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 Posted: Thu Apr 30, 2009 9:32 am
This is cool! I'll have to find stuff to post!
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Posted: Thu Apr 30, 2009 9:37 am
The words to an amazing short film by amateur New Zealand film-maker Cameron Duncan, about his time in the hospital suffering from cancer, with which he was diagnosed at16, soon after the disease took his life. Look up the video on YouTube, powerful stuff!
DFK6498
Freedom is taken so much for granted and you don’t appreciate the small things that you have.
My number is DFK6498, a number which was printed on all my records since the beginning of my life here on this very earth
Sentenced to imprisonment. I didn’t kill anybody. I didn’t perform a crime. Hell, I never even drank a drop of liquor nor smoked a cigarette, never looked twice at drugs. I’m what you call a 100 percent strait shooter but I’m in here, this hellhole, my personal four-wall prison. All because of this. This thing. This demon I must care for and nurture, for this is why I’m here. It’s amazing how something so simple can destroy so much.
The meals here are horrible. Everybody says it. It’s amazing how much a human being will endure just to survive.
It’s always the same here. Always. I have a tendency to feel sorry for myself, but I am constantly reminded of the others who join me here. These people. They’re only young. They too have committed no crime, for everyone here is innocent.
I go through the “day in, day out” routine. The head guard is so punctual. He comes in on every morning, binds me to my room. It’s a punishment I must face as part of my sentence. It’s like Kryptonite to Superman. I hate it. The only thing I have to go by is that it’s all for my own good.
Is suppose it’s my fault I’m in here for years I’ve spent toying with fate. Maybe fate has chosen to toy with me. In which case, fate has served its purpose well. I was so free. The world my playground, the soil my arena. Fate has pushed me so far as to see my life teeter on the edge of a building. But I would never jump. I live for my parents, for the people I love. For when I die, it is not me who will be affected. It’s the ones I leave behind.
This will probably be the only goddamn prison that leaves the doors unlocked. It’s a torture that each inmate must face. But I dare not leave not even for freedom.
The worst part about being in here is how time ticks by incessantly, so slowly. Being caged doesn’t mean that time stops, for we all live our lives by the clock. And so too do I live mine, but much slower. Seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours, hours like days, days like months. It’s like chasing a rainbow to no resolve. You just chase it.
I’ve found the best way to pass the time is to sleep, because when I sleep, I dream. And when I dream, I can rise above the walls of the prison. I dream of waking up among lilies and getting that feeling in my body that comes when you’re by yourself. I dream of the simple things that posses so much beauty for even the most unfortunate man. I dream of listening to the whisper of my breathing, paying attention to the function more so than at any routine moment. I dream of seeing things so beautiful that it hurts to watch them. Freedom is taken so much for granted when you don’t appreciate the small things that you have. You know, the hardest part about dreaming is having to wake up. Because when I awake I’m still here.
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Posted: Thu Apr 30, 2009 1:55 pm
Just a free verse poem I wrote ages ago.
The Song of the Garden
Sunlight filtering through the green canopy dappled the grass below with spots of playing light. The breeze was a melody that pervaded the garden, making the flowers in their beautiful dresses dance with delight. Blossoms opened lazily, their scents wafted through the warm spring air and down the garden path to the pond where lilies floated placidly upon the glassy water. The birds sang happily, joining in the breeze’s song. The song that made the whole garden seem as it had come to life.
On occasions the garden would be host to a guest who would tend to the various types of growing life, or sit on the bench near the path and watch the garden, at total peace with the surroundings. Sometimes the gardener would even hum along with the song, even if he was unconscious of his doing so.
As the evening came, the sun set, splashing magnificent colors— golds, oranges, pinks, purples, the low warm notes of the song— across the sky, then faded into the deepest of blues. Fireflies came out to light up the garden with their soft, flickering glow as they moved with the beat. The moon and the stars appeared, shining, twinkling, smiling down on the garden; they added the light, merry tones.
As the seasons pass, spring to summer, summer to fall, fall to winter, and winter back to spring, the music is a constant presence in the garden. It goes on incessantly, yet it is constantly changing as the garden itself changes.
A day came upon the garden when the beds fell into chaos, riddled with weeds and dying flowers, for the gardener had neglected to care for the garden; the song turned sad that day. And as the garden was slowly drowned out by nature reclaiming her former domain, so was the music to fade from the once so happy place. The garden died that day, and along with it the beautiful song that had once inhabited it.
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