Dreams come in many forms. Depending on the day you had, or the food you’ve eaten, something manifests in your subconscious the moment you go to sleep. The purpose of a dream is not completely understood, but many people have been trying to rationalize why they exist for many years.
What most people don’t understand though, is the off-chance that the subconscious is not really dreaming, but escaping the known reality to another plane of existence. A different reality, space or time, that is usually achieved by coma patients or those with an extreme amount of over-exhaustion, anxiety or a trigger effect from trauma.
Most like to believe that when these moments happen, they are actually a Deus Ex Machina filled with the answers they need. They wake up changing their behavior, believing that they have to fulfill a sudden prophecy. What they experience becomes so real, that the moment they wake up, it’s all they want to believe. Continue reading
Daniel caught on quickly to being helpful around the ship. Like an obedient dog he helped cook and clean when it was needed. Stocked up supplies and learned he was around the ship. Though he was accused of being a yes man all his life, his diligence to be part of the crew was due to an extraordinary thirst for knowledge.
The crew itself seemed intimidating at first, but once Daniel was brought into the circle, he’s learned that their hard exteriors were actually quite thin.
Kale, being the eccentric pirate that he was, never looked to build a crew of delinquents. He was much rather interested in personal tastes and interests. Did a pirate like stories more than rum? Would they have taken painting and music over a whore house? Chances are the unlikely answer would be found on this boat. Continue reading
The pirate queen of five different seas. Malenka St. Clair is an enigma, compared to other pirate captains. While most take to the ocean so they can live by a code of unruly behaviour, Malenka chose a life on the ocean to get away from her own.
Born Malenka Oberst to a poor family, in a time where great economic problems befell the country. Though the husband and wife were proud of their newborn daughter, they knew they could not support her. Within weeks of her birth they put her up for sale, hoping that she would be granted a better life and anyone looking for a child would make a generous offer. Continue reading
The first noise to come out of Daniel upon awakening wasn’t an exclamation, but a whimper. The stressful moan of a man coming-to, exhausted from his lungs. From a pitch black cavern, to a well lit room, his eyes were certainly taking time to adjust.
He doesn’t remember being knocked unconscious, but he definitely felt the pain from it. His instinct to rub the back of his head was halted, as his wrists felt tightened when trying to move them. They were strapped to the chair upon which he was placed. Even though the seat was rather comfortable, the situation was was pretty alarming, considering a moment ago he was hiding behind a bunch of rock.
“What’s the worry boy?” spoke the loud voice of a woman. He winced a little, not quite adjusted or ready to hear anything. She sat at the other end of the table in front of him, quill in hand. Not looking at him, but giving him enough attention so he knows he’s not alone in the room. Continue reading
In the wake of Leopold’s death, a note was left behind in his study. He explained, in what read like a confession, that he was going back to the place to where it all started. The hollowed cave at the bottom of the cliff.
A group tried to search for the body. But the haunting, hallowed darkness of the cave forced them to turn back, as they could not find a single thing. As a result, they boarded up the cave and plastered the warning ‘unsafe for entry’ across the boards.
Swimming in the area became off limits, and parents didn’t want their children to go anywhere near the cave. Though it didn’t stop the youth from making it a popular hangout. One where they would always sneak out to at night and tell ghost stories about their founding mayor, while gathered in front of the closed entryway.
This was rolling around my head, over the weekend. I’ve explained the point of the blog before, but It’s never been much in retrospect. I say that because it’s been since Halloween that I’ve last had something written. But here’s the debate:
The length of blogs is always a question because you want it to reflect the content you make. Countless blogs (if not every one) post simple things 50 times a day, with the philosophy that they want you to keep clicking. They keep it short, and simple/vague. The idea is that the average internet user is a goldfish.
With idealoclast I figure, long form articles about conflicting subjects was a good change of pace from what is considered the standard blog. Focus on writing, focus on giving someone over the internet something to read than glance over. The idea is to start a conversation, but to have a conversation worth talking about, I always feel like there has to be a lot to say.
But the ideal blog length is actually pretty short. This is something I’ve learned. In a class. From a real journalist.
It makes sense… Half of the reason why I don’t write as much as I should, is because I usually have other things on my plate, or other things that I need to write. The other reason is, when writing I feel like I need to have a lot to say. The Modern blog has conditioned me to think that there’s never enough on one post. When someone makes a post that is just an image or a tweet, my complex forces me to think I’m over compensating for other people.
So here’s a question for you, the reader, as I cut this short. How long is too long for you? Vice-versa, how short is too short? What are things that annoy you about other blogs? What are somethings that some do better than others? If you’ve read enough of this site, where exactly does a blog like this fit into all of this?
In the meantime, I’ll keep writing. I’ll try to keep a pace. Together this could be a pretty learned place on the internet.
There’s a secret part inside everybody that deems themselves to be a ‘writer’, or a ‘journalist’ of some kind. It’s a lot like the millions of people out there that claim they’re a photographer, but only a handful of people can really get it. For a long time, I’ve never actually considered calling myself a writer until I moved to Vancouver, British Columbia (Just short of Vancouver, Washington. I kind of can’t get over that. Did the state of Washington look at that and figure they could have a Vancouver too? I bet that place is over shadowed. Feel free to tell me cool stories though, if you live there/ been there).
While I spent years thinking that acting was the most amazing thing I was ever capable of, single handedly ignoring every other talent I seem to have. over the years I’ve noticed that I get a lot more joy out of talking. Countless people in my life have taught me this. I know it has something to do with the amount of years I’ve spent looking at internet websites, because I really feel like that is something that we just don’t do anymore, as a society. It’s almost as if it’s just another dying art-form. Continue reading