numanbeing

His new invention, a glass globe, with miniature beings, living inside.

There was much of everything, the carver himself had in his world.

House, furniture, rivers, trees, gardens.

Small little people, who were once molded by his competent hands, now had come alive inside the glorious little globe.

Everyday the carver would gaze at his creation, like a starstruck child, with twinkle in his eyes, his giddy chin resting on his hands.

He wanted nothing more than to watch them live, flourish, and continue.

As though misfortune had a way of finding, even the miniscule crowds of living, it intruded the globe, all so with ease.

The carver would try to tail the misfortune, but the shielding glass, too little for his frame, would not allow him in.

As though, he were deemed an outsider, meant to witness but never participate.

From the outside, the poor carver would watch his miniature creation crumble.

A little person drowning in the lake, he so belovedly created, helplessly he would watch.

Seeking anyone inside, who would look his way.

"Not a finger of mine is welcome.

My frame, unfit for any entry.

Helplessly I burn, as the large witness, cursed to see it all.

If only any little ones, from the inside world, could meet my gaze.

Perhaps the infectious concern, would catch their ways.

I am on the outside, worried sick.

Help me, help you.

It was red and pure.

Well-fit for me, fated to my feets.

We were meant to walk together, a million mile.

Right in the box, I kept her with love.

Eager to walk our first step, together.

For she was meant for me, so was her endurance.

But in came, a distant cousin.

Borrowing my pair, she walked a 1000 miles with it. I counted her every steps.

After her, came a forever friend.

Yet again borrowing my pair, she walked a 1000 miles with it. I counted her every steps.

All of the use, rendering her tired.

And when my turn came, right in the middle, worn out she became.

I asked in my grievance, "was where I wanted to go, too far?"

"Did I walk you too much?"

"Could I have been too much?"

With a torn sole, and a bruised red leather, she spoke,

"For you alone, If I was.

For your feet alone, If I was.

Wherever you aimed was within my reach.

For I am not meant to be shared."

Your destination, a million step away.

Your destined shoe, capable of walking a million step.

Its sharing minuses many, and as you walk off, right in the middle, before the reach, your fated shoe gives out.

There are somethings meant just for you.

Made to endure whatever of yours.

Do not let anyone make use of it.

With its paws scraped and tail crushed, the lil pup cried in agony.

Untrusting of the hands, tracing the wounds.

The lil pup winced and bit the giving palm, out of sheer distress the lil pup's fangs chewed the helping hand.

Many hours after, as the touch of cure began lingering close to the puddle of ache.

The lil pup gazed his healer, with tear-cleaned eyes and saw nothing but a help.

A help that had saved the land of ease, from the overbearing tides of pain.

"Can I live with you?"

The lil pup asked his savior.

"Ofcourse I will not idle around for free.

I will help you with your cause.

If you wish to save and cure, I will aide your thoughts."

Out of the savior's yes, a sense of duty began rising in the lil pup's heart.

Each new day, the beloved doctor would bring in, wounded furr-patients, and in each of them, the lil pup would see himself. His very first encounter with help and how unfamiliarly he had responded. The itch in his fangs, the hostility out of terror, the dread out of distrust.

So it began, the rising of the lil pup's own cause.

There he remained, near every bleeding ones.

Snuggling out many 'there theres'.

As each fear driven young pup, resisted and aimed at the palms of the beloved helper.

The lil pup would nuzzle his snout, speaking in touch, a language only those who suffered could understand.

"For I know, your intentions are clean, dear healer.

But you do not speak our language.

You help but do not ever need yourself, any help.

You do not get picked up by a giant stranger, get placed underneath a blinding whitelight, on a cold cold silver cradle and have a strange hand approach places where even the wind's blows feel like a dig of blades.

Such is why, I shall stay here.

As you help with your heart's content.

I shall be there, for them, a living testament, that survived a foreign help.

Let someone who has been saved by you, guide another to calm."

Gratefully spoke the helpful pup.

The beloved doctor's new furr-assistant.

With a smiling tone,

"Please and thank you.

Please and thank you."

Was all the beloved one could speak.

The ones who have been healed by an unseen force, can only be the source of comfort to those who are now on the verge of being saved.

There are two things you must survive.

One, the terror that is inflicted when alive.

Two, the terror that is conflicted when helped.

If you survive them both, the other side will be a new place where perhaps, unknowingly so, you will be the foreign unseen doctor's assistant, truly assigned for the sole purpose of easing the disbelief, comforting the distressed, with a coat that says, "been there. Done that."

Your expertise, being familiarity.

A trustable source that is not necessarily about medics, but the methods.

"When his hand approaches, the cradle underneath might be cold, but the helping man himself is very warm.

When he is engaging with the wounds, it is not his malice but a curious inspection.

Trust me, he has done the same to me, I have lived through his help and have survived."

What is your inspiration?

Emotions.

For it never hides one shirt over the other.

It shows, in all openness, what it has for you to choose from.

The corner library your livingroom hosts, remains true.

So does the kitchen rack that holds all meals.

It is true, so are your eyes, when searching them through.

You leave no thing unseen and unconsidered.

The world is that closet, that corner library, that unorganized kitchen rack you dig through.

There are onions and there are potatoes.

There are peppers and there are pumpkin.

Noticing all of it, you decide what your stomach wants to have.

There are velvet and there are cotton.

There are burgundy and there are greens.

Noticing each and everyone of it, you choose what civilized covers your flesh will wear.

Nothing goes unnoticed and you stand true.

Even if someone asks in all good manners, "why didn't you wear the green?" Never do you say, "there is no green."

For you stay true, and firm.

Thus in all boldness you respond,

"Its because I like this one better. I wanted to wear this today. The green is right there, inside the closet, noticed but unchosen. This is my choice and I have chosen this."

Palette full of colors, and look at what you've drawn. Do not say there was no choice. Stand true to what you've chosen.

If red is your choice, do not claim there was no blue right beside.

If blue is your choice, do not feign ignorance to the red beside.

Be bold to what you have chosen.

Like that of what you wear.

Like that of what you've eaten.

Like that of what you believe.

"Why are you unkind?"

"Its because there is no kindness."

"Its because I have chosen this."

"Why are you kind?"

"Its because there is no such thing as cruelty."

"Its because I have chosen this."

"Why did you not help them?"

"It is because the world works this way."

"It is because I have chosen this."

"Why did you help them?"

"Its because the world works this way."

"It is because I have chosen this."

Whatever your choice is, be bold with it.

Its people, an individual shape.

Life, a pot.

Reality, a stir.

Time, a cook.

All in aims to brew shades.

'Stir, stir' the living sings.

In the pot, plotting a cause.

Inside, a ship sinks with hundreds in its stomach.

The guiding captain swims to shore, with vigor to survive all on his own. On board the children cry, awaiting a rescue, from the outdoor sky.

The abandonment plunges the pot, brewing the most visceral grey.

In, many stayed behind, crossing the drowning hallways, into the salty sea.

'Give me your hand. We will all survive to the surface.' echoing compassion to the forsaken crowd.

Hand in hand, leaving none, striving to surface, united they become.

The unity plunders the plot, brewing the most delicate white.

From the caught shades,

What is your brush the most drawn to?

'Stir Stir', the living sings again,

In the pot, plotting another cause.

Inside, a mother leaves, her two sole children, in the hands of the viper'ish kind.

'So long! A must farewell!' The mother cries to her broken children and off she goes, to survive.

With surrounding so cruel, allowed was no child.

Thus, the left behind souls, grew tall too early.

With a taught repulsion to childhood, the two children were, with time, tall'ed towards parenthood.

The eldest dreaded their child's cry,

'shush!' and 'hush!', they maimed the child.

'You are not to cry. You are not to sing. You are not to pray. You are not to being.'

Lashing out tunes that they once heard someone scream.

Out from their way, spiraled out a violent shade of blue.

The youngest, however, remembered themself as a child, each pale tears out another, reminding of what the past had once offered, an inescapable turmoil, out their little hands.

'Safety a big word, speakable only by those tall.

And if I must speak, I shall speak, what you cannot but deeply deserve.'

Sang the youngest, and from their choice, surfaced a beautiful shade of gold.

From the produced shades,

What will your brush dive into?

'Stir Stir', sings the living, yet again.

In the pot, plotting the third cause of the day.

Inside, a man meets his potential friends.

More than three, there are, for him to choose.

With each, he spends half of his life.

With one, his early years, planning future adventures together, with their milky teeths.

The other ones, his early youth, during the forgetfulness of his passion, joining a new team. What and who came before, slowly fading out his growing mind. Tragedy ofcourse, the ticking time, that grew apart the early bond of innocence, that corrupted the later souls.

Poor was his fortune, as he made fickle friends who missed none of his absence, who described his nature using languages, ugly.

The deafening betrayal, the blinding disloyalty, breaking the youth's hope in comradery.

"He thinks he is all that! He said this and this about you! I tell you, he is rotten. We best believe to stay far apart from that mistake of a creature."

The faithful ears, delivered all those sayings right to his heart.

With wilting hope, 'Never again. Never again.' He cried.

Out from this terror, bursted forth a despicable shade of violet.

Passing many years, reaching the lines of thirty. There he met, a different crowd. Nolonger wearing similarities that once guaranteed him an unbreakable oath. Unfamiliar and unappealing, his reasonings found. But with years of meet, noticed he, the unyielding seek of his presence in a room empty of him, the uncorrupted gaze that recognized his truth, the untarnished tongue that spoke the correct terms in his descriptions, the valuable gaze that offered patience, the eager ears that pleaded for his words. This crowd, was different, so unalike his kind, so unalike his past aims. 'This time, have I made a friend?' with his surrendering heart, pondered he.

Out of this happening, emerged a hopeful shade of pink.

From the birthed shades,

The salt, the pepper- every cook of her, emptied the whole container of it.

Each bite, a shock to his little soul.

"Salt! Pepper! O' good heavens. What a horrible ingredient. I shall stray far far away from it. Wretched to me, they are."

He would vow with his terrorized tongue.

As he aged, the kitchen was now all his.

A pot he placed on a blazing stove.

Paired trickles of oil, with tenderized meat.

All that makes a stew, he poured and paired.

Leaving salt and pepper, both untouched.

Taking a seat to dine, expecting a delicacy, he nom'ed his first spoon and outloud,

"A bland disaster! A bland disaster!" Cried out he.

Every experience that meets our senses, an ingredient that makes a stew of life complete.

Sometimes one ingredient or more, overpowers the bud of our lives. From that, we conclude that the thing so loud in taste, in the whole pot of life, is to be eradicated entirely.

When in all wisdom,

borrows the page.

The page then, borrows the book.

The book, borrows the table.

The table, borrows the ground.

The ground, borrows the earth.

The earth, borrows the universe.

The universe, borrows the unknown.

The unknown then, borrows the known.

The painting, borrows the frame.

The frame then, borrows the wall.

The wall, borrows the house.

The house, borrows the land.

Everything borrows, the grand thing from before.

Such is creation, a cycle of borrowing space.

Like all of this, is but his interior.

A spiritual intestine, metaphorical veins, lungs, etc.

And each time I pray for change, I hear a voice within me that says, "you have to do it yourself."

Its like god is ill, and is divinely aware of his health's shortcomings.

But he can only rely on what is inside of him, to cure him.

Like white blood cells, we are, inherently functioning to notice unwanted viruses.

I think what god does is, take pills, suitable medications.

Each high fever, if is a whiteblood cell's cry for help and prayer and us taking medication sending backup.

Perhaps god works that way.

Perhaps us white blood cell, aware of how some virus overpowers the good, pray, thinking god himself will arrive inside where we live and gets his hands dirty.

But it seems, more often, God's way is like us in our sick days.

Taking medication to support the cells that do us good, in hopes the better ones win.

Perhaps, god works in such ways.

He takes a pill, and hopes, the one inside of him, fighting to protect, wins...receives even just a tiny bit of boost.....more backup.....

As long as god is alive, perhaps illness will follow.

Same as us, can't blame a living man for catching a fever or two each seasonal months.

Perhaps, god has his own way of helping.

Perhaps, he is aware of how harmful any inflict on his surface can be.

Perhaps that is why, he relies most on his insides.

"I am sick.

I am deeply in pain.

Every external cure, but an inflict.

As grandly hospitable I am, I am as much helpless in my own regards.

Such is why, it must be from within.

It must be from within.

It must be from you.

Any cure.

Any solution.

Any help.

Any save.

with empathy wild and young.

The night when my father returned,

Unannounced from the shelter, where his follies were kept at bay.

There was a huge ruckus.

Loud noises of panic, concern, and I could hear the once settled house, creaking beneath my feet.

But even so, as a child, when heart is the most fragile, and fear all so eagerly available.

I worried not about my own, about how all of it was making me feel.

I was more concerned about my father's bare feet, the feet that climbed the stone walls, and ran all the way home.

I cried because I imagined how painful his run must have been.

I was quite a jealous child.

Never was I unreasonable,

I had many reasons to.

I was jealous of my aunt, my brother, my sister, everyone that meant something to my mother.

It was not made clear to me, that I was loved.

But it was made clear to me, that she loved everybody.

A shellfish was a shellfish.

After the intrusion inside its flesh.

It became all about the pearl.

The flesh inside, from the very early identity, not of an interest any more.

Now it had become all about the shiny pearl buried inside the folds.

Men, a shellfish.

Intruded by a foreign cavity.

All year long, living in ache, producing a fine pearl from inside.

After all is done, he becomes the product of all his tragic making.

And he will forget who he was, before the cavity.

He will remember himself, as a pearl.

Nolonger the shell, nolonger the flesh.

Just a shiny little pearl.

Much beautiful in price.

Adornable and easy to be sold.

What pearls have the world farmed inside you?

Has its glory strayed you away from all your beginnings?

Dear shellfish clutching the pearls,

The you, you were,

Before all of this.

Do you remember or have you erased your memory?

The world might be filled with necks longing to be adorned. And out of you, a pearl or two might arrive.

The world will wear it on its neck, that is no doubt.

But a shellfish you are,

with a loyalty towards the flesh, once stung by a grain.

For that, you must never name yourself a pearl.

On his stomach where the world rested, aching.

Unwell was god, unwell was his belongings.

Swoosh~ from the universal matter, alchemized was you, a cure.

With big sea waters, he gulped his creation.

Many years have passed, but the stomach still remains unwell.

Did you fail?

No, you went hiding.

A cure, refusing to dissolve with the world.

You hid, you ran.

You shielded yourself from the fluid touch of life.

Fearing being one with your purpose.

Like a timid Tylenol, with a harsh belief.

"If I dissolve, I will make the worst of this body.

Any sane water when stirred in my company, results to a ruin."

Dear cure of a mysterious ache in this world,

Dissolve. Surrender.

Be yourself and meet life as you are.

As time stirs you and the world together, something definitely will find a relief.

I tried being a bottlegirl together with a cute girl.🧚‍♀️🍾

It was a part time thing but wow it was fun.(๑•̀ᄇ•́)و ✧

An experience to remember. 🥳

I used to wear long skirts and dark wedge.

Wouldn't call it goth or alternative but it was something of mine🐈‍⬛🔮

I am a witch gotta look like one.😌🐈‍⬛