Haven

Hope Anew

2008-11-07T09:25:00.002-03:00

Long forgotten, buried in memories old,
Lies this tale begotten, from the myths of the few bold,
Who upon their shoulders was carried, our fate and theirs,
As to have their legacy never buried, the answer to our prayers.

Of these days few memories survive, for such is their fate,
To never fully thrive. Yet in us lies, duty so great,
To remember this lore, as to avoid another such war.

Yet forgotten in time, also forgotten in mind,
And for centuries buried, at last the tale’s brought back to light,
By those who’ve been harried, by those sired by this same knight

So all ye hear and hearken, for wisdom is due,
A hope against this new omen, a hope that is all too true.
So grip this knowledge tightly, take heart and breathe anew,
Cuddling by it nightly, letting the words cut through bone and sinew.

Twenty centuries have passed, more if one begins from the start,
Since this day unsurpassed, in love, in miracle, in deeds from the heart.
Darkness all over crept, when the prophecy became flesh,
A promise which heeds all those who wept, to make hope and life once more fresh.

A foe merrily ruled the land, much like what we have at hand,
A darkness not heeded, which brought pain not needed,
Through strive, through famine, through disease; his hunger was never appeased.

A similar foe rules today, kept in check, barely at bay,
By a handful of brave, a handful not deprave.
These are the heirs to the throne, brothers in blood, brothers in soul,
These are the ones who atone, the ones who seek to be made whole.

Yet as in all dark times a hero arose, to change our fate, to challenge all foes.
Bravely he stood and in defiance he lived, preparing the path, our salvation so swift,
Walking in light, walking in grace, sharing a life which all sought to embrace.

The king upon his throne sat, a throne of pain, a throne of blood,
Nourished content and fat, while the people ailed with crud.
The king seemed to care not, of all else besides him he utterly forgot.

Injustice he imparted to old and young, reigning merrily free of threat and want,
Yet hearing the prophecy its meaning stung, leaving this fat selfish monarch all but daunt.
Rising swiftly, filled with despair, he made his face solemn for all to bear,
Turning fear to ire he ordered a hunt, dispatched all the army up to the very last grunt.

To bring the saviour’s head they had, to hunt and kill like wolves gone mad,
Obey they did, their souls being his, children slit as if nothing amiss.
Yet hope anew arose, despite the chaos brought by the foes,
For here the hero was saved, spirited away, never to be enslaved.

And so the years went by, the time of freedom ever more nigh.
The tyrant monarch restless grew, his fear consuming, his downfall too true.
A decade times three came and went, nothing ever diminishing his torment.

Day and night he trembled and despaired, knowing his doom to be prepared,
To escape from fate he could not, of all else besides the hero he forgot.
Obsession ravaged his mind, his body and soul followed close behind.
Estranged from the world he became, enclosed in his own madness never tamed.

And so another myth was born, of the cruel tyrant upon the throne,
Never dying, his people forever forlorn, his cruelty and malice having only grown,
To him by folklore immortality bestowed, in nightmares alone he now abode.

Of the hero people forgot, the prophecy legends and myth became,
His name uttered was not, his birth and memory rapidly losing fame.
Yet when time was ripe he started his quest, to rid the land of tyrant so obsessed.

From town to town he went, showing the people their torment,
Denouncing the crimes of the crown, his fame like fire spread all around.
Followers his cause gained, their respect and admiration obtained,
By one so humble yet proud, one who touched the hearts of the crowd.

Messengers he named and away they were sent, to spread the news of the hero they went,
News of life, news of freedom renewed, news that no person should exclude.
They summoned the brave and the bold, summoned they for whom fate would unfold.
A revolt he planned, to face the king he meant, on freeing his people his will was bent.

Of this the malevolent king learnt, hate and fear on his soul burnt.
To kill the hero, to kill the hope, this only solution could his mind grope,
To destroy his memory, to stop his crusade, of this inciter and rebel became afraid.

His time was nigh, his doom at hand, yet fall he won’t without a last stand.
He summoned his forces, he summoned his spies, he summoned all bringers of demise.
The tyrant arose, the king now stood, to ride out and guide his army he would,
He marched out to battle, he marched out to fate, he went to destroy the target of his hate.

The people arose and the summons they heeded, a change of fate the desperately needed.
To the hero they went with arms in hands, their blood they offered to free their lands,
Peasants and farmers, soldiers and guards, of such a mighty army sing the bards.

On the field of the skull the met, two huge armies which bespoke of threat,
Threat of doom, threat of change, with a king barely sane on brink of derange,
Of truce and arrangements he cared not, in blind blood lust he was caught.

Utter silence fell on both crowds, in fear and hope they were shroud,
Fear of death, hope of life, yet all looking forward to strife.
The hero came to the front sword in hand, the army was his to command.
And as the drums of war began playing, hearts and souls began swaying.

The king’s horns of war first blew, into frenzy this his soldier’s threw,
Under a spell of blood, a king of gone mad, gone was the humanity they once had.
Demons of blood, fiends of gore they were, the witch king left no room to err,
An ancient shadow cast upon the host, and an evil transformation fell on most.

The hero this noticed as did his men, fear and doubt growing in them again.
Yet our hero this saw and acted fast, with a loud war cry he charged at last,
“Unto me brave men of Gwyer” he cried, “It is to a life of freedom that we ride!”

In no man’s land they loudly clashed, against the shields many a man smashed,
With cries of pain scores of men fell, for hours on end the victor impossible to tell.
Day and night, night and day, continuously the fought without dismay,
To give their lives they had come, and while having breath they would not succumb.

A fortnight if not more did the battle last, before the die seemed to be cast,
In favour of the king the tide went, rendering his selfish heart quite content.
Yet peace and glee he had not, for the hero had still not been caught.

Impatience at last swayed his heart, the ruling king charged with a start,
His fury was great with hunger and desire, no man or beast could stand his ire,
He cut through the ranks ever so swiftly, of only one foe his mind worried chiefly.

A deafening cry pierced the air, startling the hero, filling his host with despair,
They all parted giving way to the king, thus forming around both a fighting ring.
The king sitting tall upon his horse, glared in contempt at one so mighty,
He it was who of his fear has been the source, the one who slain would be so rightly.

“Prepare yourself, your bells have tolled! I am here for all to behold,
How beneath my might you succumb! Cry for mercy; your reaper has come!"
At the king’s words all around trembled, all battle ceased to see what this becomes,
The entire host in awe assembled, the only faint sound being that of the war drums.

Shrinking not but standing proud and tall, the hero cried this as to be heard by all,
“You threats are void as is your heart! Tremble I do not, neither do I fear!
The time has come for you to depart, your demise now draws quite near!”

“Then come and meet terror and death! Let this farce be over and done!
I shall see you draw your last breath, that all you efforts are undone!
Your ideals and dreams will now cease to be, and with it your band of rebellious scum!
The only king they’ll ever know is me, the only hope they shall ever have is none!”

“Your terror is over, the nightmare is done! The Night passed away, morning has come!
Slay me you might, destroy me is your will, but my ideals and dreams thou shall not kill!
To perish in battle might my fate, yet for your ruling the hour is all too late!”

“Cease your babbling you pestering fool! The full strength of my power you know not!
If you think that so far I have been cruel, I shall teach you better wisdom in this very spot!
Behold your demise, behold your downfall, behold the god who this people shall enthral!”

“You fashion yourself immortal, you fashion yourself undying,
I shall render you utterly mortal, wounded, prostrated and for death crying!
Cease this talk, cease this threat! To your reign I shall put an end!
Face me in battle, dismount and regret, for to Hades your soul I shall send!”

With those words said the hero took his stand, teasing the monarch with sword in hand.
The evil ruler believe his ears he could not, this insect had cursed him in front of the lot!
A challenge had been cast by one so daring, decline it he could not, for that would be erring
Rising to the challenge dismount he did, already laughing while his own fear he hid.

“So the deer defies the wolf’s might, the prey believes he can win the struggle.
Come now; you shall die before this knight, you shall lie in your own blood’s puddle!”
Rising high and standing tall, this sovereign king was amazing to behold.

As one they both charged to the battle, their footsteps silencing all other rattle.
Loudly their swords clashed in the field, their postures perfect, none would yield.
Like distant thunder they sounded, and as bright lightning they seemed,
The host was now confounded, how come their swords so gleamed.

The king clad in full black plate, was quite a sight to behold,
He looked liked a god of hate, like one of the demons of old.
His sword red as his ire, it gleamed as if alight with fire.

The hero clad in silver armour, shone quite bright in contrast,
His very presence seemed like glamour, the difference being quite so vast.
Shield raised high and sword in the ready, he seemed the victor already.

Nigh an hour the fiercely fought, of the other’s demise they only thought.
With waning strength, tired and bleeding, now the hero seemed to be succeeding!
Yet the betraying king lose would not, with a raised had a spell he shot,
“Weak cur ‘tis you I spurn! Now feel, hell flame’s burn!”

Crimson flames sprouting on his body, his spirit already beginning to disembody,
The hero shouted falling on his knees, as he allowed his body his spirit to release;
“Soldiers do not despair, but rather for victory you must prepare!
My sacrifice shall set you free tonight, fight and bring victory to this holy knight!”

With that his body shattered, his spirit over the entire host was scattered,
Renewed strength and power they gained, what had happened they could not explain.
Yet upon that terrible sight, they heartened and at once fiercely renewed their fight.

The king what happened knew not, how had his victory been robbed at the spot?
From where did the peasants such vigour claimed, such power by him could not be named.
His dark powers now were of no avail, his kingdom for long would not prevail.
As a growing vast tide on him they fell, try as he might, he could only yell.

On that day his evil reign was overthrown, and to the people now belongs his throne.
The monarch died yet was not utterly defeated, his power all but depleted.
His evil spirit lingers still, using his power to bring on us ill.

It bears memories of old, it bears doom to all.
A red sun rises today again, A red sun that despairs all men,
Memories of carnage and gore, memories forgotten nevermore.

Ravaging all who stand oppose, vicious fiends, enmities of old,
Demons who summon all woes, spirits of horrors untold.
Yet a hero must arise, a with him hope make anew
The hero who in us resides, the hero who is always true.

Him who defies carnage and gore, and is spoken of in ancient lore,
Him who death can not keep, and who comforts all those who weep.
He is the one who rallies you to his side, the one who in you wants to abide.
Make your stand, forget the past, your true hero and saviour has arrived at last.

So cast away all doubt, and in joy begin to shout,
For the drums of war fall silent, and with it all who are violent.
So make a stand, and make no move, for your life is about to improve.

Drums of War

2008-09-22T09:08:00.009-04:00

A rumble far and away, a rumble that sounds astray,
It bears memories of old, it bears doom to all.
A red sun rises today again, A red sun that despairs all men,
Memories of carnage and gore, memories forgotten nevermore.

A rumble sounds again, this time closer, closer to the end,
A rumble that bears honour and courage, that defies terror and death,
A rumble that instils strength beyond all pledge, leaving men bereft of their breath.

The Drums of War are thundering, and with them battle is looming in,
Cower you can not, since fate misses naught.
This battle has to be met, a battle from which you won't be kept.

Ravaging all who stand oppose, vicious fiends, enmities of old,
Demons who summon all woes, spirits of horrors untold.
Yet a hero must arise, a with him hope make anew
The hero who in us resides, the hero who is always true.

Him who defies carnage and gore, and is spoken of in ancient lore,
Him who death can not keep, and who comforts all those who weep.
He is the one who rallies you to his side, the one who in you wants to abide.
Make your stand, forget the past, your true hero and saviour has arrived at last.

So cast away all doubt, and in joy begin to shout,
For the drums of war fall silent, and with it all who are violent.
So make a stand, and make no move, for your life is about to improve.

A Visage of Glamour

2008-09-19T09:09:00.004-04:00

Most likely, as well as hopefully, the term glamour is not one to be associated with this blog (since my purpose is to create a haven for my thoughts and personality and glamour has no place in either of them though I do possess quite the taste for good fashion), yet this entry is a must. Yesterday I helped my wife -with the help of Antu- conceive her own blog, a project with which she has been daydreaming for quite some time now. Being my wife the fashionista (in the good sense of the word if there is any) she is her blog is to deal solely on fashion; from fashion reviews to comments on new trends and such. If you enjoy fashion, good dressing or any of the etiquette that society imposes on us all, then please do drop by her Fashion Mirage and refresh yourself a tad before continuing on your journey through the desert of bad taste which surrounds us daily (do keep in mind that the blog was created yesterday so do not expect a great quantity of content yet, though you can always expect great quality in it).

Just a final word of caution; the blog is in Spanish since my wife knows little to no English at all.

Awakening

2008-09-18T09:57:00.001-04:00

A sudden surge of pain ran across his battered body. Just opening his eyes sent daggers of pain through his brain so he kept them closed; not that opening them would be of any good since when he did, all he could see was a blurry shine with no distinctive form nor movement which enveloped his entire sight. He tried to speak, and couldn’t; tried to move, and couldn’t. He felt as if nothing else existed, not a world nor a body. He felt as a spirit lingering a space of bright nothingness.

How long had he been lying here? Days? Months? Years? Eons? What was his name? What was he? The same answer applied to all those questions: I don’t know. A sudden surge of despair enveloped his psyche and urged him to struggle against this state. He opened his eyes again, tried to move, to talk, shout or scream, tried to breathe; all to no avail. He felt miserable, felt impotent, alone; he felt dead. He opened his eyes once more, and passed out from the pain.

How can you keep track of time when there is no such concept? How can one know about time and its definition if such a thing has never been real or known? Likewise, how can one know about movement, sight, odours, hearing or any other sense or ability for that matter if all of them are nonexistent? These questions in themselves gave him new hope, strength and resolve. If he could remember, think and miss those things surely, nay certainly, they were real. He had been able to perform them, and he would be to do so again.

Images began appearing in his mind view. He had not opened his eyes, yet he was seeing something, feeling something. Flashes of a myriad of colours began succeeding each other. No specific order, no specific purpose; yet he saw them, and recalled their names. Red, Indigo, Green, Yellow, Blue and Purple, all in a continuous succession which slowly took the shape of a winding path, a tunnel with no visible beginning nor end, yet moving steadily forward. How was it that he not only saw colours but also recognized them by name? How, if it was in truth occurring, was he moving in any direction when, as far as he could recall he had never moved before.

After some thought, which was the only way to measure or reckon any span of time passage, he decided that he had to try and open his eyes again. He had been seeing colours for what could have easily been mere seconds or decades, so it occurred to him that maybe now that he actually recalled colours he could identify objects if he saw them with his real eyes. What came to him was both terrifying and yet glorious. No surge of pain, no needles in the brain, yet forms, clear and distinctive forms. He could not recall any of their names, so he had truly no idea what it was he was actually seeing, yet he saw!

Whatever it was that he saw, it was bright. The colours where a clear blue with patches or blotches of white here and there, and small green figures just on some borders, as if they were almost a frame. The blue stretch was gorgeous in an indescribable way. It seemed as if it was made of various shades of blue rather than just one, and they seemed to shift their brightness gradually. What was this heavenly vision? His eyes, though not hurt anymore, were still strained by the effort of opening them. He could not open them wide; it felt as if something forced him to close them a bit, as to avoid damage or to get a better vision, As if to regulate the input of colours.

All of the sudden, this something vanished, but so did some of the brightness in what he was seeing. He was able to open his eyes wider, yet his vision seemed to be somewhat dulled as the colours were not as potent. He also felt a slight difference in his body. His face and head seemed to be a bit more relaxed, yet the rest of his body felt a bit more stressed, as if enduring something on it. And as he pondered this new sensation, he came to the realization that he felt! He was feeling sensations assail his body, and not the entirety of it as with the pain he had felt before, but different sensations to different parts of his now new found body. He felt his head and neck cool, and his body a bit heated. He felt as another force, this one gentle and soothing, cooled the part of his body which was being heated, and chilled the one cooled. He also felt his back pressed against something soft, fresh and a bit moist. He began feeling his body in its entirety, began feeling every parts and every muscle; every bone and every sinew. He was a being.

Many questions now assailed his mind and all of them with no apparent answer. Was he the only being? What was this new found body for? Where was he? What was he? If he was the only being, then the last question would be a pointless one. Yet, if he wasn’t, then it was of utmost importance. If he was not alone, then was he safe? Where all other beings alike to himself?

As he lay there, trying to assimilate all of this which was happening to him, he felt something different in his face. It felt as if that part of his body was in unrest, as if there were small things in between his eyes which danced and moved making this area a bit sensitive and ticklish. It was a bothersome sensation, one that did not allow him to think clearly anymore and forced him to focus on it as solely it; and so he did. He began focusing on it, first to study this new sensation, then to analyze it, and finally, to fight it.

Suddenly, his arm raised and fell again with all its deadweight on his head, right in the middle of his eyes. This made the aforementioned sensation cease for the time being, but sent again pain rushing through his entire face. His eyes, which closed themselves on the moment his heavy hand landed on his face, where now covered in some type of fluid which made his vision blurry. He couldn’t see the blue cover in front of him with clarity anymore. Just opening his eyes became hard, and he felt something crawling down the side of his head. It felt a bit warm.

After this new found pain diminished, he was able to realize that he had moved. Moved! Not voluntarily still, yet moved. He discovered that not only was he a living being, but also one capable of movement. Yet, was it wilful movement? If he wanted to, would he be able to move once again? And would he be able to control this movement? He might be able to recall it again and move whenever he wanted to, but would he be able to control it? He determined that he would start with something smaller and thus probably much easier and with not so painful possible outcomes. He focused on his right side, and tried to feel every muscle. Once this was done, or at least he thought it was, he began focusing on what had moved before, his arm. This decision resulted from the logic that since it was this arm the first thing to move in his body, then it would follow that it would be easier to move it again. He focussed on this arm for sometime –again, if such a concept existed at all- and focussed on something within his arm, but smaller; namely, his hand.

Then it struck him, as he pondered on the issue concerning time, he realized that the cooling sensation which covered on his head at first had now extended as to cover all of his being. He did not feel he heat anymore, but felt cool in a progressive way. He also noted that the blue veil was no longer blue, but a very light violet. It seemed to be getting white darker as well. He forgot completely about his hand as he watched in awe how the light blue faded into a dark violet.

It was quite a breathtaking view. The sky, which just a moment ago was of a bright light blue, was changing hues slowly yet steadily. The entire spectrum was parading in front of his eyes, and he lay there, unmoving and uncaring of all, just taking in the wondrous show which was being displayed for him. Yet, as he watched, he also noted that seeing was getting quite more difficult. It seemed and felt as if light was fading, and darkness was creeping back on him. He despaired again believing that all the progress –if such a thing existed- he had made so far was being undone slowly, as if all the wonders he had seen and felt were but a dream from which he was slowly and painfully awakening. He felt powerless and immensely sad. His vision began getting blurry again as they watered, and he felt this liquid roll down the sides of his head. This was enough to make him stop and wonder upon the fact that although his vision was dwindling, he still felt in full force everything, from his body to the soft object pressing against his back. Just as he pondered this, he saw something that left his breathless. Right in front of his eyes, where the blue veil had been, the veil had turned to an almost complete black, yet, here and there, small white dots appeared. At first, just a few were to be seen, yet more and more became visible until he beheld an even more breathtaking view. The formerly blue mantle which now was entirely black was covered by many bright dots. Some twinkled, others seemed to change colours subtly and some shined with bigger intensity than others, yet they were all there. They shone a pale silverfish light on him, and for some time, he forgot about all else, even his own body, and allowed himself to be absorbed fully by the vast nothingness which now extended in front of him.

He lay there, unmoving as if death had claimed lordship over him again. He could see nothing but the white dotted black mantle. He cared for nothing else, and in his mind, these dots formed different shapes. What this shapes meant he did not have even the slightest idea, yet he could see them. He felt that this figures where a bit known to him, as if in some very distant past, maybe even another life or existence, he had not only known them, but could have also named them. They felt familiar, and this felt quite comforting.

Yet all of this faded, even his sense of awe, in face of what he began to see. Just in the border of his sight, close to his right yet a bit high in his vision range, he saw a faint glow, as if something quite unique approached slowly. It glowed with the same silver light that the dots did, yet this was stronger, more intense. He still could not see what it was that which emitted this glow, for all he could so far observe was a faint glow which seemed as an aura that surrounded a round object. As he beheld this new glow, he noted that, if such a thing was even possible, this new light did not brighten the velvety black mantle, yet made it even darker. It seemed as if this glow absorbed within itself all the dots, since around this silver aura, a black ring existed from which no light escaped. He beheld this new sight, and once again, forgot of all else.

As time crept by, he beheld how the aura moved more into the centre of his sight, accompanied by the black ring on the outer border, and followed by the object which seemed to emanate this glow. Never had he imagined such a thing possible. The white sphere which was surrounded by the glow, which now looked more like a crown, was such a sight as he never thought possible before. It was truly astonishing to observe this new sight, this new actor in the play which unfolded in front of his eyes. This magnificent sight caught and held captive his every thought and imagination. He once again gave in to the trancelike state from which he had been coming in and out.

Then it came to him. As he lay there, lost in the beauty of what he had been seeing, their name came to him. The spherical object in front of him, or better put, above him and in the centre of his vision was the moon, Earth’s only satellite; and the white dot’s where stars which shone in the black night sky. The black mantle was actually the sky, which was now black rather than blue since it was night time. He was beholding the black starry sky from some unknown location on Earth, and that was where he was; Earth. He remembered the white blotches against the blue daytime sky and recognized them as clouds, cumulous of water vapour and humidity which floated in the sky. The soft thing pressed against him was actually beneath him, and he was being pressed against it by gravity. It was grass and soil, and he green which framed his vision during the day were tree leaves which were what cast the shade over him which cooled him from the sun’s heat.

All of this knowledge came back into his head in a mere span of a second or two, and more would have as well if it weren’t for the fact that his mind could not hold so much information being recalled at once and so shut down. To put it in other words, he fainted.

Pain woke him up to a bright cloudy day. He remembered now that time was measured in seconds, minutes and hours. He knew that it was past midday, and the pain which awoke him was related to this, to noon. He had not eaten for now who knew how long, and his body yearned for that nourishment. For all that he knew, at least one day had gone by without him eating; most probably, two had. This left him with only three more days without eating for his body to give away. This again raised awareness of another fact, and a much more important one; he had not had anything to drink in the same span of days, and this fact left him with only one more day before his body gave away. He began focusing on his hand again, now with renewed intensity. If he was to survive, he had to be able to move in order to look for water and food.

He struggled against he numb feeling that held his body captive. He struggled against the despair rushing through his body and mind. He struggled, to no avail. Yet no mater the despair, the sudden urge to fight on, the sudden urge to live was enough to keep him focusing all his strength and will on moving that one finger. The unknowing state in which he was just days before now seemed nothing more than a strange dream. Now, fully aware and almost fully knowing –since he still could not recall his name or how he came to be in this situation- of his state and his surroundings, that constant sense of awe had departed and given way to the crude blandness of reality and the quite despair that came at the realization of one’s death. Yet, he struggled.

A new pained now began creeping over his body, the pain of skin exposed to the midday sun with no protection. How many hours had gone by? One? Two? Most probably two and a half, and considering the fact that he had already been lying there for at east two days, his skin was quite beyond the point of a mere sunburn. He had also noted an acrid smell in the air, one that raided his sense of smell and left place for no other smell. Also, he had a bit of trouble breathing, a fact that a first had found a bit strange, but as he focused on moving his finger he realized why this was. On the day before he had moved his entire arm in an urge to stop a bothersome itch on his nose. This had as an effect the raising and clumsy dropping of his hand on his face thus breaking his nose. This added to his worries, since if he was in a forest of some sort, then surely predatory animals had to inhabit it; animals that would feel attracted to the smell of blood and the sight of a helpless prey.

He had already managed to move his finger, yet in jerky clumsy movements that he could not control really. This was already quite an advance, but he needed to be able to control his body lest he break something else again. He knew that him not having eaten anything also contributed to the poor control over his muscles and their weaken state, yet he knew that even so, he had to be able to move enough as to at least crawl as to not die in this unknown location.

The sun was now already outside his vision range, which meant that it must be past three o’clock, probably close to four o’clock. He was now able to move his hand, all fingers and his wrist at will and with wilful movements, though still jerky and clumsy. Nevertheless, it was enough as for him to start focusing on his left arm. He tried moving hi finger and found that this time it was a bit easier. The movements were not wilful or precise, but he could nonetheless move them at will, and the same applied to his wrist. Yet, when he tried to move his arm a sharp pain stung him and blinded him for a second or two. This new pain disoriented him a bit and left him out of breath. He had a slight idea of what the pain might me, but hoped that it would not be so, hoped that his arm was not broken.

The only way to find out was to be able to move his neck and torso, maybe even sit upright. He tried to sit up using his right arm, and was assaulted again by the same blinding pain, only that this time it came from his torso. Was his body indeed battered? He knew from the pain that his ribs were broken, or at least -and this he hoped more than anything else- only one was. The odds were looking worse and worse, and he had half a mind to just surrender and give in to the warm embrace of death. He knew that if he went one more day with no water he would start having hallucinations. At least if this was so, he would go with a bit of hope, or in the worst case scenario possible, despair. Still, he would not give in, if he was to die, it would not be prostrated and defenceless. He struggled to move his head, at least to the sides since this would give him a better view of his location. He tried to raise his head, but was stung again in the ribs, yet he did not allow this to stop him and he continued, though with a bit more care. What he saw did not only appal him, but left him almost bereft of his sanity. His left arm was indeed broken, twisted at a strange angle just a bit above the elbow. His torso was covered in blood, and he could see at least two broken ribs, one of which had broken his skin and was protruding out, rising over the rest of his torso as a crimson pole. He also managed to see that his right leg lay as well on a strange angle. He dropped his head back on the ground and began sobbing and crying. What had happened to him as to leave him in this state? Who was he that this had to happen to him?

He turned his head sideways and was again shocked. The acrid smell he had smelled were corpses around him which had already started to rot. He could at least see three more, and none of them looked better than he did but quite worse. He turned his head to the other side and saw part of the cockpit of a small Cessna plane; and all came back to him.

He was a free lance pilot, hired by a group of tourists to fly them over the portion of the Colombian Amazon. They had taken off in order to fly around for a couple of hours, but something had gone amiss. First he had heard the heavily bearded man ask what the something he saw amid the trees was; then the woman in kaki shorts had screamed and almost instantly he felt something hit the small rental plane with an impressive force right in the middle of it. He felt the plane crack open in half and heard the faint scream of the woman, knowing that she had fallen from the plane. He had closed his eyes, felt the vertigo of the free fall, clutch the wheel tighter and given himself to God. He had felt the impact of what remained of the plane against the treetops, and nothing more.

He did not cry anymore, did not struggle; did not move. He simply closed his eyes again, prayed and surrendered his soul to God. He relaxed his breathing and began thinking about his family; about his wife and his daughter. He thought about his daughter’s coming birthday and the gift he had already bought. He thought about how the pastor had asked him to preach next Sunday and how glad he and his wife had felt, how proud their daughter had been. He thought about the life he had had and how he had no regrets. He thought about what awaited him, and felt warmth embrace him.

Slow Fade

2008-05-22T08:32:00.003-04:00

The latest Casting Crowns video, from their "The Altar and the Door" album.

Be careful little eyes what you see
It's the second glance that ties your hands as darkness pulls the strings
Be careful little feet where you go
For it's the little feet behind you that are sure to follow

It's a slow fade when you give yourself away
It's a slow fade when black and white have turned to gray
Thoughts invade, choices are made, a price will be paid
When you give yourself away
People never crumble in a day
It's a slow fade, it's a slow fade

Be careful little ears what you hear
When flattery leads to compromise, the end is always near
Be careful little lips what you say
For empty words and promises lead broken hearts astray

It's a slow fade when you give yourself away
It's a slow fade when black and white have turned to gray
Thoughts invade, choices are made, a price will be paid
When you give yourself away
People never crumble in a day

The journey from your mind to your hands
Is shorter than you're thinking
Be careful if you think you stand
You just might be sinking

It's a slow fade when you give yourself away
It's a slow fade when black and white have turned to gray
Thoughts invade, choices are made, a price will be paid
When you give yourself away
People never crumble in a day
Daddies never crumble in a day
Families never crumble in a day

Oh be careful little eyes what see
Oh be careful little eyes what you see
For the Father up above is looking down in love
Oh be careful little eyes what you see

*Edit: I can not seem to erase the broken embeded video. Use the second one in case the first one does not load.

Days of Yore

2008-04-15T09:10:00.001-04:00

The fire crackled, breaking the icy silence that had settled over the forest in a dark contrast to the lively chirping of birds and chanting of other animals during daytime. The trees loomed above us almost darkening the sky, yet the starry black mantle which covered the land made its way through trees and branches in a way that blotches of stars could be seen amidst the dense treetops. That only provided an even more suitable atmosphere for our bonfire, since, as it was accustomed, after everybody had eaten supper the bards would begin to recite and sing the odes and lays they had either learned or composed themselves which spoke of the days of yore. Better days they were as well, and each song brought renewed hope with it as it lifted our spirits while we heard tales of courage and nigh supernatural prowess. Tales such as the battle of Azal’aqent, the slaying of Hyrmtog the drake, the founding of our kingdom under the rule of Gertick the Just and other tales which have by now long been forgotten where not only common, but a must in every bonfire, in every settlement and wherever a bard abode.

The children’s eyes where wide open in amazement and expectation as the first bard made his way to the centre of the ring, produced some white powder from his pouch and cast it into the fire, making the flames crackle ever so loudly and dance with renewed ferocity. A simple enough effect, but still effective for it provided that extra ambience of mysticism needed in order to captivate and awaken the imagination of the folk. At once, the other bards began playing a generic rhythm as to provide with a better idea of tempo; and with a loud and clear voice the bard began reciting the first piece of the night’s repertoire: Azal’aqent. Children and adults alike dropped their jaws as they sat in open-mouthed awe, for this was not the ordinary ode which has survived up to our days, but the original and complete version in it’s full length and magnificence; a version that even in those days was almost unheard of, and to ever have the opportunity of hearing it was considered to be an immense privilege. So rare were the bards who knew it.

As if summoned by some unspoken spell, shadows drew closer to the circle as well as denser. If something lurked beyond the circle of light which ended a mere yard behind the man furthest from the fire it escaped our knowledge. The world faded and all ceased to exist; all but the score of travellers who sat around a common plain bonfire and hearkened the tales of yore with a child’s imagination. The bard kept reciting the ode and accompanied the stanzas with body gestures, and the musical score provided had shifted from a generic one to a specific unknown melody which flowed and intertwined itself with the poem. This was no ordinary bard, this was a true master storyteller; and even perhaps, as some of the men who witnessed the recital whispered afterwards, it was Freht himself who had returned from the land of spirits once more. So great was this man at his craft.

The bard continued for nigh an hour and thirty minutes before he concluded. His mastery was such that it took close to forty seconds for the men to respond and start cheering and clapping. Needless to say, the bard became quite popular and the invitations to drink of someone’s special ale reserve, or eat from the jerky supply of another man abounded that night. One man even offered his daughter in wedlock to the bard who, being of a true cast of gentlemen, of the sort which no longer roam the land, gently refused, saying that his life was not one to be shared by a woman since his bed was the floor and his roof the clouds.

The night continued in a similar fashion, though no bard could match the first one. Despite that, the men cheered and gasped as the tales came to a climatic cliff-hanger. Indeed, it was not until the night had grown old and many a child had fallen to deep slumber, with the inclusion of more than one man who had had a little to much ale to drink, did the folk start to move away from the bonfire. The night had ended for some, but not for the lookouts; yet despite the singing being over, not one soul that night slept dreamless, and all dreams where the same. For one night, for one moment, in a small camp lost in the middle of the northern woods, Azal’aqent had returned to the living and bestowed once again the hope and forlorn of the days of yore.

Pilgrimage

2008-04-14T08:20:00.003-04:00

A green blur covered the fuzzy view only to be gone a mere second after, revealing a breathtaking landscape drenched in the morning's sunlight. Blinking lazily and rubbing my eyes as to clear my sleepy view, I forced myself upright and into full conciousness as I continued to gaze in between blinks and teary eyes at the wondrous blue mountains in the far horizon. though the train I was in was almost six kilometres away from them, their white peaks could still be distinguished glinting the faint sunlight of dawn.

Being now fully awake from the previous night's sleep, I could appreciate all the better the view, which seen through the window frames of my wagon seemed to be a masterpiece worthy of one of the great masters of Renaissance. An orange hue, which diminished gradually yet steadily drenched the grass which was barely covered by a gentle mist, remnants of the fallen dew. A lake in the centre of the landscape, probably a good half a kilometre away, glinted gold as it bathed in
the much needed warmth of the winter's sun.

A green blur covered the view as bushes and undergrowth, all too near to the train tracks, sped by again.

"Good morning," said the soft and delicate voice of my wife, "how did you sleep?"

"Good morning, and good," was my reply, which came in the manner of a hoarse whisper as all morning's first spoken words tend to do. "Any idea of where we are?"

"Not really," came the gentle reply as she poured and handed me a cup of hot tea from our thermus "But we ought to be close. Arrival time was estimated to be seven thirty and that's five minutes from now."

I simply nodded as I sipped the steamy tea. Just holding the cup with both hands sent a comfortable warmth through both my arms and into my chest. It was January, which meant summer back home, yet not here. Not that it was ever important since it was said that even summer tended to be cold here up north.

"I had a funny dream," I began as I held the cup with one hand and reached for the cookie my wife offered me with the other.

"Is that so?"

"yes. I dreamt about him again, yet not in the same manner as I normally do. This time he presented himself much calmer and with a much sober attitude towards life. He didn't accuse for a change, on the contrary, he simply stood there, nodding as he looked at me."

"Well, that's good right?" She asked rather hopefully.

"I can't tell, but let's hope so." Was the sullen response she got, and then we both drifted into silence and thought once more.

It wasn't easy, not by the least, but this pilgrimage was something we had both accepted; a promise which should be kept no matter the cost.

The sudden change in speed and faint hints of human presence in the landscape told us that we had arrived at last.

"We're here." I said as I got on my feet and began collecting our bags.

"Yes, and let's hurry this time," she answered back with a hint of dread lingering on the edge of her voice,"cemeteries are among my least enjoyable places."

Azal'aqent

2008-04-11T09:04:00.003-04:00

Praise and sing lays for our wondrous knight,
Who but in a few days has once more proven his might.
Fearlessly he stood and peril he faced,
Defeated the evil brood leaving all amazed.
They who haunted our lifes and brought dangers to our dreams,
Were brought down in their hives and stopped short of their means.
Against our kingdom they plotted, beings of pure evil they were,
On our fields they trotted, marching to slay our throne's heir.
Yet our hero to the arms call arose and in shiny armour out he rode,
On the field he met many a foe, thus it is for him we sing this ode.
So praise and sing lays for from peril we've been delivered,
And rejoice for all days, for our enemy's been defeated.
So praise and sing lays for this hero who was god sent,
And remember for all days, his name which is Azal'aqent.

This is an attempt, and a rather sad one I would add, to write prose in the same manner as that of Beowulf or Sir Gawain and the Green Knight; it was, in fact, written shortly after reading both literary pieces. It has many flaws since my priority while writing it was to keep the rhyme working and so didn't not actually pay any attention to plot nor overall sense (as can be well perceived by the awkward choice for the hero's name) . Still, I would like to share it why you in hopes of receiving useful feedback as to ensure that further attempts at writing prose prove to be more successful than this one.

Lethargy

2008-04-09T09:09:00.004-04:00

No excuses, just a deep, sincere apology. After a good solid vacation away from the internet I have returned once more. I have awoken from my writer's lethargy and will resume posting regularly.

Thank you all for your patience and faithfulness.

Absence

2007-12-19T12:28:00.000-03:00

I have been a bit irresponsible with this blog lately, I am quite aware of that, since it is about to be almost a month since my last entry was written. To blame are my college studies, since I have been having final exams (which I finished yesterday) and work, since I have been more busy than ordinary this last month or so. Despite this, I know this not to be an excuse so I promise to update more often, especially now that vacations is starting.

In any case, if you would like to follow my writings and doings more closely, I have been quite active lately in the Juegos Online forums. Simply search for the user Elessar and you would have found my whereabouts. Be warned though that the forums are in Spanish and deal mostly (yet not solely) on videogames.

For now it is time for another farewell which, I promise, shall be shorter than the last one.

Farewell.

Bon Odori

2007-11-26T12:16:00.000-03:00

This Saturday was the Bon Odori festival here in Asunción. As we have been doing for the past seven years (it has developed into quite the tradition) Sascha, Xime, Kitty and me went in order to eat great Japanese food and dance. All four of us are big Japan enthusiasts and really enjoy it every single year, though we are yet to buy kimonos in order to really blend in. The difference this year was that the festival was not held were it usually is (the Paraguayan Japanese Cultural Centre) and that I took my new camera and was able to take some pictures as well as record the dance.

This dance is called Tanko Bushi and it represents the movements of miners. This is a video of Xime dancing the Tanko Bushi.

And these are the pictures I took that night of the festival. Sorry I could not take pictures which showed a more varied scene, but I had to sit at the table in order to eat and enjoy my Karee Raisu, Sushi Moriawase, and the eternal and heavenly Takoyaki.

Flowery Entry

2007-11-22T16:02:00.000-03:00

I took these pictures at my garden and my mom's. I just loved how these flowers looked.

Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; but I tell you, not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these. Luke 12:27-29

Through the Lens.

2007-11-21T11:55:00.000-03:00

I have finally fulfilled one of my goals for this year, I bought a digital camera (better late than never). As an immediate after-effect I began taking pictures of anything I could focus through the lens of it. I have always been quite a photography enthusiast and a bit of an amateur. I could never really delve very deep into this field since I have never actually owned a camera of my own, much less a digital one, yet now that I have acquired one at long last I am able to embark on my photography quest.

I shall be posting the pictures I take which I deem worthy of becoming public (remember I'm still an amateur and a very inexperienced at that so don't expect too much just yet). I have also been developing some passion for image editing via software such as photoshop, though due to the lack of any, I have had to settle for MS paint so far. While it is hard to edit or even do something semi elaborate with it, I have been able to produce a couple of wallpapers and banners I actually feel proud of.

That said, let the picture frenzy begin. I will upload now a wallpaper, a banner, and a photograph I really feel proud of.

This is a wallpaper I made using Sascha's eye.

This is a banner I made using my wife's eye for my forum's signature.

This is my wife, Kitty.

The Drug Symptom

2007-11-16T18:43:00.000-03:00

What drives young people into drugs? Most people say it is peer pressure, but, is it? In order to understand why people do drugs, what we first have to understand is what do drugs have to offer? What makes them so alluring? Most people will say it’s the pleasure experienced or the relief of pain; I say it’s the escape from reality. Let me first make a note in that we are not talking about a dependant addict, someone whose body needs drugs as to continue functioning, but rather the user who is starting, who is already “addicted” but not yet dependant on it. Why do these people do drugs, why did they persist on taking them even though we are heavily bombarded since childhood about how bad drugs are? The answer is quite simple; it is because it provides a route of escape from heir own painful lives. It’s the way in which a teenager can escape the fact that nobody loves him, that he is mistreated; the way a grown up can get over the failure that hangs over his or her shoulders, the memories that torment each night and accuse during the day. It is a way to relief spiritual and emotional pain.

Humans are all born with a terminal disease that consumes us from the inside out slowly but steadily; it’s called sin. Sin is having failed God and thus be separated form his presence, he same presence that should be in the midst of our own soul, yet since we are tainted by sin, God’s place in us is empty, and this emptiness becomes an all consuming void that deprives humans of joy, hope and merriness. Sure, we experience temporal happiness, but not a lasting one, since this void will consume it eventually. It is this void which demands more, it demands to be filled, yet nothing besides God can fill it, and so, it will continue to demand for more and more until it consumes us. Drugs are pain suppressors, and that is what they do, they suppress the pain caused by this void, the constant demanding that we experience due to the void and they shut it down completely, until the drug is washed form our systems. Then, we need more, because the pain returns stronger for we have felt what it is like not to experience, and to bear it once more is simply overwhelming. This is what drives million of junkies to look for another fix.

Most doctors speak about corporal dependence; I speak about a spiritual one. Our souls become dependant on them; corporal dependence is just a symptom, a consequence of our already dependant souls. Millions of teenagers and adults turn to drugs to find the soothing sensation they have craved for their entire life, to find the love of a parent; to find the warmth of a home; the forgiveness for past sins and even to silence their conscience which keeps telling hem that their life has gone array. Drugs are not physical issue, and until we start realising that we are fighting a losing battle. The battle of drugs is fought at home and won at home since a teenager who has had a good family life, even if he where to try out drugs, would never become addicted for he won’t find anything new in it, anything good. Drug addiction is not a disease, it’s a symptom, and we should start treating it as such.

Song of Glory

2007-11-01T08:23:00.000-03:00

This is a short story I had to write as a Term Paper for college. It's six pages long and I wrote it in three hours and a half roughly. I hope you like it and I expect comments.

Enjoy.

“Five years. We have fought for five years, just to end up here on this hill. Five years which undid all we previously accomplished. All the dreams of my father and of his predecessor, simply gone. Gone and vanished in the midst of canon smoke,” Though his words showed defeat, his broken spirit still regained strength and fire. The same fire which had led him to the battlefront. His words might have shown weakness, but the truth was that beneath the rags which used to be his uniform and beneath his battered body a fervent soul as brave as any lay preparing for the tragic unavoidable end. “Five years.”

He beheld his companions, a mere twenty score of men, not soldiers but men. The soldiers were by now asleep in the everlasting sleep of death in the battlefields. They lay with a blank stare which defied fate and death; broken corpses which belied the fire that had driven them while alive to the lines of battle, eager to defend their nation, their birthright. Yet now, he, who commanded them all, whose figure would arouse many discussions in the future now prepared to make a grand finale, with nothing more than four hundred men. Broken promises, shattered dreams and dissipated hopes ran through his mind now. His hands were stained with the blood of a nation. A nation he had sworn to protect and guide to a new era. A nation he had forged to become a war machine. A nation he had led to its demise.

But it had not been his fault, had it? He knew this affair was a trap unto which he had blindly fallen. He had been set up by the neighbouring nations; by the jealous republic and monarchy which had watched the advances made by his people with jealousy, envy, and hatred. It had not been his fault, this as had not been his fault. It couldn’t be. Yet, he felt it so.

The deaths, the blood, the suffering and the despair overwhelmed him. News of every town and fort which had fallen had reached his ears. The hellish visions of men slaughtering children, raping women and murdering pregnant women with the sole purpose of stopping the unborn child to live had gotten to his ears, and they tormented him. Even though he had not seen them, they were there every dusk to torment his dreams. The hospital set aflame with all its patients still inside came to him every night, in every dream. The cries of unborn children, orphaned sons and daughters and widowed wives were around him, during wake times as well as in slumber. The death of a nation hung above his soul and clasped on to his conscience. A conscience he could not keep quiet any more. It had been his fault.

He could still hear those wise words said to him, that wise council which could have avoided all this; “Use the quill, not the sword”. Yet, could he have avoided it all? He knew about the oath made by the conquering armies against him; against his nation. It was no mistake, and nothing had been left to chance. All had been plotted; the overthrowing of his governing ally; the prohibition of his troops to pass by foreign lands. His death had been planned, his foolishness and rashness foreseen, this war, desired; a war which in truth was genocide. How else could this massacre be explained, the slaughtering of innocent children be seen as a necessary evil. He had heard the orders of not letting a single male a day older than twelve alive. That wasn’t justice, that wasn’t civilization. That wasn’t even human.

Humans, they were not humans. He had heard and read about such atrocities, but never seen them, never felt them this close, this real. There had to be something more behind this battle campaign. He felt it, he knew it. He wasn’t fighting humans, but demons; demons who above all sought his death and the undoing of his people. Demons from whom he could not hide for they were in his mind as in his surroundings. They whispered doom into his mind, advised folly and found merriment in the chaos he had caused. It was them who had caused this, it was them who had issued those orders and murdered those people. It was the demons, the creatures from the abyss who thought of nothing else but evil and death. It wasn’t his fault, it was the demons. This war was a mere reflection of something grander which took place in the spirits’ realm. This had been caused by them, but with his aid. He had been their puppet, and even maybe still was. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, but he caused it; and he could stop it. He could bring the war to an end.

Yet this war would only end with the death of his country-men, the death of his people; with his own death. That’s what they wanted, his death. His life had already cost the lives of so many people. Every breath he drew was a crime. He shouldn’t be alive, not at this cost. He had to be the one to die, not those school children who had done nothing yet gave everything to defend him. No, not him, but their country. Those children had painted beards and gone out to their slaughter with bottles and knives to defend their country from the empire of the west. He didn’t matter here, not even for the invaders. He had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I anything, the allies adored him for he was stupid enough to fall into their ploy, to help them fulfil their plans. It was, after all, his fault. He was nothing more than a puppet in a grander scheme; a means to an end.

And now he was here, at the end of all things. Here, on this hill with a handful of men, women, and children. The last resistance was assembled to make a last glorious stand against his forty five hundred pursuers. He had fought with all his might as long as he could muster, and though there were some glorious victories, it still had not been enough. It had never been enough. He should have foreseen this, all it took was a little common sense; yet he didn’t see it. Ha had been blinded by his pride, he had paid no heed to all numerical odds, all odds by that matter and declared war on two nations at the same time. He had doomed his country. He had killed his countrymen; he had killed those children and women. He had killed his nation.

If all it took to stop this madness was his death, then die he would. He would take his own life and offer it to the allies; he would take it and give it away. He would drive his own sabre through his chest and thus take away the pleasure of killing him away from his pursuers. He would do it, but that would also mean spitting on all the lives spent to save his. It meant disregarding the lives of the soldiers given up willingly as to ensure his, if for only a few more days. He couldn’t be that coward, he couldn’t be that despicable. His live had been afforded by blood. People had died to save him, for him and in his name. His live was now burdened by all those lives, and he owed them the same. He would die for them just as they had died for him. It was his fault, but that didn’t excuse him from his duties. He still had follower, he still had strength and still drew breath, and as long as he did, he would fight, fight to the bitter end!

“Troops!” he called, and saw how valiant men and children gathered around him with bold looks in their eyes, filled with despair, yet the fire still burned. He could still see, still feel in them he fire of their motto, the fire of love for their nation shining weakly, yet shining still. Victory or Death was their battle cry, their creed; the belief. Victory or Death was what drove them, even though they knew that for them only the latter option awaited in each new day, they would not cower. There was no other option for them; just Victory or Death!

He could not let them down. If he were to die, then die he would, but in a glorious blaze of glory, making a last stand worthy of the Greek legends he had heard and read about. He would make a last stand similar to Leonidas’ at the battle of Thermopylae. His last stand would be remembered and sung about in days to come; if any who could relate to it were left to sing it. He would write the lyrics of a new song using his blood as ink and this red earth as parchment.

“On this day, fate will be encountered head on! We will not falter in this 1^st of March. If death is to greet us at nightfall, then it shall be met with bare chests held high. You have no reason to cry or to be sad about, for we have done more than any for our land; we have suffered more than any and endured just as much, and for it we will receive our reward in this life or the other. If any is to feel ashamed it is the invading nations for their cowardice and evil. History will be on our side; history and time will be our advocates and their judges. We will be proven just, we will endure. This is not the end of our nation for we are a race of iron steeple. If we are to die, then die we should; yet not as losers, but as victors! We will not surrender since for us, surrender has never been an option. Victory or death waits, and both are equally glorious if the battle was fought with honour and strength. Victory or Death!”

The troops echoed the shout, and the fierce roar of their ancestors’ race was heard once more through out the forest. They had a warrior ancestry and the future of a nation depended on them. Not on them living or dying, but on them battling, for they were not fighting to save lives, but to save a spirit; their nation’s spirit. Generations to come would look back at them, at their commander and understand their sacrifice. Their descendants would draw bravery and inspiration from their sacrifice as to never surrender or bow their heads to adversity. They understood that their sacrifice, all they could achieve was not for them, for their fate had been sealed; but for their sons, their grandsons and all to come after this day. They understood that what they did during their time on this Earth, echoed for all eternity in the consequences of their actions. They understood what little do; that if they did not do it, no one would.

He issued the battle formations; after all, he was the Mariscal of the republics army. After all was ready he left the battlefront and joined his son. Though only 17, he had already been decorated as a Colonel. As they met, they retreated to a more strategically located place with a few personal guards. He left the battle, not on his own will to preserve his life, but on the plea of his knights.

They had scarcely walked for a couple of minutes when they heard the battle start. The Mariscal stopped and turned around, facing the battle sounds. He knew what he had to do; he knew that already too much blood had been spent on his account, spilled on him. The lives of hundreds of thousands cried for justices, a cry which would never allow him to sleep.

“Father, why do we stop?” asked his son as he approached him. The commander placed both his hands on his eldest son’s shoulders and gently answered.

“Protect your mother and your brothers. Go, do as I say.” Upon seeing hesitation and doubt in his son’s eyes, he cut the answer from his colonel’s throat “Colonel, obey your Mariscal. Protect the first lady and her son’s. That is an order!”

The young Colonel, tearful, at last understood, saluted and departed. He had barely run ten meters when he heard two single gun shots. He hadn’t noticed it, but the strife sounds had died a few seconds ago. He heard vaguely muttering in the direction he had come from. He felt paralysed. He had to go back, die with his father, and protect his commander.

“I DIE WITH MY HOMELAND!” reached his ears, clearly and distinctively. He understood. At last he fully understood and began running at the top of his lungs. A single shot pierced the air a couple of seconds later and froze his blood; yet, he did not stop. He understood now; at last he fully understood.

Inner Void

2007-10-24T08:19:00.000-03:00

I recently -not to say yesterday- watched an interview with the man behind Asuncion Anti fashion and heard what he has to say for himself. he explained what this "movement" was. Of all the things he said, I agree up to a solid 100% with just one; teenagers (in general) have no personality but rather simply follow trends. They dress as the market tells them to dress, the speak and act as the market tells the to do so and we're left with people who have no real identity because they are nothing more than a mere reflection. Teenagers (again, stress on in general) care a lot about being accepted, and it is understandable since it is one of the stages of adolescence, and up to a point is normal. the problem resides on a teenager thinking that simply because he buys a 500.000 guaranies (translate to US$100) t-shirt he/she is better than the other kid who can't afford to spend such an amount of money, or who simply doesn't choose to because he/she has more brains. It is sad to see kids who measure how much their parents love them by whether the buy them what they want or not (which, ironically, it's always something they saw the latest prepubescent pop star wear/use, or their classmate who saw the pop star first).

Sascha mentioned to me an MTV (a channel which, all religious ideologies aside, I think is the spawn of the devil) show which deals on super pampered i-don't-even-breathe-the-same-air-as-you-do teenagers called sweet sixteen. It's a monument to materialism and it shows why we are where we are. Kids are raised with the mind set not to care about what happens to the people next door, and not to care about themselves either. After all, if you can pretend like you have money (who cares if you do or don't as long as other people think you do) and are a clone of some star (who by the way in case you didn't know are the earthly incarnation of the Greek pantheon and thus deserve our worship and admiration) you'll be fine.

It's time to wake up and realize that, I simply don't care how stupid this sounds, celebrities are humans, just like you, just like me and exactly just like the African child you died a second ago, the one that is dying now and the one that will die in a second from starvation.

You are who you are inside, that person who sobs alone in the dark before crying him/herself to sleep, the one that screams inside your head what you really think but never dares to repeat it out loud, the one who doesn't think that simply because everybody else does it it's OK, and the one who keeps daring to think of how would it be like to be different, to actually have a mind of your own.

I honestly cannot think of a good decent way of finishing this entry since it is already borderline (actually I think it crossed it crossed it already in the first paragraph) exactly what I said I didn't want this blog to be, Senseless Babbling. I honestly have nothing more to say.

Enjoy.

Senseless Babbling

2007-10-18T08:16:00.000-04:00

Lately I have been feeling a bit irresponsible towards my blog. I do not post in it with the frequency I would like to, and when I want to post something I usually feel myself bereft of any ideas on what to write good enough as to actually make me sit down and type something. While I do feel that I am neglecting not only my blog but also you, my readers (if there's any besides Rachel and Sascha), from the day I created this Haven I knew that I wanted only to make worth while entries, and not make it another whining space. As a friend told me when I said I was thinking about making a blog; "Do you think you can do something not completely self-centred or an emo site? If you can, then go for it. If you can't, spare us the pain." I can say now, that I agree and here is why.

I was driving down Mcal. Lopez, one of the main avenues in my home city, when I saw a poster on a wall. It read "Es hora que digamos la verdad. Asuncion Anti-Fashion" (It's time for us to tell the truth. Asunción Anti-Fashion) and the url www.asuncionantifashion.com beneath that slogan. I have to say that I did feel rather intrigued so as soon as I could I visited the site, which resulted to be a blog. After reading quite an interesting intro, and going through two redirecting sites, I ended up in a blog right here in the blogger domain, and very disillusioned. What I actually had hopes of being something interesting ended up being exactly what I didn't want this blog to be, a whining site. It is basically people getting together and complaining about the country. What's worse, the blog's owner's name can't be seen anywhere in it; not as the author of the entries nor on one side of the screen. Who ever this person is he prefers to throw the rock and hide his (or her) hand in the warm comfort of anonymity. This is not bravery, it is not courage, and it is not the truth the so claim to seek; this is pure poison being instigated by a person (or people) who like to criticize and play revolutionaries when the truth is that the are afraid to back their comments with their names.

What I said is harsh, and I am sorry if it offended anyone, specially the site owner; but the fact is that it served as a wake up call and a reminder to myself of what this blog is. It is a Haven. A haven from the things out in the real world; a haven from the voices outside my head; a haven from the constant bickering and whining of the people around me; a haven where people are not told what to think, but to think.

I have read some entries in that blog and have my disagreements but I wonder what would happen if I actually post them; if I stir their world vision as I so enjoy doing. I don't know why, but I do think that a flame war will begin and, honestly, I don't feel like being hated by those people. You see, from the moment you stop accepting opinions or insights which differ from yours and those of your group, you have ceased being a debating group and have become a mob.

I am sorry if I do not post with the frequency you or even I would like, but as I said in my first entry; " what I can not promise in updating I can promise in content, so don't stop dropping by occasionally."

Enjoy.

Finding

2007-10-11T09:26:00.000-04:00

A few days ago I began feeling the need of buying game t-shirts which had the images or something related to Zelda or any other game. As you have noticed I have finally fully accepted myself as a helpless game geek and Fanboy. As I was googling for images, I came upon a site called Error Macro, a blog. I came upon this specific article and I loved it. Bill (he appears to be the author) has a great insight into the video game world which I can feel related to up to a degree since it is almost the same as mine, and what's best, he says it with an amazing sense of humour; at least the sense of humour I enjoy that is.

If you have time, and know a bit or more about the gaming industry in general (or want to) I really recommend checking out this site once in a while.

Zelda again

2007-09-28T08:18:00.000-04:00

Here they are, the two videos I mentioned in my previous entry. Hope you like them as I did.

OCARINA OF TIME

LINK vs GANONDORF

Dancing Link

2007-09-28T07:51:00.000-04:00

Since I can recall, I have been a huge video game fan. This has earned me the dub of "Geek" by a friend of mine (who, ironically, is even a bigger geek than me) to which all I have to say is "proud of it". Now, this posts name is "old school" simply because I consider myself an old school gamer. I've been playing video games since 1984, in those days I played my cousin's Atari console tirelessly (I was 2), and have never stopped.

One of my favourite, if not THE favourite altogether, is The Legend of Zelda. I consider the game the best game in history (for all of you wondering which one, well, ALL of them) and a must for any person who even dares to call himself a console video gamer; not having played Zelda is like not having played Mario. That's simply not right.

I was looking recently for two Zelda ads, one is the first Ocarina of Time ad, which is one of the best video games ads in history (this is the fan boy in me talking); and the other is a short demonstration Nintendo produced for when the gamecube was still called the dolphin of Link and Ganondorf duelling with sword (I can still remember being awed for hour on that 30 second video). I have found the Ocarina one and am still looking for the duel one, as soon as I find it I will post both of them.

Anyhow, while looking for it, I stumbled upon this very interesting Japanese ad for A link to the Past, a video game which simply is a true master piece. I found it so funny and at the same time perturbing that I thought I should share it with you. I hope you like it.

Just remember, it's a Japanese ad from the early 90s.

Whispered comments...

2007-09-25T08:30:00.000-04:00

This is an entry in Sascha's blog. Read the comment and comment yourselves.

Angel

2007-09-25T08:10:00.000-04:00

The following short story is not mine, but of a dear friend of mine; Mauricio Alvarez. He showed it to me about a two months ago and I thought it was really good. All due credits go to him.

She kisses me.

I can barely feel her lips against mine, but I can see her face, feel her warmth spreading through my stiff face. A tear rolls off her cheek and falls on me, although I can't feel it. Slowly she moves apart from me, her brown eyes filled with tears. I want to tell her how much I love her, I want to hold her and tell her everything is going to be fine.

But that's no longer possible. How did I end up like this, body dead and senseless, doomed to lie still in this bed until my body gives up the fight?

Even now, I don't know. I've lost track of how long I've been here, although it can't be that long. I've seen nurses come and go, a doctor, some friends, but not many, and her. She's my angel, the one who kept me safe from my inner demons. The person who always seemed to warm the air around her. And the more I knew her, the closer we got, the more I loved her. I could drown in those brown eyes and feel a warm comfort grow inside me. It was a beautiful thing.

Her hand brushes the hair off my face, while she covers her mouth with the other to drown a sob. That's when something inside me wakes up. I can't lose this fight. I owe it to her, who has done so much for me. Her company kept me sane while I saw my father dying slowly from the cancer that ate away his lungs. She was the one who stood by me in the long days hunting for a job, helping me as much as she could with what little spare money she had. I must not give up. I must fight and live.

My mind is suddenly flooded with images. My mother teaching me how to swim in my uncle's pool. My dad playing basketball with me and my brothers in the backyard. My classmates and I, dancing drunk after our last day of class in high school. Myself, walking into my college campus for the first time. The first time I saw her, the moment as vivid as if I were there. My dad's funeral. The dark days afterwards. And finally the road...I can sense cold fear around me. The road. The flashlights heading towards me. The horn blowing, cutting the air with a deep scream. And suddenly I'm staring at her again, in my hospital bed, but this time she seems to be fading away.

And I realize my fight is over.

But she kisses me. And that's all I really need.

товарищ, прочность и почетность! День принадлежит к нам!

What This World Needs

2007-09-14T09:31:00.000-04:00

Ever since my friend Guille gave me the first Casting Crowns cd for me to listen to it I have loved this band. They have been a true blessing in my life and every song in every CD ministers my spirit as I have found almost no other band does. It showed and confirmed something which I always thought to be true, that a christian band can not, under any circumstance just be that, a band. That a christian band is not christian because they profess faith in Jesus and mix his name in some verses. That for a christian band to truly be one, there has to be a message, an abandonment to the work of Christ and a desire to serve other. That christian can not be musicians just because they like it and they wish to perform on-stage, but because it is a true calling from God in their lives and because they will minister other not only through their songs, but through their life. I truly recommend them to you if you don't know them yet.

I post here below the lyrics of a sing from their third album "The altar and the Door". The song's title is "What this World needs". This song has been a confirmation in my life of something I have always believed but that the world in which we live, Christian or non-Christian, makes it difficult to see and accept. We are sometimes so involved in our own church that we forget that we are but a cell of the body of Christ; not even a member, but a cell.

- Casting Crowns Lyrics

Please do leave your comments and reflections on this subject and on the lyrics, and if you have the chance, get a Casting Crowns CD. Believe me, you won't regret it.

Riddles in the Net

2007-09-12T09:19:00.000-04:00

I have always been quite a fan of puzzles, though I have a love-hate relationship with jigsaw puzzles), they keep me entertained for hours no matter my mood. Recently (about a week ago to be accurate) a friend of mine gave me a link to an online riddle called "Neutral Riddle". It consists basically of 70 levels, each level being a riddle on it's own. The objective is, of course, to finish all 70 riddles. I has kept me entertained for a week now (consider that I only have internet access during weekdays and only in the morning at that) and I am currently on level 43.

If you enjoy a good challenge and great brain exercise (which we all need in order to keep sharp) I highly recommend giving it a try. The only inconvenience to some of you may be that in order to advance you sometimes have to download files or even software. But don't worry, there no malicious software involved.

Never Dreamt

2007-09-10T08:19:00.000-04:00

Again, here we have another small composition I wrote for college. Hope you all enjoy it.

Maybe I am not supposed to be a scribe. Although it has been my life long dream to be one, I have never possessed the required skill for it. I long to write, I crave epic stories, desire romance and drama, and cherish poems and sonnets; yet they all elude my mental grasp. Ever since I can recall, I have reached for the quill and ink, and failed.

My mind went blank, my palms and fingertips began sweating, and I ran out of breath. Every single time I reached for the ink and sat in front of a blank parchment, I experienced the same symptoms. Every time, but one. Not long ago I dreamt of a poem, a gorgeous epic poem which included all I ever wanted to write about. It was a gift from God, or so I thought; yet now I know it actually was a curse from the devils. If only I had never dreamt that dream.

Every time I think about time I despair, yet ever since my poem was made public by my benefactor, time is all I hear. After my ode was published, an editor was appointed to me. Supposedly to help; in truth, to torment. Every week he calls for me, and everyday he reminds me that my time is running short, that my patronage is at an end. If only I had never dreamt that dream.

My editor called me asking about my next writing again this morning. Threatened me with poverty and hunger and tried to force me to spew verses I had not written nor conceived. My editor called me to torment my soul. Never more would that happen, for I have no more soul. I have forgotten it, lost it in the days of yore; it has been eroded by the tortuous days I have lived since my poem was published. I too shall pass, as my dreamt poem already has. Farewell all. A sad unmemorable farewell for a sad unmemorable scribe.

If only I had never dreamt that dream.

Provide Feedback

2007-09-03T08:24:00.001-04:00

As the title so aptly states, I do want some feedback. After all, the sole purpose of me posting my writings is to have the world read what I can produce and tell me if I am a good writer, an average one, or should go ahead and search for an aspiration in life other than writing a book. So, please do click on the "comments" link and leave one. Thanks.

This is a short short writing I had to do for college. As you may or may not know (most likely not) I am an English major. My "professor" placed four phrases on the blackboard and we had to write a story using all four phrases. This was the result and it has no real title, so feel free to dub it as you will.

Enjoy.

The cold southern wind was blowing mercilessly, chilling my face and immobilizing it. Nonetheless, I kept firm with a steady, unblinking stare into the horizon. They were coming, I knew it, I felt it. Though my eyes could not see them, the wind brought me tidings of that which went on beyond the horizon. The time had come, I best be prepared.

I was in no mood to talk to anyone, least of all the other men back at the camp. I had been sent up this hill as a scout, to keep watch and send warning of any danger. I knew their pursuer, I knew their allegiance, yet they knew not mine, my true alignment. Yes, they were coming, but that was not the only warning carried by the wind. The first was aimed at the fugitives at the camp at the foot of this hill, the latter, was aimed at me.

"Hell", I said, "can't I just feel for once the wind caress my cheek and bring peace with it rather than doom?" No one was around me as to hear that remark, yet it wasn't intended for any human ears, but the wind's. It had been uttered into an to that soft breeze which was gently turning into a gale. A gale which urged me to move.

The phone they had given me as to warn them faster of incoming forces started ringing now. No doubt it was them, wondering what had happened to me, worried, not for my well-being, but theirs. The dense foliage which covered this "watch post" kept them from seeing me, just as it kept them from seeing their captors who by now were surely closing in on the camp already.

A single shot breaks the still silence, giving way to the dreaded stillness of death. As a flock of birds take off from close by treetops, more gun bursts and shout are heard. The strife had started. Turning around I began walking and dropped the still ringing phone on the snow covered grass. I kept a steady pace away from the phone's call, the gun bursts, they screaming; from the guilt, just as I had so many times before. I picked up my own pace, the phone kept ringing and I could not afford being caught. My allegiances were neither with the fugitives nor their captors; they lie elsewhere.

They always do.

300 AMV

2007-08-28T09:27:00.000-04:00

I enjoy watching AMVs. AMV stands for Anime Music Video and it is basically a "video clip" made from a soundtrack (be this or not a song) and images of an anime. This is one that I found yesterday and I fell in love with it. Sadly enough I can't download it. Watch it and post your reactions to it.

Full credits go to the maker of this wonderful "trailer". In youtube it shows "From: KruLx". I will take he made it so, cheers to him.

Writer's block

2007-08-28T08:47:00.000-04:00

I have to apologize for the negligence I have been showing towards my blog. I know that it has been quite a while since I last posted anything and as so, I have decided to tackle the issue at hand. The reason for my sudden absence is nothing more than a mundane writer's block. I have sat in front of my screen for the past week and stared at this site trying to come up with something worth writing, and have always come up with the same result. A blank page and mind.

This is why now, as a means to unblock the creative part of my brain, I have decided to just sit and write. Tackle the issue at hand and bash it until it falls. I know this is not the best idea since what comes out may or may not be just senseless rant, but it is the only way I know of in which I can deal with this ailment which afflicts me. Just sit down, and type whatever comes to mind.

I have watched this past few days a couple of movies; 300 and Jet Li's Fearless. 300 is a movie that ever since I heard about it, I've longed to be able to watch it. I should inform you that I am a huge fan of anything that is epic and most fantasy books and concepts, so 300 was a no brainer for me. I was very disappointed when I found out that the studio making the movie was Warner Bros. This is not due to some issue I may have against such studio, but rather because Warner Bros. decided a couple of years ago to stop screening its movies here in Paraguay. In other words, I wouldn't get the chance to watch 300 in the theatres. I was heart broken and still am. Watching it, although it was a great movie and I watched it tow more times before returning the dvd, only made me a bit more sour about not being able to enjoy this two hour carnage in the big screen.

Fearless, is also another movie I have been anxiously waiting for, not only because it's a wushu film (and I'm a lover of those) but because it is Jet Li's last wushu film. The movie is loosely based on real life, on the story of Hou Yuanjia, a Chinese hero. I loved the movie, not only because of the fighting scenes which are breathtaking and masterfully done, but because it actually makes one feel. Most American martial art movies are plain and without any real depth. They deal about the main character seeking revenge from the bad guys, and hideously outnumbered makes his way through lines of thugs breaking every single bone he can until he comes face to face with the "boss" of the organization or terrorist cell and manages to kill him.
There is no real plot depth or any other motive beyond seeking revenge, not even justice, just plain revenge. In this sense Fearless in unlike any other in that the main character undergoes a transformation and by the end of the movie he is another person, so to speak. I highly recommend it since it is a movie that makes one feel and realize some truths about not only our world, but also about ourselves.

I believe I have written enough for today. I will be posting more often again and I will try to focus and redirect this blog towards what its original purpose was, a Haven.

From a humanists poit of view.

2007-08-28T08:05:00.000-04:00

I will copy Sascha a bit here. This is a link I found in his blog redirecting to an article in another blog. I paste it here so all of you can read it as well. I won't make any big comments on it, just that I couldn't agree more. I leave your conclusions to be that, yours.

Enjoy.

http://musingsociety.blogspot.com/2007_04_01_archive.html

Antonio Jorge Luis Alberto Gaspar

2007-08-13T15:05:00.000-04:00

So, this is the last friend I was missing in my previous entry. His name is Antonio Jorge Luis Alberto Gaspar Fuertes Arcondo, and he's Spaniard.

PS: The pic had to be taken at an angle so that his nose could fit in the same pic as his face.

Eternal Frustration

2007-08-09T11:59:00.000-04:00

If I have to name a curse upon me the first to come up will surely be my incapacity to write. I know it may sound a bit incoherent, specially since I have a blog and tend to write long entries; but length is not the same a quality, and that is specially true in my case. No matter what I do or how much I work on any single writing, what ends up in paper is never but a shade of what hides within the dark recesses of my mind.

Any time that I want to write something that I thought of, it does not come out as it should. I believe that to be the reason of why I hate to have notes whenever I have to preach or give a speech, I simply prefer to research the topic and then go straight to the battlefront. This only changes whenever I have to preach. Then, under my pastor's advice, I do write down a speech/preaching, though what I end up saying from the culprit is rarely close to what I had prepared.

Anyhow, this senseless ranting comes from the fact that it has been my lifelong desire to write a book; be this a novel; Christian book; short story compendium; or simply any type of thing that would outlive me and thus be my heritage tot he generations to come. Believe this to be a bit narcissistic if you will, yet I do believe that all humans have something, be this thought or not, that must outlive us since we all have something to share and to teach. I want to have something to be remembered by; yet something positive. I know I have something to offer to all of our sons, just as I know you have something to share too.

Now, leaving all deliriums of grandeur behind, the fact that I can't write down anything worthwhile is quite infuriating. Being an English teacher, it is my job to know all techniques of how to write different types of papers just as it is encouraging my students to actually write, so I do know what to do and also know that if I were to follow my own advices, I would probably end up writing my precious and personal holy grail. Yet I am sorry to admit that I am too weak. As I told my class today, I, also, am an idiot; and a big one at that. Maybe it is time for me to heed my own advices, finally, and stop putting excuses and simply go into action. Maybe the first time will go awry, but sooner or later, if I persevere, one of my tries will hit the bullseye.

The Political Mirage

2007-08-09T09:07:00.001-04:00

I watched the movie "Man of the Year" yesterday, and I must admit I did find it entertaining. though not as funny as I expected. It awoke in me, nonetheless, a bit of curiosity towards just how is it that the presidential elections are carried out in the United States. I was a bit surprised (I won't say shocked since I already had an idea of this) to find out that the people, the American people are not the ones that actually choose their president, but rather an electoral college does. In case you are wondering what an electoral college is you will find a more extensive definition here, yet let me provide a brief one. Basically, in the United States

"the election of the President and the Vice President is indirect. Presidential electors are selected on a state by state basis as determined by the laws of each state. Currently each state uses the popular vote on Election Day to elect electors. Although ballots list the names of the presidential candidates, voters within the 50 states and the District of Columbia are actually choosing Electors from their state when they vote for President and Vice President. These Presidential Electors in turn cast the official (electoral) votes for those two offices. Although the nationwide popular vote is calculated by official and media organizations, it does not determine the winner of the election." (-Wikipedia)

So, as you can see, the people doesn't choose the president. Sure, it can be argued that it does, but one is never truly sure since as we know, politics involve many personal interests, and politicians are known to lean towards the best bidder. I will stop here, but I have one last doubt nonetheless: Why is it that the US imposes on every country they can (Iraq is a good example) a "democratic" system that they don't believe in, at least not enough as to use it themselves?

Strike a pose!

2007-08-08T12:25:00.001-04:00

The real Charlie's Angels.

We need a new one. This is the latest I have. Guille, come back we need a 2007 pic.

A quick Amend

2007-08-07T12:46:00.000-04:00

Sascha said that he didn't like the pic I posted of him. I must admit, it is quite old (2 years) and thus out of date. In his words, he "still looked like a Barbie". So here it is, a newer pic he just sent me.

If you ask me, he traded the Barbie look for a Russian Mobster's look. It really suits him though ^^

Fellowship Companions.

2007-08-07T10:01:00.000-04:00

I have decided that I will introduce my Friends to the world. Here they are, the very best of the best!

First of all, my very best friend in the world and companion in life, my wife, Kitty. May God continue to provide her with enough patience as to withstand me.

Here we have a group Pic. From left to right: Meli, Pati (my sister-in-law), Guille, Kitty and Me, Sascha and Xime (his Girlfriend), Ana (Mauri's former Classmate), and my Tovarish Mauri.

Mauri with his ex-girlfriend. Mauri is a very very very special person to me...special in the special meaning of the word ^^

Sascha and Me in a church event called "The night of Rock n' Roll". I was playing the guitar that night, hence the out fit and hairdo (had to simulate the 50s). People have told me that I look like the devil in this pic. Ironic, isn't it.

Guille at Pixar. Guille is the guy to your left of the blue monster. He is a genius and a real God sent in my life. For all of you who still haven't heard me mention it, he works at Dreamworks as a computer animator. He rocks!

Meli is the Lady in the middle. She is with some church friends here; Osvaldito to the left of the pic, Carlos above her (he is her boyfriend; Mancandy as I so tenderly dubbed him for her ^^), and Pablo, my Bible study group leader and a great companion. Almost too wise for his age.

Well, there they are, the people chosen by God to bear with the burden that is to know me. May God bless them forever!

Impatience

2007-08-06T08:21:00.000-04:00

Since I can recall, I have always been very excitable. As soon as I new I could get something, be this buying it or through other methods, I have felt the urge to get it as soon as humanly possible. I know that this is quite an annoying quirk for the people around me since I do tend to get very pushy and even upset when I can not get that which I know I can in that exact moment. As my wife put it recently, I act like a pushy two year old.

Yet leaving this fact aside for a moment, let me argue my defence. The idea that drives me to behave in such an infantile way is that I hate people who procrastinate things that can be done in the moment. I admit that I do behave in such a way once in a while (procrastinate things), so it may make me sound as a hypocrite when I rant about how much procrastinators annoy me; yet I have an excuse (don't we all). You see, I procrastinate things that I know are not important or that I know that I still have quite some time to do it. I do this as to prioritize other things that I have to do and do them as soon as possible. Yet I too am human, so once in a while I will also over delay things of importance and thus get myself in problems once in a while, to say the least.

If you are wondering why I have this little pet peeve -procrastinators- all you have to do is take a look at the culture of the country I reside in to get your answer. Paraguay. Paraguayans have the "blessed" habit of over delaying every single thing they have to do, and when the time to actually do it comes, they tend to do it in the most mediocre way possible; the infamous "ya da ya" (it's OK). This is only one of the cultural issues that has Paraguay in the hole it currently is in. Paraguayans, as an American Uncle quite accurately put it not long ago, have no pride. I can hear some arising in anger at this statement, but it only takes a quick glance to see how true this is. We ( I include myself here since alienating myself from the problem will only make make me think it doesn't affect me and thus will stop me from trying to do something about it) have a tendency to just get things done, it the shortest time possible (once we actually start doing it) and not care about the actual end product rather than if it fulfils it's purpose or not. This is how we end with bad quality national products; producers only care that the couch they are selling will be good enough for you to sit on, and overlook completely its comfortableness or even aspect. Home owners just care about having furniture, and couldn't care less about actually decorating their homes with good taste or even harmony. It is a cancer that has been killing Paraguay for over a century and which, needless to say,should be eradicated once and for all if Paraguay is ever to climb out of the hole and make something out of its existence.

Well, enough ranting, and as I told a very good friend some time ago "If all you do is complain and not try to see how you can help, you are nothing more than an aggregate to the problem" (I know I took it from somewhere else, but I can't recall from where now) so instead of looking for the problem, it is time to look for a solution. I end this entry with a quote form one of the best video games in history (for me in any case), Final Fantasy VI.

"You want to live in the world as it is? No? Then do something about it!"
~ General Celes Chere, FF VI

Golgotha

2007-08-03T09:01:00.000-04:00

This is, while not the exact same, a text in which I have been working on and off for the past 3 years; by on and off I mean that I write it every time I have to present a short short text for something. The truth is that, although very cliché if I may say so, the scene described is one that I simply love. The title I have finally given to it, while not the final one since I am not very fond of it, is the same title as this entry's name. Any sort of feedback will be very appreciated, yet let me say in my defence first that I wrote this specific one for college. I am an English mayor student (actually, undergrad still) and I had to present a descriptive essay for my composition class last year. This is what I managed to come up with in the hour and twenty minutes we had to write the essay.

Enjoy.

The crimson sky that hung above us, just a tone lighter than the blood that covered the earth beneath my feet, forebode the impending doom that lingered in the air. The earth, a dark crimson, was a bit moist under my footsteps, perhaps from all the blood that had been spilled on it through centuries of countless battles. Stones, in a pale white that clashed with the land around it, gave the whole landscape an eerie aspect, for in our minds they took the shape of human skulls. The air felt dense in the nose and bitter in the mouth, and a soft red mist lingered just knee high above the ground.

The men around me, all the bravest of the court and sworn Templar in service of our king, kept quiet, drawing fear in every inhale and letting go despair with every exhale. Silence took a ruling position amongst our ranks, with only the clatter of armor to defy it, for such was the anguish in the field that made three hundred of the toughest knights to shiver as flames on a windy night. Panic in their eyes and terror in their minds, these brave warriors prepared to die.

I too shared their terror, their anguish and their pain, for I too shared their fate. A fate cast upon us in the same fashion as a lord chooses his stallion; a lord that having lust for power in mind and greed in the eyes sees nothing more than a beast that will stand as a symbol. Not humans, but dispensable beasts we were, and as such we felt; equal to dogs that have no more value than the meal they ingest every day. I trembled, both in fear and from the cold, for despite it being mid-summer, death’s caress is one that chills even the marrow of the bravest and most seasoned gladiator.

Here they come. Their black ranks breaking the dark red horizon and their war horns blowing a challenge, making the atmosphere even more lugubrious than before, even worse than the ill-fated silence that had sliced our conscious. Here they come, ready to kill and die. A sword rises in defiance and as a signal from the hand of our general being followed by others. A horse gallops across our ranks, and as it passes by, our banners rise high and our own horns respond to theirs thus issuing the command to engage. Battle cries echoing from our mouths, now, we too march and run. March to kill, and run to die.

Book Worm

2007-08-03T08:23:00.001-04:00

As you may, or most likely may not, know, I am a HUGE literary fan. Now, while this means that I simply love reading, it does not mean that I read just any single scrap of written paper I happen to stumble upon (although my wife would most definitively disagree with that statement). I am very picky with what I read since I do believe that since the publishing industry became such a money-making machine, people with zero talent have picked up pens and pretended to be great literary geniuses. This is why there are so many bad books out there and it makes me think about the 80s, when one band had success and then you would have other 5 bands copying the first one just to try to get some of the buzz; and more often than not, 4 out of these 5 copycat bands sucked big time.

Back on track with my original idea though, I will be discussing things I read as well as publishing some others, of my authorship or not. This does not mean that I will just go around copy-pasting Tolkien or Richard A. Knaak. The texts that I will post which were not written by me shall give proper credit to the real author, and I will ask for his or her permission to publish it of course.

Every time I post some text, I will be giving a short introduction to it first, of course, detailing who wrote it, when and why am I posting it. Again I will clarify that I am very picky with what I read even within the genres I love. A perfect example of this is Harry Potter. While being a HUGE fan of the fantasy genre in general, I simply do not find this series entertaining. While I do give credit to the author J. K Rowling for her work, I have to admit that I simply don't like the book. I have read the first four books of course as to have grounds and motif (and basically to give the books a chance) of what I don't like in the series (it really annoys me to death when a person says that he or she doesn't like something yet has never or is unwilling to try it), and all I have to say is; I simply don't like it. I can go on and on criticizing ridiculous details and things which I don't like, but simply, the reason is shortened in a phrase I can't recall were I heard:
"Even if you are the best strawberry ice cream in the world, reality is that some people simply don't like strawberry".

I do tend to rant on a lot, so I'll cut this entry "short" here. Have a great day all of you.

Welcome to the Freak Show!

2007-08-01T12:10:00.000-04:00

This is just a standard welcome message were I will explain what my blog will be about as well as explain a bit about myself.

My name, as you can read to the left, is Victor Vasconsellos. I'm 25 years old and I am married. In fact, I just got married a month ago and my wife's name is Cristina Silguero, or Kitty. This blog is intended as exactly what the name suggests, a Haven for my thoughts. I will update this every time I either get a chance or feel like it, so don't expect a very active blog. Yet, what I can not promise in updating I can promise in content, so don't stop dropping by occasionally.

That is all I will say for the moment. I hate spoilers, so I will end this entry here and allow you, my reader, to get to know more about me as you read my thoughts and insights on life and thus delve deeper into my mind.

As a farewell I will leave a picture of my wife and me on our wedding day.

Enjoy.