Sometimes when I'm bored at work, I engage myself in stupid writing exercises... I know, I'm a nerd... Since I haven't had a lot of time to write a blog entry this week, I decided to share one of my latest exercises. Sometimes I like to take an abstract concept and a random object and do my best to link them through metaphor. Usually it is something I am looking at out a window or something sitting on my desk. It's a good way to keep my writing muscles flexed on weeks when I do less writing than I would like.
KARMA
Karma is a dog, bitten by fleas and hysterical because of it. It lashes out at the hand that hits it, as often as the hand that feeds it. It’s matted brown and white hair is caked with the tears of the unjust and the blood of the righteous. Sometimes we put it on a leash and call it domesticated, but much like a wolf in a dog park, we can never truly trust it. It will never truly belong to anyone nor can anyone call it master. It’s eyes glow in the darkness or the light, never sleeping, always stalking. It watches you as you wander blissfully down the street, all the while ignoring the old man begging for money on the corner. You may look the other way, but the flea-bitten bitch never will.
Karma is the color black. It sucks in all the light around it, giving nothing back in return, except misery and despair. No light escapes it, it is the absence of one thing, yet it is the presence of something else. Drop a little of it into any color and it will darken even the lightest, turning white to gray, pink to maroon, and a noontime sky to the darkest moonless midnight. It is not inherently evil. Instead, it is a tool, like a hammer, or a force of nature like the unforgiving justice of pollution. It takes and it gives in equal measure. It corrupts and highlights. It is balance. The text upon a page would not be visible if their black ink was not illuminated against the untouched snow of the paper. Karma is black. It is friend and foe, the absence of color, and the meshing of all colors. It is the atmosphere of nightmares and the canvas for the starry artistry of the universe.
Karma is coffee. It burns the tongues of the unwary. it is a thick steaming dark liquid caffeine capable of giving you a shot in the arm of validation or a wet burning lap of justice. Found on almost any street corner, any supermarket, or in any house, big or small, rich or poor, British or American, its tastes vary, but it remains coffee nonetheless. Its flavors are as plentiful as the stars in the sky and the peoples of the Earth. Most prefer it hot, with a quick validation, and that is how it is best recognized. Yet, others prefer it cold, believing that is the way it is best served.
Karma is my fingers upon the keyboard, fat and awkward muddling their way through, corrupting my words, changing my intentions, enhancing my messages. The mistakes are obvious and glaring, but when working properly, the finesse goes unnoticed. Success is seamless, the words upon the page appearing as if they had always belonged there, like pillars of stone upon a mountain.There is no question as to how those words were created. We assume they had always been there and always will. When Karma works it's undetectable, like oxygen. Only when we stub our toe is the invisible force made real and powerful and terrible. Only do I notice the fatness of my fingers when I mkae the misatkes that so fsutrate me.
Karma is Idaho. It sits in the middle of everything untouched by the oceans of civilization, yet somehow dependent upon it for their potato crop of justice.
Karma is like Google, it is a big unfathomable concept, that knows way too much about me. It is intrusive as it is reliable. It judges my actions and directs me to addresses it believes I should go. It is innovative, creative, and a gigantic convienent-loving, cuddly, big brother. Whether we know it or not, it controls the world, no matter how much we want to deny it. It has it darker aspects and technical difficulties, but much of that remains hidden to me. I must blindly trust in it's power, whether used fairly or not. I fear its power, yet I need it nonetheless.
KARMA
Karma is a dog, bitten by fleas and hysterical because of it. It lashes out at the hand that hits it, as often as the hand that feeds it. It’s matted brown and white hair is caked with the tears of the unjust and the blood of the righteous. Sometimes we put it on a leash and call it domesticated, but much like a wolf in a dog park, we can never truly trust it. It will never truly belong to anyone nor can anyone call it master. It’s eyes glow in the darkness or the light, never sleeping, always stalking. It watches you as you wander blissfully down the street, all the while ignoring the old man begging for money on the corner. You may look the other way, but the flea-bitten bitch never will.
Karma is the color black. It sucks in all the light around it, giving nothing back in return, except misery and despair. No light escapes it, it is the absence of one thing, yet it is the presence of something else. Drop a little of it into any color and it will darken even the lightest, turning white to gray, pink to maroon, and a noontime sky to the darkest moonless midnight. It is not inherently evil. Instead, it is a tool, like a hammer, or a force of nature like the unforgiving justice of pollution. It takes and it gives in equal measure. It corrupts and highlights. It is balance. The text upon a page would not be visible if their black ink was not illuminated against the untouched snow of the paper. Karma is black. It is friend and foe, the absence of color, and the meshing of all colors. It is the atmosphere of nightmares and the canvas for the starry artistry of the universe.
Karma is coffee. It burns the tongues of the unwary. it is a thick steaming dark liquid caffeine capable of giving you a shot in the arm of validation or a wet burning lap of justice. Found on almost any street corner, any supermarket, or in any house, big or small, rich or poor, British or American, its tastes vary, but it remains coffee nonetheless. Its flavors are as plentiful as the stars in the sky and the peoples of the Earth. Most prefer it hot, with a quick validation, and that is how it is best recognized. Yet, others prefer it cold, believing that is the way it is best served.
Karma is my fingers upon the keyboard, fat and awkward muddling their way through, corrupting my words, changing my intentions, enhancing my messages. The mistakes are obvious and glaring, but when working properly, the finesse goes unnoticed. Success is seamless, the words upon the page appearing as if they had always belonged there, like pillars of stone upon a mountain.There is no question as to how those words were created. We assume they had always been there and always will. When Karma works it's undetectable, like oxygen. Only when we stub our toe is the invisible force made real and powerful and terrible. Only do I notice the fatness of my fingers when I mkae the misatkes that so fsutrate me.
Karma is Idaho. It sits in the middle of everything untouched by the oceans of civilization, yet somehow dependent upon it for their potato crop of justice.
Karma is like Google, it is a big unfathomable concept, that knows way too much about me. It is intrusive as it is reliable. It judges my actions and directs me to addresses it believes I should go. It is innovative, creative, and a gigantic convienent-loving, cuddly, big brother. Whether we know it or not, it controls the world, no matter how much we want to deny it. It has it darker aspects and technical difficulties, but much of that remains hidden to me. I must blindly trust in it's power, whether used fairly or not. I fear its power, yet I need it nonetheless.
No comments:
Post a Comment