Tied to an office armchair with your shoelaces, blindfolded with a colourful set of shapes, menus and buttons, you’re silenced with a pair of headphones, as the minutes and seconds are sucked out through your fingertips.

This is not what you signed for when you took your first breath and opened your eyes to what you thought was the planet of dreams, for it all is the same now, all the same nothing that consumes your soul and drains your day until you no longer want to feel.

And those hands, the hands that once touched more than the plastic that our modern world is made of, they miss what they were made for, they miss what they were born to do, they miss the brush and the canvas, the bow and the strings, the hammer and the shovel, the pen and the notebook, the glass and the bottle shared by a coalition of futuristic carefree maniacs, a.k.a. “Friends”.

You look around and try to understand; they do know what you can do, they do know what you’re capable of, is this why you’re asked to do the things that anyone else can do? They don’t want your change, they don’t want your advice, what they want is for you to become the product, is for you to become the machine, so they can buy more plastic phones, more plastic cars, more plastic faces and plastic hearts.

But what you don’t know is what they fear, for they may own all the arms and all the bullets, all the jails, all the tanks, the TV shows, the radio waves, the space crafts and nuclear bombs, but behind it all they hide, they hide from the one weapon they fear the most, the little intelligent mobile vehicle that is you, for once you unite the mind, the tongue and the hand, a new weapon is born, a weapon that defeats all of the world’s armies combined, a weapon that transmits its spores in a form of thought, that clones itself through sound waves and ink stains, a weapon they can never spot and never stop, a weapon of flesh, a weapon of hope, a Weapon of Mass Construction.

H.Q.
7:22:50 pm
Thursday, 14th of February 2013

Love is the word they say the most when they love the least, for those who truly love, are those to never speak.

H.Q.
19:18
Monday
04/02/2013

Immaculate is she, born to an earth of flesh and mud, and a sky of mist and blood, born to him of the fragile heart and to her of the fertile mind. Through the haze of her ashen eyes you see the dawn of an unborn world, for in her every blink she sends a wave of anguish to chase away the Cimmerian clouds smothering your heart. With bleeding words and a fading breath, the pain untold purifies your sinful soul, as the pouring rain from them heavenly pearls cleanses your mortal shell with an ocean of quiescent solace, leaving an eternal trail of invisible scars on your ever-lying façade.

Touched by a feather of a broken wing, you stand again and count the thorns, for the crown you wear is earned not by the blood you shed, but the blood you save, and the black of tar running through your veins shall be drained out by the smiles of those once burnt, of those once shattered, and of those once lost. Only then, the black within shall set free the light besieged, to welcome back the grey for which you yearned.

H.Q.
20:15
Sunday
03/02/2013