Staring at the ceiling in the dark

This evening has been one of contemplation and evaluation of life and the events occurring within. I've been watching a lot of short films on youtube recently, all in the early stages of brainstorming up an idea. So far I'm not able to convert this philosophy into creativity.

I can't sleep at night. Its either too hot, or too rainy, or too buggy. Glitching out during the night doesn't start your day off well. You finally manage to close your eyes as the birds start singing. You look around your room and see all the death by your hand, taking the phrase 'Crushing like a bug' at its utmost literal. You sit up and consider trying to sleep or just starting the new day. You hear a sibling or parent wake up and begin theirs, when you're not sure whether to finish yours or soldier on.

I click continue, which often leads to unintentional game overs. When I sleep in the middle of the day in the heat, through sheer exhaustion, my dreams are vivid and most fierce. They become intense and rapidly decent into the realm of nightmares. Facing mortality and destruction, loss of control and violation of will on a daily basis can begin to drive you a little crazy. I was hoping my new found insanity would aid my creative flux. Though it appears to diminished all thoughts into rationalised fears and paranoia.

Driving is when its worst. I drive when I'm wide awake, but the lingering thoughts throughout the over lapping days creep in when you're only focusing on the road and the cars around you. Thoughts tease you, at the possibility of crashing, whether to wake you up or finally find a way to catch up on sleep. The illusion of power with 70mph at your fingertips can corrupt even the most innocent minds. Fortunately rationality prevails.

So far into the night, you cannot justify having music playing or a film on screen. You force yourself to sleep and eliminate all other competition. The local drunkard's drama is the only entertainment available, muffled by the pitta patter of moths drumming on your ceiling. Momentarily you'll be comfortable, time will do its thing and you will be uncomfortable. Turn your pillow for the cooler side. Turn yourself over for the cooler side. Eyelids heavy. Yawning painful. Dry throat. Dry lips. You whisper a pray for rain.

A flash of white shines into your room for a split second. You consider the possibility of aliens before lightning. A crash of thunder dispels the hopeful theory of being abducted and induced into a deep sleep. The pitta patter of moths is replaced with the heavy drops of rain striking the ground. You feel the air turn to butter, the room becomes humid and you think of your curtains more as mosquito nets. The air is cooler though.

Finally, the air is cooler. Heavy eye lids can finally rest. Deep breaths of cool air. Your body temperature returns to human levels. The rate of blinks per second increases exponentially and eventually they just remain closed. You didn't even have to think about it. A bug lands on your arm, but you don't care. Finally, sleep. Your eye lids turn from black to a redy pink for a split second. You feel yourself drifting away. A crash of thunder sounds like it personally punched you in the face.

Now every drop of rain sounds like a crash of thunder. A chorus of giants bellowing boisterously for my attention. Spitting and spluttering everywhere. You smack your arm and kill the smug bug. You find something disposable to wipe it off your skin with. You sit up and see the time is pushing 3am. You know from the last few days that sunrise is just round the corner. You know from the last few days that the birds will sing before the sun will rise and perhaps you should research just how much hunting rifles cost.

You stare up at your ceiling in the dark, same old empty feeling in your heart like you're looking at a starless sky. Hope and ideology is non-existent. As far as priority goes, the word has little meaning, as if anything other than rest could be your priority. The stubborn Earth continues to spin on its axis. Within no time at all, the croak of crows and the crack of dawn come about and inform you that another 24 hours has past. A day used to mean the interval between sleep. I'm both awake and asleep, in a perpetual state, in an unbroken cycle.

Suddenly sleep seems like an abstract concept. The routine and cycles of days and weeks become arbitrary and meaningless. What is a Saturday? What is a Tuesday? Different sets of 24 hours. Different names for the exact same interval of time. It's said that Sunday is the day of rest. I wonder if it will bring me rest or live up to its namesake and allow Sol to bring me to the boil and then leave me to simmer.


~A

"Inamorata mid Paramour" by Aron Woolnough

A long time caging my rage
and I'd be hating just fine,
but yee, but yee, be down
because I played the fool
and I, curse I, be damned,
you broke the ice with a kiss;
how did thou end up like this?

Falling upon a bed asleep
while she left me alone to weep
and dream aside his ash filled pipe
aghast haunting my aerial drift,
and shift as they purge a bedchamber
to fire putrid pain onto my gut o' amber,
but it's all in my head, it's all in my slumber.

A giggle, a gasp and she fingers his chest,
he tears through her dress onto caress
her captivating beauty, not letting me go,
burning forth from me uncontrolled,
jealousy, churning darkness by the sea
swimming amid a sick alibi
choking I can not preach goodbye.

'The Wordsmith' by Aron Woolnough

Don't believe I wrote this?
Want me to drop in some names or go hiss-tiss,
tuff-puff, oogle-boogle,
don't take my word for it,
hit feeling lucky on google.

I'm a crafter of the croak, a revolution of the word,
these rhymes will feed my ego even if they're absurd.
Does it make your brain boggle or your mind mangle,
that you can't believe, that I'm not playing an angle?

I don't want to smother you in words so I'll give you a chord
it starts with dang dong and it's played on keyboard;
if you hit A minor, then the dang-dong -
wait, don't twist my words into abusing kid King Kong -
hit a C major and you're back in the song.

I'd be strong at singing hymns if they weren't all wrong,
this is right now and no one's playing around,
my words'll make my money just by being a sound,
I don't care for cash, but its hard to say no
when you've got this much talent, they'll keep on feeding you dough!

I'm not quite there yet, so I'll take this slow,
I'll call this bit the bridge and then pitch'll get low,
if you haven't done it yet, you should drop the tempo,
start to sound real gloomy for this part of the show,
build suspense cos everyone is waiting to blow,
the star that I am is starting to glow.

I was gonna try to hide it, but you already know
that I could write a kick-ass poem,
about my parents and show it to 'em.
Show that I'm the poet, that wrote it and sow my seed;
be an artist I insist, not led by greed -
kill some stanzas in pyjamas as I hit the hay.

I'm the wordsmith of the future, so you'll do what I say,
I'm expecting to be nominated for penguin awards any day,
no one's sure if it's fair on the runners-up anyway,
as I'm the wordsmith of the future, hammering not stammering,
no mutter, stutter or utterance unintended.
I'm a linguist, an artist and kick-ass too,
as I'm preaching to my canvas in my kick-ass room.

'Hero-to-be three!' by Aron Woolnough

You ran at me with a yelp
got on your knees for my help
eyes locked on a crying whelp
and your tears stained my cape.

My empathy grants a wish
a hand to help up the miss
my foe appeared with a hiss
and his intentions rape!

his eye was twitching, pumped arms
he was gripping, a cold bar, that he's swinging
time to get this fight on, shall we?

"Hey! I will save you"
I heard beside me
some guy in leather...
... a hero-to-be?

He dashed to the right
with the lady
while I just stood there,
not heroic of me.

Pow! Hit the cold bar
I fell by a tree
but from the branches
a guy covers me!

And with his fancy toys
tries to save me
some guy in leather...
... a hero-to-be?

He threw the foe at the wall
following in to the fool
victory and stood tall
and won his Juliet

I gasp and blinking, I kneel
is this dream or this real?
I don't know how to feel
so I pirouette

My eyes were blinking, heart sunk, reality slipping,
replaced? Powers draining,
I run over to address thee:

"Hey! You just saved her
you aren't a wannabe.
You know what that means?
We have a trilogy!

Hey! You just kicked ass
and you saved me;
some guy in leather:
Hero-to-be three!"

'Hero-to-be II' by Aron Woolnough

Time to record this happen-stance
of pain, heroics and jail-romance.
The world has settled after
jaws of death and it's crafter.
Some said it's daft to go on,
no match greater than I'd won,
and I suppose I will retire
when another will aspire
to take on new retro-attire.

Keeping an eye on newbie-potentials,
looking, waiting for key essential
elements to bring honour and safety
to the 9 to 5 citizens drinking tea,
as soon they'll need a Hero-to-be
and unfortunately I can't find,
the right body and able mind.

Finally, two big-hitters met
mid-homerun in half-pirouette,
crashing causing choas quickly
kick to the balls, feeling sickly
and on to his back without slack
the attacker's lanky limbs wack-wack.
--BOOM--
Tubby's naked and lanky's flying for
the unforgiving thunder god Thor,
and the bare sick round man was sore.

Though soon he was chasing fast!
As lanky landed shouting "Bast-"
he was met with a face of dirt,
rolling over to see a world of hurt!
A chair slammed down on a thin bone,
the round man will certainly atone
for the axe in the air hurtling down,
chopping the midrift of a lanky-gown
half a body was left to frown...

Damn... Left with a convict, no hero
who left me a cripple, who was too slow.
The title of Hero I will have to own
soon I'll need an heir to the throne
for now I am alone and watching trash
as they cannot handle a foe to thrash.
New power-seekers see me as the challenge
or old rivals train new blood for revenge
though no Hero-to-be, no one to protect me...

Oh, old rivals training new blood for revenge,
why, oh, why does Doctor Invento need to avenge?
That young fool used the cripple like a tool,
built him robitic legs, with jets 'n' all!
Meanwhile, the convict shudders in a trance
over-hearing two villians plotting romance,
screaming and pleading for help, from me!
Not knowing I knew of his actions you see,
but I'm a Hero, not a pant-wearing wannabe.

Another heard the call, the cripple, lanky, tool;
who ignorantly raced me to jail,
then innocently flew over the wall and stalled.
I arrived a moment later to see why Tubby called,
two thugs pounded his bare backside,
though one was taken out by Lanky's slide
and the other recieved a tap from the Hero.
My magic poisoned his hair roots below,
as they Gingered he ended his life - the foe.

Convict tubby axe-weilder thanks me,
I fly off pretending not to see
the lanky, robo-not-a-cripple-wannabe.
And not hearing tubby's blasphemy
as he looks up to see robo-lanky!
Will I finally find the Hero-to-be?

Double K.O. and I leave on a low,
finishing my tale of toil and woe,
hopefully I'll find a newbie soon,
to take this torch in lights of moon
and then I'll be willing to let;
fate take me to my sunset...

'Hero-to-be' by Aron Woolnough

I've heard a message from the grave,
that I need to step up and save
'cos danger will rave tonight.
So linger at the light switch,
like a bride-to-be before her hitch,
and don't trust the unknown dark.

Stop and wait around for me,
the pant-wearing Hero-to-be,
mutter me and you will see
a Ginger superhero wannabe
you'll think that I'm a slut or,
crazy utter super-nutter,
for showing off my underwear,
but you don't have to stop and stare,
just point me to the danger – don't even glare

At first I may mess up a little,
be patient as confidence is brittle,
so think before nasty things you say
'cos chances are you'll need me one day
and you can rely on me, whether it is a:

cat stuck up a tree,
gang attacking thee,
or someone bothering me,
time to reveal the Hero-to-be!

Like I said before about the gravy-wavy message plea
something is coming and it will want to mess with me
now cats, gangs and annoyances I can handle,
but I've never been burning both ends of the candle,
So I am starting to worry!

The danger has no mercy you see,
won't accept an apology from me,
after interrupting it's chaotic glee,
from defeating all those minions
I'm not favoured by evil opinions
and torturing the human resources;
so I listen to my well-trusted sources,
that I need to turn and fight.

Now the critter-crushing, shadow-casting
foe I face is wielding an almighty mace,
swinging-crushing my shadows as I dash,
my smile wasn't lasting as he was fasting
and I began to sweat.

Bet my heart skipped a beat
his mace landed by my feet
I really don't want to meet,
my maker tonight...

Evil grabbed this battle by the balls,
pulled 'em, crushed 'em in it's palm
luckily mine weren't at any harm,
so it swung it's mace and swoosh!
The whoosh rocketed inches from me,
I stood my ground and soon evil with see,
that I'm no longer a Hero-to-be!

A jump from the ground,
pirouette to a pound,
it's body fell without a sound
made quite the victory mound,
for now when you mutter,
you won't get an utter nutter,
you'll see, a Hero – that's me!