I never understood the purpose of writing down resolutions for the new year. The words on the paper count for nothing if you don’t actually follow them. There is no magic in the ink to force you to do it. Only you can change the way you choose to live your life.

Otherwise, its just a nice, but empty hope for the better.



Every time a new year arrives, I am reminded of what happened in the previous year. Despite the pile of flaming garbage in the foreground of 2017, I feel like not too many people focus on the things in the background which are slowly getting better.

Funny how bad news always garners more attention than good.



I started this year out with an excess of time and a mountain of boredom. I would say that has been very much solved, evidenced here by the fact that I created more than 15 times more posts in the first half of the year than the latter half.

As such, I wanted to announce that this is probably the last time that I will ever post on this blog, since I will probably have even less time on my hands next year than I do now. As for the approximately 2 times a month it strikes me to be creative, I’ll do something more productive (lol).

This was a nice outlet for me for some time, but from now on I’ll just be keeping that to myself.

Thanks for the nice comments which helped convince me my writing might not actually suck.





Glowing in the dark

Starting with one

Then two

Then the grass

is bathed in light


Out of darkness

Comes the hope

That there will be light again


Before I even start talking about what happened to me, I want to introduce you to the world that I live in, just to give you a bit of background on my extremely sad universe.

In my world, we have the modern innovation of being able to use electricity 24 hours a day, in advanced countries at least. Where electricity is available, it is reliable to be able to be used in every aspect of everyday life, from refrigeration, cooking, light, and computers of course.

Thankfully, we do not need to deplete the earth in order to access this world, but the way we actually get it may be more heinous.

In my world, there are two kinds of people: the regular population and sparks.

Sparks are people who carry the recessive genotype for one gene on the 4th chromosome: electricity. Science still has yet to know how it works, and some with the special genotype don’t even possess the ability, but as a society we have seemingly silently and unanimously decided to exploit and abuse these people for their ability in order to power the of the population’s electrical needs.

Even before the modern age, before the understanding of their full power, Sparks have always been treated poorly. They were often called witches and warlocks, unable to explain the power that flowed through them which occasionally killed other people if it was powerful enough. They were burned at the stake, killed by their families in infancy, and just in general stopped from reproducing, further decreasing the presence of a recessive gene.

Sparks, in the modern age, are systematically identified in infancy and early childhood and raised to maximize electrical output to power our cities and towns. In the most recent statistics, only a half of a percent of the general population are born with any ability to produce electricity, and their few number support the other ninety nine percent. National governments generally keep the worst information about their treatment from the public, but it has always been a thought in the back of society’s mind that they are shoved somewhere to essentially slave away.

Whenever someone is born a Spark, they are taken away from their family at a young age and never seen again. Federal laws throughout the world take away the parental rights of Sparks at the time of their discovery. Any trace of their existence is essentially erased from the public mind, but for the few families who know of those who have been taken in this way.

I always wondered what it must be like to be one of them in that way; to be invisible to the rest of the world, never given the chance to go out and live a normal life.

Story ideas often come to me in this format: I might know the world inside and out and be able to develop the background of a character but I suck at figuring out what’s supposed to come next. I’ve always been better at reading books 😛 I just thought that this is an interesting story concept and wanted to put it out there for people to think about, since this dystopia sort of parallels our actual world in a way.


How does one sit

and sit

and sit

waiting for something different to happen?


How would you


something extraordinary

when the days are on loop


How would you

see something new

in an ordinary day

where nothing is different


How would you break out of the infinite dance?


Hi, my name is _________ .


Is that who I am?

Can it be contained within that noun?

Would I be the same person with a different name?


“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”

Is my name an appropriate descriptor of who I am then?


Can that seemingly random combination of symbols somehow communicate something about who I am?

Is it able to tell anything about me?


What impression does it leave?

Why does it matter?


Sometimes, I don’t feel like what my name says.

I just feel…



There’s no name to my own consciousness.

It’s just there.


Sometimes, I can forget where I am.

I can forget who I am.

In that context, my name doesn’t matter.


I’m just a person.

Ode to Music

Melody and drums and bass and guitar, and techno sounds and all that makes you a masterpiece. The harmony that makes sense, the riff that’s random but perfect. The combinations that are one in a million, the voices that meld and mix. The notes that aren’t notes and need to be.

The lyrics that make one feel, that bring happiness when you want to be cheered up and bring sadness when you need to cry.

Music: you are perfect, and I will always need you.


Stickers on walls

and dancing in the halls;

the swing swaying the wind.


The walnut tree that’s good for climbing

and the ever so delicious dining;

the garden path waiting to be ran upon.


The trampoline that’s never used

and the sky all shades of blues;

the carpets on old parquet wooden floors.


The crumbling facade and the rose arch;

the hope that I’ll never have to leave.


I used to have questions about anything. I looked at the world, and I just wanted to know how it all worked. Its wonders never ended.

Now, I probably don’t care enough to question every single little thing around me, because I was unfortunate enough to get to know the more harsh realities of this world. I learned that everything has nuance, and there is no straightforward answer to anything. There is no single reason why a person acts the way they do,

so it does no good to question it.