“Mr. Holmes,” or, On the Struggles of Human Mortality
Outstanding in the Field
The upcoming film Mr. Holmes, based on the novel “A Slight Trick of the Mind” by Mitch Cullin, is about a 93 year old Sherlock Holmes who is in the process of writing his story and piecing together events from a 30 year old case that he feels is unfinished. In the midst of these endeavors Holmes is also trying to solve the mysteries of human
This is how I want to die:
I will have sent letters to the few in my life - a cascade of leaves with veins very much like my own. It is an injustice that they depart with such colourful splendor, while we lay limp in our anemic pallor, dull slabs of marble flesh. I will have lain down my body and tools beside that which is my greatest work, in marriage to what I shall become. The doors will be locked, a fire at the threshold, and mortality set in my heart. The décor, I leave, up to you.
A few odd decades have passed, and I mean no offense when I say I am taken by the joys of this absurd existence. Even so, I understand our contract it is our tragedy, is it not? I must thank you for giving me the opportunity to express my preference in advance; but, to the matter at hand, to put it simply, I wish this to be painless for myself and others.
As I have said, I shall leave the rest to you.
We are creatures of mortality
Born to live and die.
Yet there are those amongst us
Who resent the last goodbye.
They see it as an end to things;
The call of colder waves.
They have a fear of being trapped;
Locked away in graves.
But deep beneath the buried earth
No one hears you scream.
Pound and smash against the coffin;
End this horrid dream!
Kiss the flower of the reaper
Bear his blissful touch...
Soon you will be wisked away
Warm within his clutch!
But now you know the dreaded fear
Of why we cannot die.
We hear the reaper calling us
That we cannot lie.
In both our dreams and waking nights;
We see the blackest fate.
His cackles fill our bitter days
And they will not abate.
That is why we drink this now
Poison good or ill.
Either we will live forever
Or die against his will.
"I will not be death's puppet..."
-Chen Yuan Wen ft. IrrenderNarr42, 23rd March 2012
i will not grant you pretty words
though they burn in my veins
and force me to breathe,
as if my fey-child scripture
ever could withstand you
and the scars you carved in my DNA.
they breed in my throat,
a transcendental code sacrosanct
as the prayers you whisper,
and the vows you took in obligation
only to hide your transgression
(twenty-six years, three months, twenty days)
and write in me the fear
of being erased.
so maybe you can't understand
how i made myself not hate you
when i thought you would die
just in case
i want to throw my fury
at your feeble body and
like zeus to your cronus
though i've always been cast
as hermes instead
for every second i've stared myself down
just to prove the balance of genetics
lies not in your favour
teaching myself to drive stick
so i could run farther
from who you wanted me to be
the six year old boy
with a near-perfect sketch
(but it wasn't
letting Eternity hold hands with mortality.
What of the Immortal,
when the Mortal has aged,
when his eyes lose light and his skin grows cold?
True love is never even lost in death,
but will death come to the Immortal,
still young and strong?
No, not unless he brings such upon himself.
But if love is true,
then the pieces of the Immortal's heart
may die with the whole heart of the Mortal.
In the end, Love could kill Eternity,
if it is strong enough.
So, in truth, only Love can triumph
and live forever in a dying world,
unless Death takes all those pure at heart
and all that remains is Hatred.
So what of the love of Mortal and Immortal,
seemingly impossible as it may be?
--It lives, for it rings true;
Age and even Death cannot rip it into pieces,
and when the love is to seemingly end
as the Mortal's short life flees,
the Immortal may lay down their own head,
if they so desire it,
and sleep forever beside their love.
But if the
she ate blackberries and
fresh peaches with chill water,
until her stomach ached,
then she lay stretched out
on your slopes for hours.
You knit her a quilt from
the dearly departed leaves.
Your grass left stains on the
knees of her new gingham,
but you dressed her in the
finest gowns of spiderweb,
and combed out her hair
with the lightest of breezes,
and the delicate touch of
branches that scraped her face,
leaving your kisses in
the smallest cuts on her
apple cheeks, leaving love on
her forest of freckles
And she became your wife,
she said yes, when you offered
her the broadest sky and clouds
and she made a home of your cliffs.
She bore children of music
spun them out of crisp air
and bird's melodies, high
above her head into the infinite.
And she never left your side
until, wrinkled as a gnarled fruit,
and bent and crooked as your oldest
trees, your first dedicated wives,
she walked across the formless air,
filled with the sharp aroma of
new spring apples,
waiting for sin
as the best years of my life
crawl into the sea
[the wings left no room for ribs]
Bring me angels at my door,
Grasp the wind that’s passing by
And perhaps I shall not die.
Bring the ocean at my feet,
Store away the summer heat,
Send back rain into the sky
And perhaps I shall not die.
Make all hearts immune to pain,
Bring true virtue to the vain,
Show me eyes that cannot cry
And perhaps I shall not die.
Make all people be content
So they never know lament,
Show me snow storms in July
And perhaps I shall not die.
But until such times are near
Let me catch your scent, my dear
And cry oceans at your feet
Until Death and I shall meet.
My mother's desperation to retain me was understandable, it seems. It seems that I am stuck between two forces that need me like breathing, that tug back and forth until I now fear that I may rip in half. Mother calls me back with warmth and sunlight; he calls me back with silence.
The dead are the most interesting conversationalists, at least when they can be coerced into speaking. Oh, some simply stare or wallow about in their sadness, but others the good dead, the ones who do not think they still live but truly know it are truly worth my time. That is the only thing I possess in droves. I have all the time in the world.
The Underworld is a marvelous place to me. It is here that old men can become young in the eyes of eternity; here ugly girls can fancy themselves beautiful; here young children grow old with cynicism splashed across their innocent faces.
I am writing this down so that I will not forget it after I return to the surface
Now they say a sphere
But I the traveler have seen
A world arranged in tiers.
It’s three steps up and three steps down
With nothing in between
Each step a realm unto itself
One black, one gray, one green.
The uppermost, the sunlit land
Is lush with verdant choir
Babbling brooks and rustling reeds
Birdsongs in the briar.
Down below, the Black Land sleeps
Silent and austere
Into this reverent quietude
All must disappear.
The middle tier, a hidden plane,
Of neither sun nor shade;
A misty, lonely everscape
Where those like me have strayed.
The Gray Land has no native souls
All wanderers are we
Upon this rocky sea.
Gnarled trees and shallow caves, the
Total of existence
Scattered mountains, looming tall, but
Always in the distance.
For company, a walking stick
My friend, my aid, my balm -
Upon its neck I feel the warmth
Reflected from my palm.
We rarely stop, my staff and me,
We trek and traipse along
Things that last
Scooped from my past.
Paltry, yet so vast...
Now, my booty…
Some still unsurpassed.
Drew this, did I?
Really can’t deny
I had skill.
I’m at it, still.
With my brushes grasped.
Another year gone.
Yet I work on.
Still, I do those.
Seems my part is cast.
Paints might splatter--
Make it matter.
Draw it, share it.
I still care, it
Has gone by so fast…
Leaves its traces
Art, skill graces
Life that’s held tight-clasped.
Will I question your words, I wonder;
Or gaze at you, without protest?
I am tangled in you already
It's too late to leave now, it's too late
I observe the contrast of your warm eyes with your cold skin
and try to snap from this trance
To once again remind myself of the situation I'm in
But you hold my gaze, and take my cheeks in your stone hands
And I quickly throw any doubt I had up in the air
Not bothering to see where it lands
I'm wrapped up in you; you are my world
I know with each second that passes,
I encompass myself in an even greater danger
I must confess though; You make me feel at ease
And I'm new to this, and each day I feel even stranger
Knowing that I live for you;
Knowing that you could be the very death of me.
But knowing this happiness; this love
I can never know anything more than this
You are my life now, My whole life
I want nothing more than to share eternity with you
And yet, you refuse t
It terrifies me when people try to drive faster than me and are so close that their headlights obscure my vision. I always think they are going to impale me. I dare not sit at one stop sign for too long.
I hate people who drive slowly, but I refuse to injure them.
I hate stupid people, but at the same time they are endlessly amusing.
I have a little calendar on my desk that has a new stupid saying for each day. I save the funnier ones in a drawer.
The children in my neighborhood almost beg to be hit by a car, with the way that they never move when I pull onto the street. One more reason to fear for the future of the human race.
I like my men intelligent and deliciously foreign. I have never met one, but I swear to myself that someday I will.
My dreams are bigger than my country, although I keep myself rooted in high s
The thing must have followed him home. Wuya gazed carelessly at the growling creature crouched at her feet. The Heylin witch knew exactly what it was; it was not her first experience with one. She'd known quite a few back in her day, back when they had been more prevalent in the world; nowadays most vampires only existed in movies. Yes, it was definitely a vampire.
There were many different types of vampires, like humans, they had their own races, from the Mayan Civicatataeo to the Chinese Hopping Vampire, the blood suckers existed all over the world. This one however, appeared to be a Russian Upir; also known as a mother f-, well, a very bad word.
It made sense really, earlier today a Shen-gong-wu had activated in Russia. Wuya had, unfortunately, not been able to attend; something she blamed Chase Young for, but she could still feel that magical pull that informed her when and where one had activated. It didn't matter all that much though, she supp