. // THE INSOMNIAC'S CALENDAR. )

[sinensys]

crookery is a spiteful god whose slighting agitations may lead one to their tumultuous descent upwards. as we turn to it more often, leaving more and more offerings, we find that the distance between our feet and the ground becomes greater. at first, it is an amusement -- watch as i levitate above the earth, that gleeful shriek is released. but over time, the exhilaration feeds to a slanted mindset: i walk above the earth, above this realm, and above all other ground-trodding beasts!

and thus, the reflection of an ordinary or exceptional human being twists to the disproportionate and ill-shaped figure of a stunted creature, the kind that snarls at swaying blades of grass and sinisterly serenades the innocent-minded -- potential prey. a slanted mind leads to a slanted body with crooked habits, and this is the brain's parasitic controls. the brain births and serves its own ideas with habit, and habits can shape the body in turn; a woodworkers hands are calloused with use, a pianist's fingers stretch with years of playing, and the body collapses on itself with excessive reliance on crookery.

the malicious god takes no orders, but dismantling humanity is a treat in and of itself.

[sinensys]

burnt and brittle
bones
make interesting
weapons,
the charred shards
fracturing
into little
blades,
the kind that
puncture
and splinter
beneath the
surface
of the
skin,
branching out as
roots.

i
throw these
swords towards
you
with intent to
thwart
your vocal brigade --

"what's that supposed
to mean, now?"
is a growled
question
spoken when
agitated
by scathing criticism
and slanted slights
from bystanders whose
brows
form a
disbelieving
triangle that does
nothing
but mock and ridicule.

you see,
ordinarily
i would
apologize
for saying such things,
and for speaking in such
tones
but now i wonder:
maybe that's
the problem.

[sinensys]

i have spent so long demonizing that curious sprite dubbed 'cunning' -- the sickening feeling of being overpowering and manipulative have tarnished cunning, falsely accusing it of treachery and malice. i have decried past idols, gods, and ghosts for their own suggestions of deceitful ways, and in turn, my own ideals, thoughts, and goals have fallen prey to my own knives. i have, in the face of wake up calls, sworn myself to a life without cunning, and by extension, treachery.

and yet, i am entirely alone. i have blamed cunning for past faults -- for my lack of close contact, physical and emotional, and my inability to express myself. in fact, it would have been fair to extend the idea that my trickery has stifled all other parts of myself, a parasitic vine feeding off a hunching baobab. would have been, had i not seen my mistake in defining cunning, and treachery, for they are not one and the same:

cunning is not clever -- cleverness lies in one's ability to work with given tools in order to solve a puzzle, or complete any other task, for that matter. but cunning is not resourcefulness either, as being resourceful does not require schemes or an end goal. cunning has been likened to wisdom by some, but they are few; some believe that wisdom leads to cunning, but wisdom often warns against the cunning.

cunning is none of these words, and yet -- it would be difficult to define cunning without naming or even implying any of these words. cunning is more than this, and needs to be broken down to truly understand.

i have spent so long demonizing that curious sprite dubbed 'cunning' -- but maybe it's time i dismantled it. maybe it is time to truly understand the pieces that were cultivated beneath the greasy golden mane of the beast nicknamed 'cunning.' maybe i look into the dietary proportions of that creature before i decry it, citing fear-mongering articles of rare instances of true disaster.

cunning draws from many elements. one set of skills include recalling and learning from past experiences -- so, wisdom. another involves aptitude, a specific subsection of intelligence, and this aptitude is the competency and rate at which one learns; this ties into wisdom quite nicely. cunning also draws from scheming, and the crafting of plans with multiple steps: one cannot be cunning without being able to observe, reason, and predict possible paths the future may diverge into. of particular interest, the act of observing, reasoning, and predicting gives way to the skill of reading people. without this skill, one may blunder through social cues, micro expressions, and important yet subconscious signals others may send. these abilities flow into one another, weaving a complex garment for a sophisticated creature.

it is only with these skills that cunning -- true deceit -- can be utilised successfully. the difference between cunning and treachery lies in the purpose of the deceit and intentions: both must be carefully considered in order to differentiate cunning and treachery. treachery is a disregard to the tactful slinking of cunning, and its goal is to cause intentional pain. cunning is working with given tools to obtain more tools and, ultimately, alter something, whether it be someone else or one's own self.

my mistake has been in my shame of being deceitful. it is important to realise several things regarding deceit:
one -- without cunning, i would not be as in-tune with others' emotions, reactions, reasons, and motives; i would be blinded.

two -- deceit has given me insight to how others work, and while i must not gloat about such skills, i must remember to respect and appreciate it.

three -- it is not my cunning which has shut others out, but my pride, low self-esteem, and poor placement of values that have left others to freely trickle away with no resistance.

four -- i must learn to use individual fragments of cunning, individual muscles of a hand, to expand and cultivate other branches. i have the capability, i just never bothered to look beyond the blurred lenses of my own tears; i have to try, and i have to try now, more than ever.

five -- i have to recognise that is isn't imperative i constantly raise that crafted shield; i must learn when to rest and when to raise it. doing so will smoothen any inconsistencies between fractals of my personality, between masks worn for others. i must acknowledge that i am enough, that i do not need to morph into some crooked ghost to please all -- there will be some who are disinterested in what i have to say or do, and this is normal. by learning to lower my shield, i am acknowledging that i, too, have emotions separate from others, and that i, too, can be vulnerable with others. by starting with lowering a shield, i will break down cemented walls and lower drawbridges to others. i must learn to lower drawbridges more than anything, for this allows others in, even when i cannot or have not broken down the ill-constructed concrete that looms over me as i write this. perhaps, with enough practise, i will even allow them to help me break down the solidified bricks.


with these in mind, i will drop all charges against deceit and its cunning ways. and, i will try to understand it better, using the sight into others, a skill given to me by deceit itself, to peer into myself for once. why did i do the things i did? why do i do the things i do? which are conscious decisions, and which are habits picked up from others -- benevolent or malicious, used for self-benefit or for self-sabotage?

i must remember to respect its gifts to me, and i must remember to acknowledge the subparts it contains. i must thank the crane and snake, and i must use their intricate tongue to speak with my amygdala and frontal lobe, beasts i had feared and hated for a long time.

"just be yourself," was the thoughtlessly murmured advice -- but now i can truly recognise just what that entails in a way that is meaningless to others.

[sinensys]

what a strange
feeling
it is to
meet your
maker --
but through the
upwardly gazing
eyes
of your own
creation.

it looks up at
me
and i am afraid of what it has
seen --
and of what
i
have seen in my own
(where is the compassion?
is it all just
impulse and
curiosity?)

[sinensys]

i alone remain!
my dreamself declares,
a crooked grin
laden with fangs
and threats

the others cower
beneath the burning
glare
of that dreamself,
but i see through that
rubiginous ghost's
feeble glimmer --

the air remains
murky
where the ghost stands,
but oh
a swipe of the
hand
reveals an
ordinary and
pitiful
creature.

i begin to
feel my own
body
dissipate after
that ghost is
scared off

i remain alone!

[sinensys]

ha ha ha!
i've become a goat
gloating about the
moats i've built
around my little city
of one fract
ured skull,
skulking about the
corners of my own mission
clouding my own vision
as i race to the sky
and forget the simple
fact
that i cannot breathe
up there,
not when the sky is
an inverted
marianas trench

[sinensys]

his breath rasps at the back of his skull, exhaling outwards through his mouth. the frozen clouds crunch beneath his boots as he treks onwards, the path well-traversed in his mind but not in this plane -- he's never walked here during the sun's shift, only at night with his body abandoned in his bedroom. in his dreamscape, he knows that beyond this little ridge lies a river, and following that river downstream leads to the train station.

he only knows that his destination is that train station -- and that which lies north of it, whatever that means.

the weather pokes and prods at his wrists, ankles, neck, and ears, preparing to bite down with its chipped teeth; he shivers and quickens his pace. the gravel shifts its and his weight, arguing with the freshly fallen ash flakes as it strains beneath the combined mass. he crams his hands further into the pockets of his cold jeans -- it provides no warmth, but the action is soothing to him. there isn't much that'll soothe him as much as that simple action, he thinks, but the truth is that he's never looked for more.

what's there left to be looked for, anyways?

the house on the edge of the lake will be forgotten, its walls barren. the path he's walking on -- the one shrouded in a dusty white cloth -- will also be forgotten. these woods, one day, will fall prey to time.

but not him -- he'll get more time, if he makes it to the station and heads north. he'll have time, then, to confront the heaving in the back of his brainpan.

the woods thin out, leaving the sleepy shuddering of leaves behind. ah! -- there it is! the river splits east and west and, without a pause to let the rasping catch up to him, he turns left. as he turns, he begins to find that he can't remember the way back, or the colour of his old home's door. was it plain wood, or painted? did he have a knocker? what type of wood was the front door?

he blinks and the fleeting memory of doors creaks and clicks to a definitive closed; the beast behind it hasn't figured out how to open it yet, beating against it with anguished howls and vaguely wordless threats. but he doesn't mind -- he has to speak up over the sound of an arriving train anyways, to buy his tickets away: one for himself, one for the beast, and one for the seat between, to separate them. it was a strange feeling, to buy the fiend a seat, but it was worth a try. for years, he'd left them traps to spook them off, or he'd killed them.

he knows how to outrun them.

if things got too bad, he'd do it all again.

he'd do anything for peace of mind -- hell, he'd settle for a piece of his stolen mind.

the beast's yelling was catching up now -- maybe the door was paper and not wood, he thinks -- and he heads to the train. his ankles feel a sharper breeze as the train halts to catch its breath. he stops, looks over his should, and waits; the fiend rasps a little louder, confused that their little game has changed. for years, it had been met with knives, with traps, with scathing words, but now -- now the beast is left with a hollow gaze in its direction, and the man removes a hand from his pocket to scratch at his chin. the beast waits and then boards, cautiously, at the man's heels. the man looks down at the unseen ghost. the train lurches, and he falls.

the sheets feel nice, but he bets they'd feel nice without the beast's frothing snout at his throat.

he should have known better.

[sinensys]

the snake and the crane may be carriers of deceit, yet listen how much quieter it is without the incessant noise of chattering toads

it is balance we seek, for the snake may poison the crane and the crane may eat the snake -- yet both live in trust.

[sinensys]

as i walk along the earth
i wonder if it's worth it
to overwork the worms
inside my skull where
panic is berthed

[sinensys]

i have gone so long without yelling, my vocal chords have atrophied.
perhaps it is time to begin exercising them once more.

i have gone so long denying praise, i have forgotten how to thank others.
perhaps it is time to begin accepting without downplaying once more.

perhaps it is time to change.
to new beginnings, i toast --
but really, i am not beginning anew, but rather
morphing
into a better creature.