My latest project

For the past few weeks, I've had my hands full with designing my very own card game. It was only a few days ago that I realized I could probably make a deck of cards using my 60 runes, or better yet, create a complex RPG board game with Zanguin and my language. Could it be done? Who knows. Sounds like countless nights up until 5am on the computer and drawing board for months (let's just stick to one project at a time).

My recently-finished project (thank goodness) was writing that novella, called Time. I haven't really touched it since November 30th and I plan on fully reading it some day soon. Right now, I want to write a long, long journal, but I'm sure that I'll just be writing about something that I've recently wrote about anyways, so why waste the paper? I also wanted to write in there the poem that I typed up this afternoon, but I'm too lazy, so I'll post it down below.

I buy my journals from Borders, which apparently is closing quite a few stores in Michigan, so I better stock up in case the big C is filing for some type of bankruptcy asap. According to NewYork Times, they're $1.29 million in debt. Poor Borders. I will miss them and their fashionable way of presenting things, after all, they were a Michigan company. This state was full of so many great things.. and they're all just tumbling downhill.

I don't understand why people hate Michigan so much. Everyone that I know wants to move and "get out of this hell hole." Is it because of Detroit? Probably not, but let's hope it is so that we can all take a big healthy nod and wipe that bit----- 0:-)

Any day now, my game, Producio, is going to be finished and I'll begin finalizing things and getting it ready to sell on the market. Wish me luck! Only time (I know somebody reading this will get why I giggled right here) will tell.

Reduced to minutes

Reduced into minutes,

A long appreciation of how to systematically place words,

Words that aren't even your own.

Put onto a long forum without hesitation.

Line by line construed and taken quickly,

Each line reduced, but the meaning just the same.

Each line reproduced, by the stern hand that writes.

I feel as though this is my life.

As the minutes are written by,

The words are only processed and put to the lines.

No true sentience or heart left to resonate,

With the soul that belongs to that hand.

I am a note awaiting to be filed in dusty droors,

And my voice with no demand.

And on that forum, the deep emotions from my lips.

Are taken for poor words without quips,

No one to regard this language as anything but simple.

I am a doll, a reproduction of society.

Nothing more to see here and nothing more to comprehend.

A majestic, plastic face which all disregards the voice therein.

They have seen something similar like me before.

Change the hair, the pants, the jewelry--it's all the same.

A face that everyone has already seen, so they expect what they have seen.

Maybe one person won't take me for a joke within a crowd.

But this is the plea of my reduced words.

To a society who has always seen and heard.

A repetition of the same production shuffled through the system.

No one will ever take in what I have to say which is so deep.

No one will ever hear the seriousness in the voice that I display.

I am reduced to a mere taking of notes, I am reduced to minutes.

When in my time will these hands finally see,

That if only they'd put down their pens,

And stare into the heart that lies within my soul,

That there is compassion, and so much to know.

Then maybe once, when one eye is to mine.

The rest will pick up and listen to my spirit, line by line.