1000 Followers! Thank You!

Thank you so much. Thanks to the small fraction of followers who like posts, the even smaller amount that comment on them and the one mystery person who shares them. In particular, I’d like to thank my top commenters of late. You make the writing experience enjoyable and fill it with pockets of hope.
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An octopus was once asked, “Which one of your suckers is your favourite?”

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“Indeed, I don’t prefer one to another as they all perform the same function. Yet, each tentacle can have a different purpose. On occasion that purpose is merely to appear elegant, or crude or artistic. In a situation where I wish to eat a particular snack deep within a tight crevice, I’d favor the sucker upon my longest reach.”

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“What?”

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“… What?”

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It’s hard to pick favourites, but at the moment two of my favourite little suckers are Gateway and The Love I Have For You.

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When I post to wordpress, what you read is the first draft. I fill blank space on a page and just throw it out there. My ‘favourite’ story I’ve posted is Silence.

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It’s funny, the most popular posts on this page are the only non-creative ones: Instagram and Self Sabotage and, of course, Tinder and the Death of Romance. I actually really enjoyed writing these, but they are rants, nothing more.

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It actually saddens me that people would rather read dribble than something creative and less on the nose. Something that may make you think just a little bit harder.

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Anyway…

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What’s next?

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Well, I’m aiming to have The Vile Mint published as a little chap book in the near future. It has works that have never been online as well as reworked poems from this site. I’m also hoping to die a tragic death so my family can capitalise on selling a dead poet’s signed book. I guess if you want a signed copy, just comment below and I’ll reply to you when it’s ready.

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Also, I don’t think I’m a good strategist when it comes to building a large audience for my blog. I’m always open to suggestions. If you could help in any way I’d love to hear from you.

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Thanks again! Here’s to another 1000!

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Randall Evans.

The Valley of Longing

Everyone’s lost

In the valley of longing.

It’s a journey within

When seeking belonging.

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Looking for something

To put one at ease.

Searching for light

Shining bright through the trees.

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Down your feet take you

Through mud and deep roots.

Clinging to branches,

As vision dilutes.

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You slip and you fall,

But you’re ready to see.

The future self’s guidance,

Deep within thee.

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The journey’s sufficient,

To make you fulfilled.

But right at the bottom,

Is quiet and still.

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Nothing but clay.

Clay and decay.

The truth of your life

Brings pain and dismay.

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No inner child,

No voice of the soul.

Yourself cannot guide you

You’re down in a hole.

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A selfish puddle

Of tears in rain.

With the realisation

You’re lost again.

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The valley of longing

Traps all the lost.

A prison organic

Where children are tossed.

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To thine own self be true,

Is a beautiful lie.

You’ll slip down inside,

And true truth will die.

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How to escape

The valley of longing?

Look to Zion

The city is dawning

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Written by Randall Evans.

Silent Suffering & Colossal Careers

The clock keeps ticking.

The blood keeps dripping.

Open your eyes to the point.

The point of the knife.

Image Via http://freerangestock.com
Image Via http://freerangestock.com

The point?

Coincidental fate?

Happenstance providence?

Millions suffer. Billions starve. Children burn.

The west waits for the savior to return.

Keep waiting. It serves you well.

Natural selection.

Humanity is at stake.

Natural selection.

Humanity is too late.

Be cold. Be vicious. Be the machine.

Humanity isn’t essential for survival.

Abort! Abort! Abort!

Progress.

One. Oneness.

The universe is with you.

It will conspire in your favor.

What was Hitlers ‘Personal Legend’?

New age waters drowning new born fools.

Swim around the rock.

Keep swimming.

Keep your head above the waters.

Drown.

Guess what?

The clock keeps ticking.

This is The Vile Mint.

 

India Part 3 – Feet

“This is a very dangerous area,” says the driver, “can not drive through here after six o’clock.”

RJ looks at his watch.

7:15pm

Staying in India is an odd experience for an outsider. The constant noise of traffic, the animals on the streets and the rubbish are all so different to things back home. Yet, these elements blanket the real experience. It’s only after a few days, when these things become normal, that this blanket is lifted. These distractions are not the real experiences India has to offer.

“So, you like living in Australia?”

RJ puts down his Indian style coffee, which is small and very sweet.

“Yeah, it’s not bad.”

The host nods his head.

“How is the electricity?”

All complaints about RJ’s home vanished in an instant. It’s too far from the city, the train station is a 10 minute drive away, the people are too nice and always wave, the cafe shuts at 5:00, the birds at the lake always swoop people… all gone.

Looking up at the single lightbulb on the roof and its wiring running down the wall and into the another room, RJ answers the host.

“It’s… it’s pretty good… can’t complain…”

The host nods… his eyes wandering in deep thought…

India--Indian--Slums--slums--slumdog--wall--calcutta--kids--happy--poor--blog--wordpress--photography--tourist--experience--travel

On the last visit to the slum, RJ exchanges smiles with familiar faces. Faces that he never knew, but now, can never forget.

We see ourselves in the eyes of each other. The People in the slums suffer in silence, while the rest of the world tweets their emotions on a global scale.

He opens the door to the van, but as he does two small slum kids run up to him and touch his feet. Pranāma.

The blanket is lifted.

For one reason or another, RJ felt that he should be the one to touch their feet. Not the other way around. They were the ones who opened his eyes and they were the ones he respected.

India--Indian--Slums--slums--slumdog--wall--calcutta--kids--happy--poor--blog--wordpress--photography--tourist--experience--travel--elderly--old--woman--grandma--

It’s 7:15.

The van travels in the dark down the forbidden road. The small hands that touched RJ’s feet keep a tight grip on his heart.

Small and very sweet.

“This is a very dangerous area,” says the driver…

Dangerous indeed…

– By Randall Evans.