The Rant Corner: Octo's Lexophilliac Tendencies

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This is a record of all small little tidbits I write,

whether i spend 3 hours on them,

or write as I think and never look back.

Enjoy.

-O

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As valentine's day approaches, I've come to the conclusion that my significant other is rather an odd one. Unlike most people who know exactly who the other person is, mine took quite a bit of time to find....

My valentine has been with me through just about everything, all the downs, all the ups. This beautiful human being has given me hope, helped me raise my morals, and better myself. He pushes me to be a better person, a kinder, stronger, more patient me. He loves me no matter what I do, and as hard as it is, he tries to accept me for who I really am. This guy is me. I love me. not in a narcissistic sort of way, but in an accepting, confident, warm manner. I've met a lot of people, and none of them have influenced me without my permission. Nobody changed my mind without me allowing them to do so. It's taken a very long time, but I can finally say that this valentine's day I am confortable with me. Just ....me.
I am who I am, and that me is a beautiful, amazing, intelligent me, and I've come to realize this. Granted, usually my bashfulness will hide it, and at those times I think of myself as less than what I could be, but it's at those times that I have to realize that I am much more than anyone gives me credit for.

You, reader, are much more than anyone gives you credit for. We are nothing but atoms thrown together in a fashion that allows us to be who we are, and out of all the ways those atoms could have aligned, they aligned to create you. A singular arrangement in all of the universe, one to never have been seen before, and one that will never be seen again.
You are unique. I am unique. We all are unique. And that's what makes us special. This valentine's day, I ask of you to not forget yourself whilst diving to make someone else happy. Remember who you are, and that you are an amazing, beautiful, smart, caring, gentle, fun, wonderful, and all around awesome human being.

And don't you ever forget it. :)

Yours truly,

-O

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I want hot chocolate with a peppermint candy cane in it. Like, the rich chocolate with a hint of caramel. And then then cool peppermint mixed in... The frothy layer on top that sticks to your upper lip. Mmmmm...

Dim lighting, coming from softly glowing Christmas lights wrapped around a small evergreen on the corner of the room. The sound of a train winding around its base creating a muffled background noise. And the moonlight shining through the parts of the window that haven't been covered with snow yet.
I love winter. How the nights glow when the moon is out, the white powdery flakes dancing round about in a synchronized frenzy and then softly falling to the ground.. The times spent looking outside the window with that one repetitive music CD your parents always play in the background. The smell of pine through the house, and the multicolored anticipation that comes with it. -O

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sometimes during sunny days I enjoy sitting inside and looking out the window, wondering what it would be like living in a world where everyone enjoyed the company of others. a world where you could be you, and I could be me, and nobody would be jealous or angry for us acting how we think we should. and then sometimes my mind wanders towards the possibility of living outside, away from home, in a world where social interaction is key, where I am not hiding behind a keyboard and screen, one where I must be part of a group or be an outcast, wondering which group I could be in, which group I would like to be in. where my life, oddly shaped like a piece from a different puzzle, would match, and if it would match. and with that thought, comes another: is there out there, somewhere, another piece, just as lost as I am, waiting for fate to help us stumble into each other? if that were to happen, would we connect immediately, or would we fumble trying to fit together as other "normal" pieces do? have I stumbled into this perfect connection before? was I too blind to my own self to see it? if a chance is lost, a chance such as that, is there a chance that such chance may occur again? by then I realize that my inwards are growling at the fact that I spent all day pondering on the inevitable and had forgotten to eat again. I leave the window to the rays of sun floating in, and go search for nourishment, whilst these heavy thoughts swirl and twist inside my very much lost head, creating patterns and ideas much too complicated to write down or explain. -O

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The slow sound of rain pitter-pattering against the window wakes you up. A yawn, followed by a small stretch, and your eyes open slightly. You realize that the window must have been left open a crack last night as a light chill crawls across the bedroom floor and brings the smell of moist earth and life to your nose. Blinking against the moody sunlight coming from the only window in the room, you push yourself up on your elbows and wrap the pink cotton sheets around yourself tighter, fighting against the breeze. Now that the brain is finally awake, you locate the window on the left of the bed. You stand up and use the sheets as a cape to protect you against the early chill that comes with every foggy Swiss morning, and walk past the foot of the bed and then to the left, making sure to avoid the cold paneled pine floor by stepping on clothes that lay scattered on the floor. One hand on the window sill, you take one last breath of that fresh unpolluted morning air and then slide the window downwards, sealing the room from the outside world. You walk back to the bed, avoiding hitting your head on the steeply angled roof, and your toes on the dark oak chest at the base of the lavishly ornate bed. Realizing the bed is now cold from lack of top sheets and multiple layers of blankets which now adorn your shoulders, you reach for the small nightstand that rests next to the bed and grab the book that you were reading late into the night. In the same motion you lightly pull on the thin silver chain hanging from inside the crocheted lamp that takes most of the surface area, turning the yellow light off, and briskly walk towards the old radiator heater across the room. -O

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The worn out green couch, a familiar setting. The old laptop on my lap; warm, comfortable, assuring. The keys covered with a light layer of grease from overuse begin to tap, fingers slowly moving over them struggling to form words. The beginning phrases and sentences, all alone, bearing the weight of the entire composition, prepare the page and the reader for the majestic paragraph that is about to delight them. But lo, the paragraph is nonexistent still, for a story isn't something one can throw together at a whim's away. With careful typing, a few sessions of backspace spamming, and a lot of self-acceptance and reassurance that what I have down is good enough, the body begins to appear. A hazy mist of words begins to form in my mind, the words feeding themselves, like an autonomous machine creating itself from nothing. Like any sort of thing you start, it eventually picks up speed, hands moving in a synchronized flurry, a mix of touch typing and classical piano playing coming together as one, with over-the-hand reaches and fantastical fingerings that no typing teacher would ever approve of. The machine is alive now, the art rolling at full speed through the paper. My mind is no longer on the subject at hand, but wanders through its own hallways, peeking into rooms, trying to find something, anything, that it could use to help this creation come alive. Every now and then I stop, and read back the last few sentences, either approving, or editing. Other times, the conscious is long gone into itself, on a trip where no thought will bother it, and the fingers just type away with no specific topic, order, or spelling, words stumbling onto the paper as a newborn into the world, confused, dazed, not quite sure why they are there. Most times, that's how I feel as well, and the words and I gain a sort of bond. They understand me, and help me cope, slowly but surely bringing back the mind that was hiding within itself. The phrases slowly coax my courage up, and my self-doubt down, restoring equilibrium once again. Words I put down, words I created, now helping me. We've come a full circle now. I thank the words, and they just smile, knowingly, reassuring me that next time I need a pick me up, all I have to do is type again. -O

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Affection. We humans cannot live with it, as it drives us to pride and stupidity, and on the other hand, cannot live without it. What is it that causes us to mentally and psychologically embrace another human as if they were one with us? Why is it a need? Is it for procreation? Maybe it's the sense of being. Having someone else that accepts you for who you are allows you to accept them, and ultimately accept yourself through them. Granted, though, not everyone needs, nor wants, this warmth inside their chests, the butterflies on their tummy, the weak knees, the stumbling of words as your heart races. No indeed, they prefer to isolate themselves in the dark crevasses inside their own soul, ignoring the beautiful person that they are, wishing they were somehow better. These people do not like socialization, but instead lurk in the shadows of someone else, whether on purpose or unknown to them. They yearn for someone who would be so kind as to reach out a hand into the darkness, unafraid, to help them stand, to help them grow, someone to remove the heavy cloak of psychological putrefaction from their shoulders. Fear overtakes them, though, and when the hand is outstretched, crying their name, they shy away, obscure their face, ignore the swelling up in their throat, push themselves deeper into the mental hole filled with self-doubt and depression. But sometimes... something catches them by surprise... Whether it was a sight, a sound, they are not sure.. But it hooks them, deep in their being, something they cannot ignore, and slowly reels them in, away from the shadows, from the negative that is their mind. The hand becomes a relief, and a companion. A distraction that would soon guarantee the end of the dark days. And sometimes, the hand becomes afraid, and retracts, leaving the lost soul in the middle of territory unknown. The roles switch, then, the darkness working to claim what she thinks is rightfully hers whilst her previous refugee, having tasted of that delicious fruit which is love and life, begs for the hand to come back, reaching out, calling out, to no avail.

And here we find ourselves, ladies and gentlemen. This is the human predicament. My human predicament. I am a mere mortal. Allergic to bullets, most, if not all, poisons, guillotines, and the strongest narcotic of them all, one which dulls the senses, lulls the mind, and brightens anyone's day, this drug called love. A strong word, some would say. They would be correct. It is strong enough for me. And now it is my turn to reach out, to do my best to hold on to the hand that helped me. If I can do anything, let it be this: That I may repay the favour. -O

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Below is a collection of small literary helps for any and all who stumble upon this page.
The list is updated regularly (every couple days or so)
Feel free to bookmark and check back for more ideas, thoughts, or just beautiful words strung together.

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salt and pepper running through his hair, the seasoned wisdom showing.
the window was open, the distant sound of traffic floating in with the light salty breeze, lulling and dulling her senses.
White like the clouds, black like tar, and the freedom of a bold orange fluttering in the wind.
Indeed, a discount does shed some light into the darkness of the empty pouch.
He left quietly, a cloak of silence resting on his shoulders and drifting swiftly behind him.

Octo's Lexophilliac Tendencies

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