces of entertainment that hits so many delicate spots, on so many levels. Grief is an emotion that not a lot of us can handle competently. So many of us get easily drunk on our misery. As if the act of sadness is secretly a cathartic refuge for poisonous feeling we dare not deal with in our usual daily lives.

I had always been intrigued, and haunted by the concept of loss. Why does life offer us so much, then snatches everything on a moment’s whim? Our cynical voices could speak less, but yet, if we analyse the inner altercations that take place within us as we grieve. We realise how we can take heed from our most genuine and bitter emotions..so many things unappreciated can morph within a day. Things we used to take for granted are now revealed to be responsible for the very core of our happiness; Old grudges, mischievous secrets wouldn’t be able to hide anymore under the frosting spell of death.

I urge everyone to watch this series. Callling it great would be the understatement of the month. If there would be a reason to watch a TV show after a hard day’s work, than it would be to feel something. Experiencing the dangerous nuances of life from a safe fictional vantage point. In the same time, we discover much more about ourselves.

Thank you.

I WANT YOU

The train trundles off, shaking the static world. We pierce the round mouth of darkness, and deep into the cable strewn intestine we venture towards another dusty bright island of tangible land.

I take my seat beside a hunched female passenger. The train shrieks as it swerves away from another juncture. I close my eyes to align the shaking rhythm of my body with the train’s trembling pace.

After I had regained my footing, and all my senses wound down to relaxation, my eyes catch the pleasant sight a young woman, neatly dressed with a hat tipped to the side, a stuffed mustard jacket, complemented with denim trousers tucked into long glistening boots.

What caught my prodding attention wasn’t the way she held herself together; a reposed collected way of sitting with pure ease. Her gaze dipping deep inside her hard covered book obscuring half her face. What really enticed my inquisitive appetite was the title of the book :’I WANT YOU’.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t getting a subliminal message intended to lure me into her steep web of seduction. But rather, it was a magnetic fascination into the human mind. How this young woman, if I could summarise her with that noun, was a curious, intriguing and fascinating creature. Capable of containing so many unfathomable depths left uncharted. Awaiting the proper explorer to delve into her adventurous facets. How did I get that message from a simple sentence? A simple affirmation written by some author, on the cover of a book, conjured into imagination perhaps years earlier, had mirrored this woman’s deep and poignant desire.

From the outside, this woman had presented a congenial image, affable enough for proper human interaction. Yet, I was proud to know, that she was like a rumbling dwelling of exquisite energy. Rolling and growing, about to burst along with the proper sensual catalyst..she just needed the right agent who would elicit that overwhelming reaction of love and passion.

She hungered for love, not the word, but rather the stream of meaning the word had brought forth in all of us. She had the relish to explore into that subtle tantalizing experience of foreseeing the concealed world of imagination, and then to contend with the bounds of one’s own reality, for a mere iota of a chance to immerse into that fuzzy cloak of intimacy. I saw all that in her, how she swiftly oscillated her blue eyes across the lines of prose. She was entranced into the book, she had gained what she bargained for; a chance of life; to feel more human than most of us. To see the pulse, throbbing into the snakes of steel that stilt our world together. It bred the courage to seek forth my next adventure for love and life alike.

It was beyond inspiration, it was a singularity of new burgeoning companionship with fellow dreamers, like this woman sitting in front of me.

She was kind enough, not to conceal that part of her. And I was the lucky to receive that revelation. It made my day, and wrought the stream of these words.

The End, thank you.