Hacker

 “It’s not the daily increase but daily decrease. Hack away at the unessential.” – Bruce Lee

summer-paradise-dreamer
The way closes in quickly behind him, the path for retreat lay buried beneath the tangled brush of circumstance and pain and, as the way behind him, so the way forward. Hack. Hack. Cutting through is his only way to survive, so this occupation possesses him as the crash and thrash of falling vines collapse. Pushing against the green and brown thorny tides, his blade finds the branch and creates a hewn option for progress. His muscles shine with the sheen of a mad genius plotting against the onslaught of disbelief and solitary confinement. Hack. Hack. The enemies that dig pits of despair and throw boulders of anger at his stubborn persistence feel the power of his unstoppable advance. Deep jungles and forbidden territories fraught with dangers, they bear the mark of this maker of ways. Hack. Hack. The wayfarers and sojourners of the same trail are out of sight, but if you listen closely to the forested cries of beauties unseen, you know he’s alive, by the sound of his blades, Hack, Hack.

 

Gentleness of Strength

“Silk is a fine, delicate, soft, illuminating, beautiful substance. But you can never rip it! If a man takes this tender silk and attempts to tear it, and cannot tear it, is he in his right mind to say “This silk is fake! I thought it was soft, I thought it was delicate, but look, I cannot even tear it” ? Surely, this man is not in his right mind! The silk is not fake! This silk is 100% real. It’s the man who is stupid!” ― C. JoyBell C.

“Be like water making its way through cracks. Do not be assertive, but adjust to the object, and you shall find a way round or through it. If nothing within you stays rigid, outward things will disclose themselves.” – Bruce Lee
dewdropzgarden
 Gentle, striving to be easy with the hardness life brings. Being gentle when the attack is not against me is easy, but let my lover betray me, let a random act of violence occur, let my child be molested in spite of my best efforts, then it proves supremely difficult to resist hardness. When gentleness is discerned by the predators of man and beast, it signifies vulnerability, a sign that brings pursuit and attack. There is however, a side of gentleness that is contrary to weakness. Warriors learned long ago that deftness, a soft touch, is as deadly as brute force. The less effort, the faster and more powerful you will be. Gentleness learned is self control gained. To deny the victim demeanor and become a survivor, a warrior, requires a necessary application of gentle traits. Hold the knife easy. Squeeze the trigger softly. Bend not break, as a willow in the breeze. Bruce Lee taught the principle: be like water. Water is soft, yielding, and enjoyable to be around, but still maintains a fearful power. Gentleness is not weakness, it is power under perfect control. I’m this gentle soul, the water that gives way, and still I possess a force to overcome the most difficult opponent, whether it be in the form of man or circumstance.

Undefined – Is being nothing defined, anything at all?

“Always be yourself, express yourself, have faith in yourself, do not go out and look for a successful personality and duplicate it.” – Bruce Lee

I read a script that’s not mine. I borrowed it from one of the many plays performed in front of me, in books, movies, and on the grand stage of the home of my youth. With a foreshortened future all hope was sterilized, leaving me with no inclination that tomorrow is a viable possibility. Desperate,  I grabbed dreams that weren’t my own. I didn’t possess the capability to birth those; but the dreams born by other souls, bestowed by fate to imagine another day. I took hold of the dream of a family. Years later, memories evade me with nothing but a handful of thoughts from all those moments. Next, a dream of religion. Another tragedy of errors. It seemed that I believed too much, a cultist obsession is the adopted child left after true faith leaves. What about belonging? To anything? I laughed as group after group, clique after clique, pushed me away. Finally I came to the end of my chasing. Self destruction, that calling accepted me, pulled me close and loved me with the hate I was accustomed to. That’s where I find myself, scraping back the detritus of conformity, aborted dreams, and superficial survival, playing in the puddle of tears, long ago cried, never again to grace my face with those salty trails. Forcing my mind to comprehend dreams, so difficult a process, full of discouragement with disappointing trivial drama, I breathe. Pushing forward, whatever direction that may be, is tough, going backwards offers a comforting alternative. I live in the present, scripting my dreams daily, then burning them at the alter of change every evening. Is being nothing that can be defined, anything at all?

Also published in Broowaha Magazine

Undefined – Is being nothing defined, anything at all?

“Always be yourself, express yourself, have faith in yourself, do not go out and look for a successful personality and duplicate it.” – Bruce Lee

I read a script that’s not mine. I borrowed it from one of the many plays performed in front of me, in books, movies, and on the grand stage of the home of my youth. With a foreshortened future all hope was sterilized, leaving me with no inclination that tomorrow is a viable possibility. Desperate,  I grabbed dreams that weren’t my own. I didn’t possess the capability to birth those; but the dreams born by other souls, bestowed by fate to imagine another day. I took hold of the dream of a family. Years later, memories evade me with nothing but a handful of thoughts from all those moments. Next, a dream of religion. Another tragedy of errors. It seemed that I believed too much, a cultist obsession is the adopted child left after true faith leaves. What about belonging? To anything? I laughed as group after group, clique after clique, pushed me away. Finally I came to the end of my chasing. Self destruction, that calling accepted me, pulled me close and loved me with the hate I was accustomed to. That’s where I find myself, scraping back the detritus of conformity, aborted dreams, and superficial survival, playing in the puddle of tears, long ago cried, never again to grace my face with those salty trails. Forcing my mind to comprehend dreams, so difficult a process, full of discouragement with disappointing trivial drama, I breathe. Pushing forward, whatever direction that may be, is tough, going backwards offers a comforting alternative. I live in the present, scripting my dreams daily, then burning them at the alter of change every evening. Is being nothing that can be defined, anything at all?

Also published in Broowaha Magazine