The Gargoyle and The Angel

Gargoyles are carved stone figures on Gothic churches. In architecture, they were made to convey water away from roofs. In myths, it is believed that these creatures come to life at night to scare evil spirits off. 

I wrote this over the last few weeks. I guess a lot of us feel a certain emptiness coming to a stage where everyone you know has to drift apart. I filled the emptiness writing this.

                                                                                     

I guess my ‘24 hour rule’ doesn't really work. I need a little more to be over her. I take a seat in the study room. Most of my books are now packed in huge wooden boxes. Except one, that is. It’s on the table.

Her memory lingers on like the scent of a crushed rose. A part of me knew this was coming. A part of me never wanted to believe it. I've been living in dreams. I guess I always have. And so I know I’ll be fine. No, I hope I’ll be fine. I really do. 

Part of me knows that by tomorrow I’ll be gone, far away from this. A part of me is sure I’ll never leave.

My phone buzzes but I don’t want to pick it up. Its two buzzes so it’s probably a message. But I don’t want to see it. I leave the study. My bag’s all packed. I've already checked it twice. Almost as if I've forgotten something. Like I've left something out. But I know it’s not something that will fit in this bag.

I walk into the kitchen and grab an apple. I don’t have the heart to eat it. I walk back to the study. My phone buzzes again. It’s probably one of the friends. I know I should meet them before I leave. And as much as I want to leave this place, rather what it’s become, it’s almost as if I can’t. And so I don’t want any more memories anchoring me down. I couldn't take it. 

The aforementioned book lies solitary on the table. It’s titled ‘The Gargoyle and The Angel’. It’s a thin book that caught my attention at a book fair about two years ago.  There’s something really intriguing about it.

I've read it around a hundred times. The story never changes. Years ago there dwelled a gargoyle atop a famous cathedral.  He wasn't the only gargoyle on the cathedral, but certainly the loneliest there ever was. For his perch was the highest and his body the most stained by the wind and the rain. And at night, as the legend has it, all the gargoyles came alive and lollygagged around, for the town was free of the evil spirits they were made to fend off; he would be alone atop the cathedral staring at the stars. For the whole town bored him, and the cathedral seemed to remain ever unchanged. The only thing that did change was the sky. And so he’d spend all his nights staring at the sky above, looking at the stars that shined so bright. And in those stars he’d see shapes. Figures. A flower. A cloud. A fruit. A human. Beasts of all sizes and kinds. Even winged ones like he was. But never a gargoyle. Never. For gargoyles are a mix of all those creatures, but seen a little too differently.

This made the gargoyle sadder. For even in the night sky he loved so much he couldn't see himself. He had never heard tales about gargoyles. The ones he did from the old gargoyles of the northern wall of the cathedral showed his kind as antagonists. Never a poem was written about them. Never a song was sung. And famously St. Bernard of Clairvaux spoke out against them. The old gargoyles had long gone now. Taken down because they had worn out. So, there were no tales for him.

But as it happened one day, the gargoyle on his perch was woken up by this bright luminous light. It was a creature he had never seen but only heard about from the old gargoyles of the North wall. A bright face with the most beautiful eyes, skin as clear as the sky on moonlit nights, hair covering the face like the clouds would hover over the moon sometimes, and wings beautifully shining unlike his leathery stained ones. Surely this creature before him was an ‘angel’. The last time these creatures were seen was about a hundred years ago, when the Plague broke out on the town. They appeared as a sign of blessing to the land as God’s messengers, even before St. Romain had cursed the gargoyles to protect the churches of towns across the very land.  

He looked at the angel before him, sitting there holding her knees. Her eyes gazing at him in surprise, as he rose dusting himself off, staring back in amazement. He could see a speck of fear in her eyes. She asked him if he was one of the gargoyles she had heard about. Very shamefully the gargoyle told her he was. He didn't ask her if she was an angel, because he was very sure she was.

Somewhere inside, the gargoyle felt she’d leave. They all do. Even the occasional bird atop the cathedral would leave at the sight of him. But somehow she did not. He asked him if he scared her. She said he didn't.

And so the angel would come to the gargoyle every fortnight. They’d talk about the view from up there. They’d talk about the sky. She’d tell him stories of distant lands and magnificent creatures. He told her whatever little tales he had inherited and the ones he conjured up from what he observed. Never had the gargoyles felt the way he felt waiting for the angel every time. Expectations would ache his soul in the sweetest way possible.

And one night, while gazing at the sky like they always did, the angel showed the gargoyle a shape in the stars. A shape that looked just like a gargoyle. Just like him. And the gargoyle wondered how he had ever missed it. But he also knew that angels did live in the skies above.

Although, the angel told him all the tales she could and all that she felt, he couldn't as much in return. For his heart was made of stone; and angels are creatures too majestic and too divine. More divine than gargoyles would ever be. And although a few experts will tell you that gargoyles too are known as the ‘Angels of the Dark’; a lot of them will also tell you that they were made to keep water away from the roofs of churches, and that that was there only duty as their kind.

And so as much as he hated it, the gargoyle remained just enough still and cold, for he feared what he thought he might get for his stone-cold stone heart, warmed almost prematurely by a tiny ember.

One night he waited for the angel but she never came. He waited until the morning rays of the sun turned him to stone. He waited the next and many nights ahead, but he didn't see her again.

Unfortunately, the story doesn't have an end. The last few conclusive pages of the book were torn away, leaving any reader clueless about what happened to the poor old gargoyle.

I feel the left-over pieces of the pages torn away, stapled and bound firmly to the book as if wanting to never let go until the story was complete. I felt for the pieces. I guess nobody wishes to leave until there is an ending to a story. But maybe sometimes there are no endings. Maybe sometimes getting used to abruptness is like that lukewarm glass of water that you have to quench your thirst with.

I want to believe that some terrible sadistic tore away the happy ending of the book for twisted pleasures, and there really was a happy ending to the story. I want to believe that the angel came back. I want to believe that the stars grew brighter for our gargoyle. I want to believe that his heart wasn't just a cold stone no more. I want to believe.

The phone buzzes. I keep the book down on the table. I pick up the phone up and walk outside the door. I’ll go meet a few of those who I call my own. And although I don’t have the slightest clue what tomorrow brings, better or worse, I’ll believe that angels do return; I’ll believe that things will turn out to be just fine and there’s a chance that there  will be happy endings.

Death/Love

I read somewhere that a poem cannot be about more than one thing and that it must have just a single central theme. Daft idea. That challenge was accepted and I wrote this, which can be read for both 'Death' and 'Love':

Sometimes I wear a cloak of satin and velvet

Sometimes I maybe naked, with a bow and arrow

But sometimes I wear a cloak darker than the night

I am known to this little child, yet I am to him the biggest mystery

To this old man here, I have brought pain and joy throughout his history

I am celebrated; as celebrated as anything could be

And yet at nights I cry, I weep

For as celebrated as I may be, I get blamed

I get blamed for when two young souls see trust in each other’s eyes

When the clouds get dark and one of them dies

For all the times when there’s betrayal 

It’s me who gets soaked in their tears, when they cry

It’s me who takes the blame, it is I

And so I weep

For I'm feared

Feared more than war is

Forbidden, I'm a young man’s worst nightmares

And a maiden’s curse

One healing hand and other full of daggers

I cut infinite names of my victims on stone walls of sorrow

While the other hand paints beautiful faces I borrow

 For as long as there is the wind, for as long runs time

I run through; crazed; silent, as speechless as a mime

Touching thousands I come across, more subjects to my crime

Running, sweating, shouting and screaming

The horrific sights of smiling faces; gleaming

Black birds follow, and I know what horrors for their future they’re scheming

I'm out of breath for everything’s real, I'm not dreaming

But then I stop

Time is up

And I stop

I can’t go on

Maybe I should just stop, end this

I can’t take it any more; and I know a thousand more that can’t

A thousand more victims that rage and rant

But I wish I could stop, But I can’t

For as long as there is the wind, for as long runs time

Because I know that someone right now is walking out the door and across the street

Because I know that someone is unaware of what fate on the next turn one might meet

And so I’ll move

I’ll keep on moving

Sometimes I wear a cloak of satin and velvet

Sometimes I maybe naked, with a bow and arrow

But tonight goes to all those who despise me; 

Tonight I wear a cloak of white

Also available on my collaboration blog 

I Swear

A lot of my friends and family tell me that I need anger management and need to control my swearing. So I looked into it and one of the suggestions I got was writing down the things I don’t like but not using curse words. Here goes nothing:

I get really frustrated and agitated sometimes and get quite a rage

My counsellor says I need to work on it but it’s quite normal for my age

I do admit I never was normal or completely mentally fit

Don’t really care about other people, they can all eat sh…..uh...er…faecal matter 

Just saying

I admit there are things that I don’t really like in my own life

Like the fact that my parents probably want me to get married by the age of thirty five

I really won’t like that, and I’ll have to be blunt

And if the girl annoys me I’ll stab that cu….uh…um…..that girl

(I wouldn't really do that…it’s just…hehe…anyway..)

I’m kind of socially awkward; I guess I mostly stay alone

I’m not the cool kid in school, I’m really not that known

I don’t get much female attention; I’m not noticed by chicks

So I don’t care about them either, they can go suck some d…uh...Danish chocolate bars, they’re nice

I really don’t have anything against the ladies… or Danish chocolates…or people. It’s just humour…I guess…..I hope

I’m kind of a rebel; I don’t really like the system

 Their rules and policies; I’m not usually with them

Crappy education system, anti-gay policies and telling us to lay off the ‘grass’

I don’t really care about the government, all the ministers can kiss my a…..wait…they can kiss my…uh...aunt (?)

I don’t know why I would write that. She’s a nice lady. Just ignore.

I don’t have plans for the future, I haven’t thought of a career

It makes me sick but I admit, I usually dig a well when the 11^th hour is near

8 figure salary job or unemployment; I really don’t have a clue

If you judge me or hate me after reading this here, have a nice day and f**k you
yeah that's what I said 'F**K you'
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I swear I can go on and on. I have a lot of curse words in my vocabulary and I can rhyme. Anyway, good luck and mind your language........not.

Death Note and Linkin Park

Found this in an old external drive. Did this a long time ago when I was I die hard Death Note fan (Guess I still am) and wanted to fuse it with my favorite band, Linkin Park. The video quality kinda sucks cause the episodes I had were not high quality and I didn't have a good video editor so used the Vista version of MS Movie Maker. This was a trip to memory lane as I wanted to upload this 4 years ago but forgot, and now here it is. ☺

Note: If you wanna watch Death Note in the near future and you haven't before, best skip this video cause its a bit of a teaser ;)

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any content in this video. There, I said it!

The Ballad of an Asshole

I haven't posted anything lately mainly because I was too lazy to type what I'd scribbled. I did try to type some stuff but gave up succumbing to laziness (for the lack of a better word). You know what they say, 'Procrastination is the mother of all joblessness' (No they don't). Anyway it was today when I came up with a great start when I thought of something that blew my own mind : Assholes have hearts too! I tried to relate it to the actual body part and a person labelled as an 'asshole'. It was something really random and in the end I wasn't able to make the relation I was looking for but ended up with a really retarded rhyme that doesn't make sense: 

Assholes have hearts too
Their hearts are like the perineum muscle
Cause assholes might be assholes
Their predicaments are like colonic hustle

They might seem gross and hairy
Still they do have gentle hearts
But when situations get really scary
They can muster deadly farts

An asshole might be an outcast
But they still have a lot of grit
On your favorite list they might be last
But they still hold up after all the shit

I really need to find better subjects for poetry -_-

Holiday Prick

I wrote this beat poem for the holidays. A little too late because Christmas is gone, for which I've been cursing myself for. Wanted to do something similar to Tim Minchin's Mitsubishi Colt and Storm, so you can see the effect. Its about this whole dilemma on what's the right way to wish a person on holidays. Without the music its really a poem(BTW Happy Holidays to you!):

It’s a cold windy noon

I'm strutting about, an unscheduled

Adventitous, unintentional walk

Through the market, minding my own business

Trying my best not to open my mouth or talk

Did I mention, its holiday season?

The shops are filled with glee and celebration

Maybe that’s why I'm outside in the streets

Instead of sitting at home, engaging in masturba…uh, ahem

 Umm, think I should buy some holiday decorations

As I walk down the market road with my purchases

I dodge unknown, unrecognisable faces and gazes

Till I see a person familiar

And as her eyes twinkle and her eyebrows she raises,

And recognizes me instantaneously and freezes

And starts walking towards me!

And just like that my socially awkward conscience comes into play

“Alright, relax and think about what your gonna say,

Think of something cool and smooth that doesn’t make you sound too gay,

 Not too douchey , arrogant or ‘playa out to play’ “

She’s right in front of me now, she’s not gonna sway

And I open my mouth, ‘don’t screw this up please!’ I pray

“A very Happy Holiday to you, how have you been?”

I blurt, “It’s been a long time, a long time indeed that I have seen

Your pretty eyes and long brown hair,

Haha just messing, there’s hardly anything to care…

…about. So what’s new? What’s cooking?

I should also add that dress of yours is fab-looking

I see, your following the newest fashion trend,

By the what brings you here?” ,She says, “Waiting for my boyfriend.”

Ok, this clearly was a waste of my time,

It was like a rap track without any rhyme,

But now I can’t be rude, can I ?

And so, I with lips shut like those of a mime,

And continuing without committing an ethical crime

I listen to her ‘now-a-little-less-interesting’ words

“Nothing really, bought a Christmas cake,

Too lazy these days to actually bake,

By the way,

You said ‘Happy Holiday’

But it’s actually Christmas Eve today,

I don’t get why is it that people use this term,

As if to say,

‘I care more about being politically correct and appearing grey’

Why not just name the damn holiday,

Instead of keeping a distance and skipping away

From the main reason of celebration, in this case:

‘Jesus Christ’s Birthday’?

I control my strong urge to facepalm,

Her words kill my happy greetings like napalm,

But I admit she does have a point,

And hasn’t just rolled a ‘read-that-on-Twitter’ joint

And so for a moment I do think,

And begin to speak hoping my ‘SS Impression’ doesn’t sink.

“Well, you do have a point there now I that I think about it,

But what about the people of other faiths that don’t fit

In this particular occasion or celebration

Wouldn’t wanna have their ears bit

And so I use this term,

Though I’m not a believer, I’m not a pesky worm

So I wanna treat all believers equally and fair

And don’t wanna appear like a total fucking square"

Well, she looks pissed now and she says,

“I don’t care about that sort of stuff,

I just think it’s a little too rough

Out there

And nobody really to cares,

What a person of some random faith has to think,

If people have one belief, they should also respect the other

But people don’t care a dime, they don’t bother

So screw this idea of being equal and fair,

And a word of advice to you: ‘Grow a pair’ “

Holding back another urge to facepalm,

I spit my temper and keep my calm,

Although she speaks ironic bullshit

Like screwing for virginity, or being sober by taking a hit

So I adjust my imaginary tie,

Look her in the eye,

Feeling not a least bit shy,

I say, “Well, if you think people really are always insensitive,

I suggest you quit your ‘Ideological laxative’

And concentrate on the facts of reality which,

Don’t really get affected by the fact that you’re a total bitch,

That you’re fundamentalist, one-track mind deserves to be in a ditch

That you have no idea what you say and what you think,

Your brain maybe the answer to the ‘missing link’

And that people do care, if they don’t, at least I do

And not appreciating diversity is totally stupid doo-doo

You yourself don’t really give a shit,

And expect others to, by saying that

‘So screw this idea of being equal and fair’?

Why the hell do you think I would wear,

A stupid Santa hat?

Cause I believe in a gift showering guy in red who is fat?

Is it because ‘Holiday season’ is really happy?

 Or because being an atheist is sometimes just boring and really crappy?

And since it’s a nice day and a even better occasion,

And I’m feeling really good,

I’ll step back and let you be the judge of that”
I say under my ‘politeness’ hood

And because I was rather fast for her, I was incomprehensible,

And because there are no conclusions, none of us really seem sensible,

Just then her boyfriend does come and says, “Happy holidays, dude”

And all she had to say was, “Awww, Isn't he cute?”
-_-

Nocturnal

This poem was inspired listening to Night Season by David Nevue, and goes out to all nocturnals like me, up at night looking out of the window, or looking at a window...in your computer (lame):

The sky clears up to a full moon,

bright, silver and young
The darkness lets out its grimly goons,
The night is just begun 

By the window cold sits the cold dew,
and I on my cold feet fixed
A creature of the night might be staring at you, 
goblins, gremlins or maybe mixed

Care to join me for a nightly walk?
To the darkness which meets the silvery sky
To the place where dark shadows stalk
Where wilderness hear's no man's cry

Are you sure you are alone?
Why don't you look under your bed?
Why does a chill run down your bone?
Why don't you run and hide instead?

I'm still sitting motionless,
by the dark window of my room
the words of a tale maybe painless,
say a prayer to keep from the nightly goons.