Passion has overthrown tyrants and freed prisoners and slaves. Passion has brought justice where there was savagery. Passion has created freedom where there was nothing but fear. Passion has helped souls rise from the ashes of their horrible lives and build something better, stronger, more beautiful.
Miraculously I was free again at 10am on a weekday. I took it as a sign that i should write something. Once again thanks to @caffeinewitchcraft for the challenge.
The prompt i used was “Usually people thought
their preferred method of payment was money.”
Usually people thought the preferred method of payment was money.They came in with all sorts
of currency, from American dollars, to stocks and bonds, many simply showed up
with gold bars. I didn’t fault them. Most people didn’t have much information,
and the little they did have was twisted through years of fables and fantasy
storytelling. The truth was often less black and white, and a lot stranger.
Buying a curse from a
fairy was not a simple transaction.
I sat on my stool, staring
blankly at the bottom of my cup, ignoring the chime of the door as my next
customer arrived. The moonlight shown through the window of the coffee shop,
giving an almost ethereal edge to the various chairs and tables strewn about.
The naturally dim interior lighting was resting for my eyes, so used to
straining in the unnatural glow of fluorescence that humans seemed to prefer so
much. I called out to the barista for another round, shaking my empty cup
pointedly, at which she rolled her eyes but complied. I like this shop; it’s
open late, catering to the supernatural crowd. People leave you alone for the
most part. The night staff, most of which were supernatural beings themselves,
“Here you go, black coffee
with…” she sighed loudly “ten sugars.” The barista shuddered. “Must you butcher
my beautiful coffee?”
“Shush, coffee slave. The
customer is always right, remember?”
With a laugh she turned
away, although I distinctly heard her mutter something about ‘uncultured fairy
“I heard that!”
Without turning she
responded, “I was counting on it.”
The brief exchange and the
sweet coffee was enough to lift my spirits, but they quickly plummeted again as
the woman now standing beside me cleared her throat to get my attention. She was well dressed, her
clothing, hair and nails immaculate, but her face was transformed by a look I
knew all too well: desperation.
||March BPC: Just One Word|| 30. Recap. March was a good reading month, in case anyone was still wondering. Not so great for picture-taking purposes, unfortunately, but solid for reading and writing and such.
The thing I fear most about the singularity is the loss of nuance and mystery. The eradication of the unexplainable deliciousness of awe.
I went to a Buddhist temple once. I didn’t care much about Buddhism anymore, but the building and the landscaping were like a magnet. There was this sweet old monk sitting on a little-raised platform in front of maybe 100 people, reading from a big book. His words were like music. But he could never get more than a few words out before he was interrupted by some young guy who wanted to parse out the exact meaning and translation of one or two terms. Then little arguments and discussions would ensue for 5, 10, sometimes 15 minutes. The old monk would nod and sit quietly while everyone hashed it all out.
Eventually, one of the other monks would quash the whole debate and the old, mostly toothless, Buddha would clear his throat and read a few more magic words. Of course, someone would interrupt and so on…
It was like seeing a beautiful woman loosen the belt on her silken robe only to be interrupted by having to fill out a bunch of paperwork. Suddenly, I realized this was life. Right here in front of me in it’s simplest form. Inexplicable beauty butchered by shitheads. I began to chuckle. Then I began to laugh and then I couldn’t stop. Everyone was silent except for me cackling. I still couldn’t stop. It was like some kind of well of laughter had opened up inside of me. I apologized and began to excuse myself, but the old monk slammed the book shut. “HA!” he yelled and leaped to his feet. Startled, I was silent. The old monk put his hands together as if moving in slo-motion and bowed to me with this booming look of love and I just burst into tears. Again, I couldn’t stop. Then after sobbing a bit, I started laughing again. Then sobbing - then laughing again. Finally, not wanting to be a nuisance I made my way over to the door and a couple skinny old monks took me through a side door out into the large garden. They led me over to a bench by a pine tree. The old monk was already sitting there! He must have ducked out when I was carrying on.
I sat down opposite of him and he nodded at me. We sat for a bit in silence. After a while, he turned his head towards the tree. I followed his gaze and saw a mockingbird on the lowest branch closest to us. The bird began to sing and it was startling. Perhaps it was the silence but the song pierced right through me. The bird went through its rounds of several different calls. And I’ll never be able to explain it, but then it was like I was everything. And it wasn’t weird at all. It was obvious and simple. Then the bird stopped singing and flew away. I stood up and bowed to the old man and he nodded and sparkled in some inexplicable magical way and off I went. I had a wonderful evening. I wandered around as the summer day came to an end, watching the people and the trees and the birds.
I went to a Chinese restaurant and had hot tea and the best hot-n-sour soup I’d ever had in my life. I contemplated becoming a homeless beggar there and just living off that soup and maybe sweeping the sidewalk of the Buddhist temple and garden. Of course, I’d gone down the road before. It was a good and nourishing road, but it was time to set off for new lands.