Call this the duality of life, or the duality of my life. If vague it is meant to disguise the world from wence it came but the clues are there for those who wish to know me. I am a voice made of text, a spirit made of ideas, and a soul here to make you laugh smile and cry. So enjoy it all, its here for you.
It takes four fingers and a dancing thumb to fall in love.
Fingers weave and intertwine between to hands as boy and girl walk rose cheeked through snowy Canadian winters. And thumbs mingles; overlapping and fighting to be on top, grazing each other ever so delicately in their playful dances. Fingertips cringe at the sensation of cold metal, yet grip all the harder to pull back the metal handle of a door; four more motion for the girl to walk in. The warmth hits faces, but hands don’t wait their turn. His hands lunge to her face for warmth; her hands meet his and pry them off. All the while rose cheeked girls laugh while fingers linger for just too long, exposing her true intentions. And then the thumbs push and pull, trying so weakly to free hands as rose cheeked boy hides his intentions.
Later fingers take seat atop shoulder as boy and girl sit around the fire. But fingers seek more and thumbs dances their way down, down down. Lips meet and part after what will forever seem like too short a time while fingertips ignite the senses. Hands entwine and separate; mix and match connections looking for what feels right. And at last, girl yawns and rests her hand on boy’s shoulder, boy gives in and rest atop her head; all the while hands grip and hold and squeeze as boy and girl sleep, hands entwined.
“friendship terminated”
“oh well”
“just oh well? that’s all I’m worth?”
The stars are lonely, They always have been, and they always will be. The stars don’t smile, nor do they laugh, nor do they love. They live as the heat amongst the cold;their torture is a mere million times worse than exposed flesh upon the antarctic cold. And so they sit there, way out in the night’s sky, and they cry. They yell and they scream and the signal with everything they have, and only ever manage to send out tiny pulses of light.
The stars push and they pull at their cores; they spin and break apart their insides just to send out their distress signals in all directs. They die faster than they need to, and yet so slowly, for naught but the return signals from a million billion other lonely souls. And yet, for all their misery and pain and torture, the stars manage to still shine and glow, bringing light to all that is dark and sad. The misery of the stars paints a picture across every sky of every planet in this universe.
And so the stars commit suicide; they kill themselves to make us smile. We are their reason to be, because we appreciate their sacrifice. While the stars may die, sad, cold, and alone, they die knowing that we feel happy, warm, and together through the mere specs of light they send out to us.
The stars die for us.
Mortality is the ultimate limitation of man. All the potential and creativity, every achievement and success, all of life comes to an end. Yet still, in spite of ever impending doom, we still work and create, we still utilize our potential and find happiness in the moments we share and the memories we make. And while all men have struggled with mortality and sought extensions to life itself, wise men, those not if age but of understanding, they realize that sometimes, if you do it right, one life is enough.
Once upon a time
I wished upon the sky
To live in another time
So far away
Time ticked by so fast
And you said we could not last
Told me our time had past
That you felt so far away
Oh and the stars got it wrong
Oh and they waiting just too long
They gave me a wish only to take more away
Star-crossed lover born today.
To whom it may concern,
Re: Camp Counsellor Position
My name is Daniel Bunting and I am severely under qualified for the camp counsellor position at the Tim Horton’s Children’s Foundation. I do, however, hope that you read this cover letter and, if at all possible, rank me based on my character rather than my held (or lack of) qualifications.
NLS certified? I finished the ten swimming levels at the ripe old age of nine, joined a swim team, and could never find myself able to return to the classroom setting. I do, however, hold a third and fifth place ribbon and, regardless of the number of participants in each of those events (three and five to be exact) I do know myself to be a strong and accomplished swimmer. As well, I do currently swim during my exercise routine with friends, always ending each day by diving for and “rescuing” the drowning inanimate twenty pound bright yellow brick from the bottom of a pool in a fashion similar to my friend Alex, who is actually NLS certified and currently works as a lifeguard.
Billingual? My mom has been fluent in French, Italian, and English since she was about fifteen and I must say that growing up she did not hesitate to speak in foreign languages around me. In fact, Italian is the primary language used when my aunts, uncles, and even my mother speak to my Nona. Unfortunetly you are seeking a person who is fluent in French. Also unfortunetly I was never spoke to direct in any foreign language as a child and so I am not trilingual, or even bilingual. But I am an English major, and as such I do hold the capacity to use said language at a higher intellectual level than the average Canadian; which may or may not prove to be advantageous when working with children.
Thus far this cover letter has been naught be negative; I, however, do retain that I have many redeeming qualities. Firstly, I not only meet the criteria of “at least 18 years old”, but also exceed it by about eight percent. Secondly, I do have CPR certifications, and while they may be expired I can, if necessary, renew them quite easily. Also I am male and, judging from many other camp’s need for male counsellors, can only assume that my gender is a selling point for your organization as well.
About five days prior to me submitting this application, I received Laser Eye corrective surgery and, since completion of the operation, I have been blessed with far stronger vision than I ever had before. However, past data states that these effects are temporary. In short, should you find yourself requiring staff who can see I am, if hired quickly, able to more than fulfill this role.
Exciting? Spontaneous? Energetic? Motivating? Yeah kind of.
Fun? I’m having fun writing this cover letter. You’re having fun reading this cover letter, unless you stopped after the first few lines but then I can still write this sentence with perfect impunity. I also put the “fun” in “the Fundamentals of math, science, art, history, and English”, should the need for teaching arise.
Finally, we get to the trait I best exceed at, creativity. Have you noticed that this whole letter has been written in haikus? No? Probably a formatting issue, no worries, I forgive you. In all fairness, I do believe that this is the first, and only, cover letter you have read written in this fashion.
Now you hire me. Or you don’t. Either way I concede control over my summer career to you; if you have read the above and believe someone of my character to be advantageous to the children’s camp experience then thank you for the position. And if you should be so inclined to reject my application, then I hope you at least cracked a smile, that this cover letter wasn’t a complete waste of time for you.
Best regards,
Daniel Bunting
We called it a summer fling
The late nights, sunrise mornings, everything
And we thought that we could just
Slip in and out of lust
So that when we had to say goodbye
We could, without ever question why
Turn around and go our separate ways
But today is that day
And somehow between lips and fingers
We find time fly by while lovers linger
So steal away with me our last night
Then kiss me goodbye at dawns first light.
I never thought it was over. No, not once did I think for a second I would make it back without another relapse. But I did forget, forget how it feels. How this feels. It feels bad. I don’t care how childish that sounds either, this is triggered me, raw and primordial. No remaining maturity only words like good and bad, and there’s a lot of bad.
I, I was doing so well. So, so well. Well, well, wellwellwellwellwellwell. So well. Well so here we are. No, here I am. Its just me. Just me here, not doing too well. Because, well, well, well? What? Nevermind. I just needed to vent, to get that out of my system. I don’t want to be here, not again.
Call this my relapse, call this stage one insanity.
I just want to leave this place before it goes too far.
“Blush.” Just one word, that’s all she said, that’s all she had to say to make my cheeks go rose as the blood coursed through them. To her this tease was just a game with a boy who was just a memory of her past; a man she could tease knowing he had deeper feelings than she thought she could ever reciprocate. It was not a malicious tease, nor one of vanity and vainglory, but just a simple tease because, well, as hard as she tried to hide it somehow she too had feelings of sorts for the boy.
“Is that a smile.”
“No.” Ever muscle in her face reacted simultaneously in attempt to hide her pride. Of course, she knew it was too late; damage was done.
“Blush.”
“That won’t work on me.”
“Then lets try something else, sounds fun eh?”
“Go for it.”
“I’ve met girls, since we last saw each other. A lot of girls. Some are just friends, some are past girlfriends, some are best friends, and some are best friends with that bit of, lets call it attraction, where when we’re together we can’t seem to keep our hearts from beating fast. You know, the ones you should be dating but for one reason or another you don’t date, because, well, actually I don’t know either. Anyways, of all the girls I’ve met I’ve found some to be quite and of simpler tastes, they’re pretty, which really means pretty boring. You know the type, hard to talk to, not much to say. Then there are the odd ones, the fun ones to talk to who you just don’t see as girls. And the hot ones, which replace personality with looks.
Of course, there are better ones. Quirky, I call them, when odd and attractive mix. Then there are the pretty ones with an aggressive edge, they’re cute. And the hot ones who lack the arrogant quality which changes them from women to slags. They’re sexy. And then there’s you.
Want to know a secret? In all fairness I probably should’ve lead with that instead of the whole ‘And then there’s you’ line. Because, well, that’s the secret. Of all the girls I met, of all the ones I called friend, or fell in love with, of all the girls I have ever passed by on my campus and on the street and even in a subway, none of them are quite like you. Its the reason I blush when you say ‘Blush’, though its taken me a bit too long to figure it out. Its because you are hot, and cute, and you have your quirks which you try so desperately to hide not knowing they make you all the more attractive. You’re something more, you’re beautiful, and that should mean something to you because, well, you’re the only girl I’ve ever truly said that too. And I mean it because even now, with the two of us here all these years after the last time we met, I can’t help but blush around a girl who by all standards should be a stranger to me. But then again that’s just it; you aren’t standard, you aren’t ordinary, you’re something extra, you’re someone extraordinary.
Still want to know the secret?” He leaned in close to her still stunned face, and whispered six simple words in her ear.
He scribbled on a sheet of spare paper and handed it off to her as he left the subway. She jested as he left the train, “Who said I was going to call you?” He just smirked and up the stairs to the streets. She paused, then opened the note. In large but messy writing she saw his ten digit number, followed by six simple words: “You’re the one that’s blushing now”.
You are fat. Yes you reading this. Don’t pretend you aren’t either, don’t kid yourself saying: “He can’t see me so he obviously doesn’t mean ME”, because I don’t need to see you to know you are fat. You saw a title, this title, a title which does not but put you down and tell you to keep reading as if it were there to egg you on to further self-loathing, and here you are, reading these very works just slightly faster than I could type them. So you see, you are fat; reading these words only gives my argument weight.
Petrified? No, no, I know you were that still as soon as you turned on that laptop. Okay fine, cheap shot, and yeah that was only there to be a quip about weight. But seriously, right now you are reading a tumblr post about weight, only stopping here between thousands of thinspiration photos and pictures of perfectly crafted foods, the ultimate slap in the face.
Food is delicious, and advertisements and media endorsements and models and actresses and the promises of fame and beauty just out of reach is, well, delicious too. Perhaps too delicious though; tasty enough that then dieting can be seen as both gluttony and envy mixed into one.
So then, which sin tickles your urges? Do you indulge in food and live a healthy life? Or would you rather expel each meal and seek nutrition through the AA cup of a six foot anorexic model? It seems, to me at least, that either way you will find yourself full; whether that is the contentment of a belly having eaten just enough or attaining the exoskeleton of a holocaust victim. then being so vainglorious and full of yourself that you only further perpetuate the cycle of miserable envy and social gluttony to degrade another generation to your form.
You see, you ARE fat. We are ALL fat. You are reading this because in some way, shape, or form, the compulsion to be slim is affected you and altering your behaviors. Don’t let it hurt you. Anorexia, bulimia, and the rest weigh on your health, your abilities, your growth, and your potential in a way that a standard two-thousand calories daily never can. If everyone is fat then the real question is, how fat do you want to be.
Its a fissure fissure fissure fissure. A crack, right through my brain my brain my brain, my. Its, I can’t work right, broke broke broken, I’m broken, you broke me, now I fissured, fissure fissure fissure. Cracked brain. I don’t, I can’t, this isn’t right. It feels wrong, so wrong, wrong wrong WRONG! Stop it hands, I SAID STOP IT! The trembling, they’re always tremblingandhitting. Face, shaking, coursing with rage. Hands stop hitting! Stop stop STOPdon’tSTOP. Get it out, let it out. I don’t want to feel this; don’t want to be angry. NO! NO MORE ANGER! No more, no more, please, no more. Stop fidgetting, control yourself. Just control. Stop the finger tapping, oh the tapping. Click click click, clickityclickclickclackcrack, so many cracks. NO! Stop this, stop this, STOP THIS. Not another twitchy NO, no more involuntary…no, no more. Never more. Never ever more. Never ever ever ever ever ever ever again. No No No. Not, no. Why me, why this. STOP RIPPING APART MY HEAD! STOP CRACKING AND CLaCKING AND CliCKING AND TWITCHING AnD HITTING AND SMACKING AND HURTING. Please, just stop the hurting…
Breathe, just breathe, that’s it breathe, only breathe. Oh and jump.
Vision, blurring. Eyes wide open, yet never achieving more than half their potential. Experience and memories, the events of a day, all collecting in the growing mounds of flesh below the eyes. Eyelashes blocking sight; such an odd view. Its as if each lash were a tiny line connecting eye lid to experience and memories; as if every urge and need of my body revolved around sleep.
Why can’t I sleep…
