My Bridge to Nowhere

So I’m here alone, again, the Shatterday after. A whopper of a Tsunami. What’s the deal? He calls me up saying “Hey There Delilah” intending to play those stupid Love Games. I wish I had a Map of your Head, cause you’re going through The Technicolor Phase. I see the Jigsaws Falling into Place. I see you complaining that you’re Broke and Out Of Money, yet you still spare the change Fur Elise. Maybe if you went Straight to Video I would not be left a Snakecharmer and you’d see the Sparks in the Dark. I was wondering if you think I’m a mess, my crumbling resolve spilling my Requiem for a Dream into a vast abyss. What is the point of this? The escalating waves of anger has my hands reaching back for my Celebration Guns resting in their holsters on my leather belt. No, I just want to become clear: See you Space Cowboy.

Drumming to a tune all my own,
~Chiko<3

The Jazz Juxtapose of Paper dolls and Mahogany

It is the middle of January. A dreary and desolate sort of environment lurks outside my window. It’s quite dark out. Five in the morning yields an unfathomable black coldness. The silver silhouette of the mahogany tree rests center line amid my view, almost ghost-like, contrasting the bleak sky. The lifeless branches snake through the air and disappear into nothing. Perhaps I can pass the time this way: one, two three, four, five six… No, surely there are too many branches to count and too lacking of light to see them all. Yet, here I am fully awake and conscious of my still surroundings. My clock reads quarter past five in the morn. The dull ticking noise emitting from the second hand is repetitive, perhaps vaguely irritating, yet eerily soothing at this moment in time. Further past I hear the fridge humming like a drone off in the distance and what I might possibly identify as the whisper snore of my slumbering dog. A habitual routine has me awakening my speakers as my day commences. In light of the occupants of my house, I keep the volume low this early. A light jazz tune trickles out the speakers filling my ears with relaxed melodies. I find myself staring at the paper slotted in my printer. Paper dolls will occupy my time. A multitude of ways to fold them, shape them, color them and dress them. I could juxtapose the rough winter environment or mirror a cliche image of beauty. So many ideas, so much time, perhaps I'll just go back to sleep.

Five is the magic number,
~Chik5.

My Life is as Colourful as My Brush

I'm an artist, I wouldn't do anything but paint the world for my viewers to read. The deep blues in cold caressing streams that flow, slosh and stagnate within my mind when I spin woeful tales. Or the exuberant, excitable greens that bounce and bound with glee as my own excitement builds. Spiteful reds that rage with a passion so intense that it bursts at the seams as I communicate my tribulations. So many beautiful colors fleck my palate. I dip my brush in the expressive colors and drag it across a canvas whiter than white as I depict my minds image for you.

Diversely yours,
~Chiko.

I am a learn'd writer!

A word is a word, why should it matter what version I use? I shall not lower my standards because others have no motivation to raise theirs! I hold an almost nonexistent need for a thesaurus. I do not use a word I recollect without enough knowledge to use it in proper context. All words within my vocabulary are learned from a span of books I've read and studied. For shame, then, goes my education!

Big words are not big, just uncommon or unknown in comparison to everyday slang. Would my works drastically differ if I switched to commoner's language? What is wrong with the way I speak! So I read more, and perhaps at a higher level than you, of course my vocabulary would be broader. If ever so slightly, but slightly enough apparently! Because of this, you call my attempts "too much" and over the top. I never deemed myself a perfect writer, yet you undermine me without adequate reason.

Do you not find it antagonizing to see the same word repeated a thousand times with no substitute for a similar? Even now, the multiple uses of the word "word" pangs deeply within me. What human does not search for praise and appreciation? God forbid once in my life someone tells me that the quality of one work is impressive! Would do good on my self-esteem, you know. You tell me to not be so hard on myself, yet batter me with insults pertaining to my style of my writing. As a result, I can barely voice the desire to name myself a striving eloquent writer, but I must not be as "big words" are too fancy for such an ordinary girl.

Fuck you all,
~CHIKO!

Limerick Season

#1 – Blind Date
There was a stranger I've yet to meet,
Who upon my sight was quick to greet:
"Oh my, pretty Lady!” in a way quite shady.
I was quick to make my retreat.

#2 – Local Carney
There was an odd man who wore a funky hat,
Resembling something like Ethel’s mangled cat,
He waved his wand,
Then said, “Fish in the pond!
And win this dancing naked mole rat.”

#3 – Food
GLaDOS thought she was clever.
Assumed me to be not. However;
I cannot deny, that the cake is a lie.
And the cube is forever.

In rhyming succession,
~AABBAChiko

This is Insignificant, at Most

Among the most common place archives building lays a book. It's decrepit pages withered and worn by oily finger tips. If I recall correctly, if you travel along to the fifty seventh column in and the thirty fourth row down, search the third shelf from the bottom, proceeding from there to count to the ninth book from the left in the 'S' section you will arrive at the resting place of this infamous literature. I presume it is still leather bound and dust covered. It's significance may render equal to the dried moth husks one would find decorating the dingy, off-white window sills of said library.

But I digress, during your meandering through the countless books screaming for your attention, you obviously happened upon this one and chanced to flip to page two hundred and thirteen. That story, my uninformed friend, is this one. I am not here to discuss religion (god forbid another atheist publishes their explicit commentaries and biases about man's most fatal flaws), politics or the likes. Such topics regularly compose a rather dreary study, in my opinion. Alternatively, I would much enjoy chattering about a slightly more philosophical subject matter (perhaps over tea and crumpets?). For instance, this story (if you can call it that), is a small leaflet in a relatively insignificant book. That book is among an even greater count, perhaps thousand fold, of books whose innards contain dragon & princess fairy tales to scientific explanations of biological functioning.

Without having personally stumbled upon my exuberant writings, one would never have fathomed such a work possibly exists. Their conscience remaining satisfied and untroubled by the absence of my story. Such a pathetic tale, indeed this must be. Woe is me, who squanders my precious time preaching to an undeserving audience. They relish no uneasy feelings or pangs of conscience as to conduct. They possess no qualms about their dishonesty. Jabbering away, discarding my wondrous thoughts for worse. For shame!

I presume, arriving at a conclusion based on the fact that you must be intrigued enough to linger and remain perusing the published form of my inner thoughts, you are most likely slumped against the adjacent shelf, utilizing your knees as a prop for this awkward book as you forge on with your interpretations. Do you think, in the library which you managed to discover me, there is another soul in an identical situation? Hunched over a quaint book, lost in a world not their own, ignorant to their surroundings. Much like you, except for my acknowledging this must have brought your present surroundings and the environment beyond your sights to the foremost of your conscience. Ha, ha! My condolences for disrupting your picturesque, serene state of being. Now I stray to an indirectly relevant string of ideas. What of the vehicles or persons outside the building? Do they stop to think of the lonely human absorbed in a story and how he thinks of their actions? I doubt that. You are alone in a detached world as a result of your decisions and an insignificant story.

You know not who I am, what I look like or where I reside. Essentially, the extent of your acquaintance with me extends only to what you may have gathered from a few brief paragraphs. For all you fathom, I am not real. But! “Cogito, ergo sum“. I think therefore I am. This story is within the realms of my consciousness because I think it so. Your opinion on my existentialism may differ slightly from a previous reader or myself, but alas you cannot deny the impossibility of reality beyond our now created quaint world and plausibility of reality within it. You have been trapped by the proverbial shark whose teeth sank into your mind the minute your unfortunate eyes strained across this page. I now bid thee, fish bait, adieu.

Prevalently Yours,
~Chiko.