Dread - Blog Posts
Rasta Girl
While running the other night I met a woman with long dread locks that I've seen working out and at races throughout the year. She keeps them pulled back with a bandanna. She also seems to run to the beat of her own drummer, which is cool. She had been kicking my ass, but on this occasion, I caught and passed her. I figured she must have raced or run long the day before and was just doing a recovery run. Having lived in the Caribbean for 2 and 1/2 years, I was into the dreads. When I passed her I wanted to say, "Hey, Natty Dread" but you never know how folks will react.
Anyway, we met when she caught up to where I was cooling down. I told her about liking the locks and nearly calling her Natty Dread. As she ran off in her tie-dyed Bob Marley T-shirt she said, "If you forget my name, Natty Dread will do."
You've got to like that attitude.
If you’re feeling down, watch this. If you’re feeling great, you should still watch this.
My Girl
She sat emotionless in the bed. The people around her were Vultures, although she was Okay with that, and didn't dread.
Deadly
She sat emotionless in the white room, As the vultures with the cure Preyed upon her between her legs. Eyes closed, she imagined doom.
Deadly
She sat in a bright room; mind twirling. There were others like her in That bright room, recovering, knowing Well their souls were swirling.
Deadly
She sat in the car; a shell. Watching the world pass by She thought to herself, When she would be going to Hell.
Deadly.
Sinner.
No Regrets.
Frozen tears
on the windows
obfuscate the
Stone sculptures of pain
in the garden
of withered roses
Dreadful nightmares
haunt the
dilapidated rooms
Haha, too bad fuckers. I don’t actually have any followers so I’m going to shove down all your throats. >:)
The horrors in which our world is shaped—the way it fleets and falls, bends only to disrupt— are not so apparent when you grow so accustomed to humanity. Focusing on nothing else but your fellow species—how you guide or succumb to the very rules you aren’t aware you follow. Once everyday begins to feel the same with your mundane chores and work schedule, you begin to believe every single day is the exact same. Without noticing the person who called out to you hasn’t left their home in months.
Without noticing the dying plants beneath your feet that never regrow due to the traction of hundreds of others. Do you notice exactly how many people smile everyday, how many others lead destructive lives? No; how are you meant to? You focus on the exhaustion you feel, the pain you’ve learned to encumber. The learned smile that fades when no one is near, the anxiety you suppress simply to get by. How many others feel the same? How many others will never let in on the giant secret that everyone contains?
The horrors in which our world is built upon don’t lie simply in the humanity of it all. If you are especially empathetic, you may notice how wolves tear apart their prey, or spiders trap theirs. How certain species—what we’ve named—manipulate their food in order to live. Do we draw the line at survival, or is horror how we live our lives? Playing willfully ignorant to ensure our days run better.
The horrors in which our society is built upon—manipulation, deceit, mutilation, dread—go ignored in light of a better life; a world we deem perfect—impossible to en capture. The way we are all so uninspired— feigning happiness in our impossible-to-enrapture world. A house so filled with dread, a twin you feel magnetized to, a city encompassed in hate—they all become normal. A mundane piece of life.
Perhaps that is where our genres originate. A romanticization of our own world, a necessary form of escapism so our lives aren’t as apprehensive. However unenthused our genres become, how cliché and unoriginal our creations turn into, we all live the same lives where an escape is deemed a necessity.
Our authors and artists deemed hopeless in a world dependent on their creations—however dull they may be. A horror-stricken world that feigns self-reliance, one so positive it is built on self-assurance. Allow us our creations, no matter how depraved, allow us our intentions to bring forth the true dreads in our world.
We crave peace in a war-stricken earth and creativity where it is suppressed. We all wish our version of good in this world and we all tear our humanity away from our very souls. Those of us who crave violence and those of us who crave peace are all the same in our creative fields. In our obligations and moralities. We wish for light, we wish for dark; we all wish for our own contradictions.
The way we tear apart, bend, misconstrue and manipulate—how we bring satisfaction and trust to only those of us “deserving”—how we trap, misalign, subdue, willfully ignore… and destroy.
Perhaps that is what creates our horror—in which our world is shaped.
Haha, does anyone want to read a little thing I wrote?
Haha, does anyone want to read a little thing I wrote?
Our tour begins before we even enter the Mansion itself in the Magic Kingdom, where you can see some of our guests in their corruptible...mortal...busts.
Pictured here, we have the Dread Family. Uncle Jacob Dread, Bertie Dread, Aunt Florence McGriffin Dread, Wellington and Forsythia Dread, and Cousin Maude (Dread, I'm assuming).
They were a family of six who once inhabited the manor before one day they all met their gruesome fate at each other's hands. Uncle Jacob was poisoned by Bertie for his wealth. Who was then shot dead by Florence as an act of revenge. Who was then smothered by bird seed by Forsythia and Wellington, who were then killed in their sleep with a mallet…by Cousin Maude. Who, as the sole surviving member of the Dread Family, burned to death because she liked to use matches in her hair instead of hairpins (really amazing thinking there Cousin Maude…🙄). And now, the Dread Family is no more and haunt the halls of the esteemed mansion.