The Deadly Quill

Taken from this site:  link Suffice to say it was a strange world indeed. Here, everything was just the same as your world, except maybe one thing in particular. One such thing that could not be ignored, for it was so peculiar, the entire world becomes odd to us who see from stranger eyes. This one thing was capable of making a fool out of many people, and irreparably scorned by everyone else, to make one outlandish, to seem idiotic, imbecillic, and downright morronic. Yes, it was such a thing that could fell immortal men, and destroy the beauty of majestic ladies, for it was something that brought aught to the playing field that was love and sex, and all politics that surrounded it. It made a man, and woman. It made a grown sop out of them all. And one could do whatever it is they wanted with it, but they could not undo it ever again, under no circumstances whatsoever. And if a mistake was made, it could be the end for one's social life forever, or at least a far more than more t

I am aware that many of you are wondering what the next frontier of humankind will be? Where will we go after we have braved outer space? How long until we find something new? And those of you who thought there was nowhere to go after space, well I'm sorry to say you lack in imagination. And I must admit I too have fallen prey to that line of thinking. I guess I too lack imagination - that's why I have to write about things I know. You've probably caught yourself lying in bed thinking about the old west, the times of piracy in the West Indies. Thinking of days like those when you had greater freedom. If you are not bound to come and go, what other use does such freedom pose for us? Those of us who have a certain fetish, you know of what I speak, that pertains to those such epochs of freedom. Why do we enjoy such violent games? It is because we are, in ourselves, violent creatures. There is no other use to such freedom if not to exact violence upon others. And you have no id

The Face of War - Salvador Dali Me dê um tempo para pensar. Eu preciso de um tempo. Meu pensamento pode voar, Se alastrar, se debulhar Em um monte de cinzas, Enquanto eu paro e vejo a paisagem. Não, volta. Eu preciso de um tempo. O seu corpo quero sentir, me debruçar, Admirar como meu templo, Santuário dos meus santos, E dos anjos que nos acodem. Não, volta. Eu preciso de mais tempo. Como a fumaça o dia de ontem passou, Definhando com o vento, Cada vez mais difícil de ver, Cada vez mais distante. Não, volta. Eu preciso de mais tempo. Meu cabelo vai caindo, Minha pele deplorável, E meu sorriso mais torto, E o desandar de todo meu corpo. Não, volta. Eu quero correr, Quero pular, Andar perambulando as corredeiras, Saltando montes, E percorrer o alto mar. Não, volta. Eu preciso de mais tempo. Há uma música tocando Do velho ceifador. Ele me chama pelo nome, Com a lírica do amor. Não, volta. Volta ao seu seio, Meu descanso, Um riso, Meu recanto, Um encanto tão- Não, volta. Volta à inocência,

I just happened to wonder what our society might look like if the government implemented vocational orientation into its infrastructure to help highschool graduates with the next step of their lives: employment. You see, I've had this idea for a very long time that by doing this we could basically fix a lot of problems in our society right now, such as how satisfied people are with their lives, maybe even soften the amount of suicides. We offer people free vocational orientation and sort out their futures based on what they would like to do and what they're best at, you know, to bring out their potential. Next thing you know we have an entire population content with their jobs and doing great in their performance. But today something dawned on me, something quite personal. What if by doing this we are feeding the incapacity of a new generation to get anything done out of their own volition? I have seen before the effect of not inspiring your kids to

 Eu sou seu. Eu sou vosso. De vocês. Eu não posso imaginar maior incumbência, Do que ser seu. Irresistência, me gera a noção, com o pensamento: “Já sou seu”. Me alimento do seu ar, do seu sangue, como o mar ao meu alcance. Me deito e deleito em seus braços, com seu jeito de dizer, com respeito ao meu ser: “Você é meu”. E eu sou aquele menino jogado no mundo, com traços imundos, de barro, não sujo, não. Não sujo, só desfeito e refeito em laços e abraços, de um continente ao outro, contente e solto, e resplandecente, Como a água do Caribe que me chama com nome de chará. Em chamas me trará, o seu coração, um nome de xodó. Eu sou seu, afinal, eu sou vosso, esse troço, destroçado sem dó. Amarrado num poste, com fogo, balanço o que resta do meu corpo, Como uma bandeira que canta, que grita, e clama: “Eu sou seu”. Eu sou seu lixo, seu estrume, sem tamanho ou volume, Imenso, Sou a escória de um mundo imundo, sou a proeza da prostituição. Sou o cântico de um vagabundo, sou a lesma presa no guid

I recently started working at the place that greets you with a smile and have been introduced to the mind-numbing process of stacking boxes after taking them off a conveyor. That is basically the entire job description, that is, until I get a bump in the responsibilities I'm allowed to handle. Then we can add pushing boxes in different directions, and taking piles of boxes to designated outbound areas. I wish it were as simple as saying I'm depressed because of my job, but I've been depressed for a while now, and even antidepressants can't hold back the dull mellow flow of tar that seeps into my every joint. I do, however, take another medication that makes me feel slow and sticky. No, it's not really any of that. I think I'm at a point in life where I'm desperately searching for meaning in everything I do, which is why I need to write, to exist, otherwise I'm just alive, stacking boxes. Maybe a shot at Human Resources would give me the edge I need to fe

Art by Dorian Legret What happened to our imagination? We were once young and filled with inspiration. Creation flickered off our minds and to whatever nothing it then transformed. On every corner, in every place, another sound, another face. The warmth of a reverie, all one could see, was another second we then would waste, playing  games, conjuring tales, flying high on colored sails on the open sea of our imagination. Life to some people can only be stomached with substances, or with extreme sports, and maybe to others with dancing or drinking. If you want to take drugs, go ahead; I'm not one to judge. Life, I feel, can be a bit taxing when faced with nothingness, as if it drained and sucked all the joy straight from our skulls with the same intensity a college kid chugs shots to impress the numb-headed girls. What can we do to find some relief in entertainment every day? I mean, work already plays a major part in giving us something to do, and that is fine, really, especially w