It’s an obsession, something you can’t turn off. In every number, I see meaning.

For example, the number 51. Any “normal” person would just see the number fifty-one. And that would be all it meant. But I, without trying, think, “Oh, 51 is 3 times 17. I like 17, so 51 is a good number.”

Then things can get as random as 1,829,352, which is some number that popped into my head when I was five years old and hasn’t left me since, for no real¬†explainable reason.

And it’s not like I have an obvious reason for this. I don’t have any real reason I like 17, I just do. I’m not crazy, I’m pretty sure of that, but I was wondering what other little obsessions people have.

Some people have an obsession (more like, a lot of people) about symmetry. Things to them have to be symmetrical, or it will just bother them for “no good reason”. Other people will have obsessions over the placements of certain objects, and their orientation. This is not “OCD”. OCD is something entirely different, and I’m honestly tired of hearing it be called that when it’s not.

So why do we have these obsessions?

And furthermore

Who are we to say that someone else’s obsessions aren’t important?


Universal Paradox

I wandered through our labyrinth,

The labyrinth of our minds,

When I came upon a door

That he’d so cleverly locked away.

Above the door, there was a sign,

“Universal Paradox”.

Behind the door, there was a room.

The walls, completely black,

And a lonely bed in the center.

Among the blackness were little stars,

Spinning, dancing, orbiting,

Around the place of rest.

If you were to rest

In this bed,

It spoke of dreams.

Dreams he’d tell no one,

for they wouldn’t understand,

unless they could see for themselves.

I woke that very morning

With an sharp pain in my head,

And an overwhelming sense of dread.

This is the curse

For trespassing on another’s soul.

Forever to be haunted.

The Storm


A great storm of ice rushed over the lands that had never seen such terror. He and she were split up. He prayed for her safety, that she would make it through the storm, and that she would be okay. But in the end, he was the one who would truly be hurt.

A¬†traumatic horror would strike right in the middle of the storm. It was the coldest Valentine’s Day he’d ever known. It felt like his insides bled from pure horror and agony. And worst of all, she wasn’t there. The storm had taken her from him. She would be back, she wasn’t gone forever, but this hour would be the longest of his life.

He sits in the February cold, bleeding out, alone.

The Seventeenth Hill




How troubled we were. Your death wasn’t anyone’s fault but yours, but I still mourn you.

I’d stay here to pray for you, but all my words are drenched in sin. They’re after me, so I cannot stay here much longer.

Your remains rest on the seventeenth hill. How beautiful it looks from here.

As I depart this island and make my escape, I watch the sun fall behind where you lie. Maybe now you’re part of this very Earth.

I wave goodbye as the fog obscures all from view.

Credit to Thomas Dolby from his album “A Map of the Floating City” for the picture and the setting.



This place is alive. I can feel it.

It is bigger than anybody could even imagine. It expands seemingly infinitely in all directions. It’s a maze of connected rooms, deep ravines and caverns. No matter where you go, it doesn’t stop, it just keeps getting deeper. It is so easy to get lost.

No two places are quite the same, either. Some halls seem to go on forever, and have doors lining the walls all the way, each labeled, leading into a small room. These small rooms are each unique as well.

In other places, there are large rooms with many branches coming off, in the forms of other rooms and small hallways. Everything feels more liberating around these places, where as some rooms can be very confining.

I love wandering these halls, exploring this hidden land. I could spend an eternity here. It is my heaven.

This is the labyrinth I call my mind.