WriteMyke

I have decided to cash in on some faith, faith in myself. I resigned from my job. I am letting the fates sort it out and currently reaping the benefits of some hard work from the better part of the last decade. I’m agreeing with what a friend called it, a “Trial Retirement.” I have been going through some interesting changes since I first gave birth to the ideal— almost a total reform of the perspective in which I view the outside world. That doesn’t mean the inside world has been safe, either. My dreams have blossomed into no longer me surviving or enduring when things go awry but of me taking action or controlling situations from the get-go. Since I was younger, I have built a network of significant places in my dreams, be it my childhood home; a sightseeing, tourist spot in the Cascade Mountains; my High School; or a what would rather be an inconsequential location except that I had an epiphanic thought there that impacted me greatly. These locations not only have a geographica

Not so much desperate, may be even delusional Hard to find sleep even when awake Does vacancy beckon or is it just comfortable Should he be afraid when he is not Or upset that he is not yet gallant Ravage all that is imperfect, nothing would remain Burn the coffee table, find the missing piece Maybe cut a new, mash it down, make it aces Hang it. Nailed to the wall like a piece of artwork Throw a tantrum when no one admires it That should have convinced them Who really cares anyway, unconscious Distorted worlds reflect what must be Pine for the decoder, show what cannot be seen Wanted: navigator, zealot, decider Make me a believer; I dare you

So, I have been in this service industry for about six or seven years now. From my experience I have heard tales of an amazing restaurant from dissatisfied guests. It is an establishment where you can walk in with twenty or more people on a Saturday night and be seated immediately, greeted with a mind-reading server within thirty seconds that already has your drink order, which is on special, but you don’t like coconut, so it’s replaced with a full shot of top-shelf vodka. You are also welcomed with chips and salsa, baskets of bread and a plentiful array of dipping sauces complimentary. The entire menu is just pictures and, when you order, you only have to point. The talented server knows what sides you want, that you don’t eat bacon, that you are allergic to tomatoes and that you don’t like shrimp. Apparently, this place will automatically substitute shrimp for a New York Strip, free of charge, and your meal comes out almost as soon as the server takes the order and, in most cases, b

His heart was racing. Nauseous, his stomach was turning wave after wave. After ending his ritualistic phone call with his Mum, he felt a hint of comfort. He tried telling himself that being nervous is part of the show. It’s what makes him strive for perfection and keeps him searching for the track that the crowd doesn’t even know they want to hear. It’s what keeps the energy flowing and what keeps his focus. A voice briefly cut his rapid anxiety, ‘five minutes.’ The panic was turning to excitement. Feverishly he recapped the tentative playlist in his head. It doesn’t matter too much, it would all change anyway. The best performances come from improvisation. This was his first big show. This was his first time headlining and the first time he filled the house with people wanting to see him and no other perform. He could not be happier or more stressed. This was the one. This was the one that would make his career. He’d soon be traveling the world to the hottest clubs, to the mo

With a dynamic interlude lasting for far too long his dreams shifted. It was willed with complete defiance. Perspective is a funny thing, glamorous even. Yet, with struck eyes fixated on a hand-painted horizon, perspective will still carve a sunset and the day will come to an end. The moon will rise so a dormant seedling can sprout but a new design and, upon waking, manifests an obsession. Where obsession lurks, so must passion. Thus creating new goals, challenges and needs. This happens. It is normal. Usually it is subtle but sometimes blinding. It can be welcomed with magnificent esteem, grotesquely loathed or a confusing mixture of both. This is where he was found. His obsession was sound. A time when roots were severed, he found sanctity in music. It could capture and pinpoint an emotion, a time and a place. It could trigger any memory, fictitious or not, and bring an oasis to mind. A deserted island, if you would. A place untouched by the outside world. Shift a song to repeat

I find it is like a sucker punch that is whispering a quick jab to the jawbone. Relentless, such as twisting my lip between my teeth; I do not stop until I feel dread and drink the iron flavor like wine. Sipping the pain as one would pleasure, I feel it spread all through my bones, like a droplet of a foreign liquid in purified water, expanding throughout and soothing my bitter resentment. My pearly whites plucking at a small fiber of flesh until it snaps releasing the acrid, maroon escape from my worse enemy but only for the very split-second of apathy found for every moment my heart flutters for no cause, every nagging hour that my affection stands without application and every instant that I realize I am still seeking. All I have found is a goddess that does not exist, a muse for a deceased artist, a harlot for saint and clown for my penance. They whisper a serenade from a fictitious place leading even the most willed to doom such as a siren calling through the night and turning the