A Place Called Home

The sunset was spectacular, with dark storm clouds in the southeast reflecting somber silvers, radiant oranges, and blood colored reds as Maven Darkhelme finished lashing his small raft. The storm would reach shore in 2 hours, but Maven didn’t plan on being onshore then. His near-delirium panic was telling him to be on the ocean as soon as possible. He didn’t expect to survive, and didn’t plan to try. All weapons, potions and armor would be left along with his diary on shore. He wasn’t sure why he was tempting the gods, but he was going to venture onto the ocean armed only with his quick, yet subtly insane mind.. It started months ago, and could possibly end tonight…

Maven Darkhelme awoke on a road south of the town of Dundee as any other; he had no memory of any previous thoughts, yet his body suggested at least 20 years of life since birth. He was content with learning slowly, and fighting passionately against the forces of evil. He met friendly Valornians, noble and common alike, ventured into the dank sewers, the Dark Forests, and Duberry’s Swamp, never questioning why. He was involved in some hunting parties, but mostly wandered alone.
It was on one such lonely wandering that started his downhill slide down the slope of sanity. Maven was exploring the southern plains, when he decided to venture south farther than he had been before. Suddenly he stopped short. The dwindling grasses revealed pearly-white sand. The breeze blowing from the south carried with it a scent of salt, tantalizing faint. Memories from a past life flooded though Maven’s mind, a torrent of pieces of a life once known, not a complete book, but snippets of pages. A huge boat, gilded like a swan… a farm, home to hard work, and an abusive father… a young woman named Ni’iva, half-dressed entering a room, his room… The shock of remembrance drove Maven to his knees, silent tears flowing down his cheeks. Slowly, he crawled forward, until he reached the top of a dune, and the sea stretched forevermore in front of him. He remembered a pirate ship, more noble than dingy, and recalled his captain, Nicnayal Blugrut, and a perilous storm, being swept off the deck by a gargantuan wave, watching his ship Flayan sail on, then disappear behind the crest of a wave godlike in size, felt 200 feet of ocean crash on top of him, and then nothing. Another memory, of Maven being bathed in soft white light, as an omniscient force judged him, told him his name was “Maven Darkhelme,” told of the wiles of a demon/man named Balthazar, and then Maven woke from his slumber. It was sunrise, and gulls were beginning to pick at him. His head thundered with voices from the past. With one last, longing glance at the sea, Maven turned and headed for town.
Maven’s friend Sam Fraydye spotted Maven as he entered the inn.
“Mave, my friend, grab a chair, I’ll buy you some ale… Maven, what’s wrong? You look like Balthazar has just jumped from behind a hedge and yelled ‘Boo’”
Maven glanced at his friend, said nothing, and left. His companion’s friendly face brought back memories of another friend, lost in the storm. Shaking his head he went back to the plains, and hid from society for days, not eating, not talking, every few hours wandering back to the ocean where he would gaze over the horizon. When he returned to town, he went to the shrine, prayed to the gods for peace, but heard nothing. Once the gods actually came down and talked to Maven, but now they were silent, mocking, laughing at Maven. He cursed them, desecrated the shrine, and fled town, shouting at old friends, and phantom memories. Alarmed citizens tried to stop him, but he waved his sword, and they backed down.
At night, Maven snuck back into town, stealing wood planks, parts of chairs and fences, belts, twine, string, and food. His stealth rivaled that of the best of rogues; his madness heightened his senses to almost beyond human capabilities. He took his booty back to the shore, and with a skill unknown before his madness, built a seaworthy raft.

With leaden footsteps, Maven ventured unclothed into the sea. Climbing aboard his raft, he surrendered his fate to the gods, and at last, his mind was at ease.

I dedicate this story to my dear friend, who wishes not to be named...

I love mommy, and my daddy.
I love how they used to tuck me in, kiss me goodnight,
I love remembering holidays, waking up to happiness.
I love my dog they bought for me.
I love waking up to screaming, not eating so I can leave the house sooner
I love being yelled at for not reading your mind
I love the feeling of hate, radiating from my house
I love how I know how to belittle people, to not care, thanks daddy
I love how I learned to hate passionatley and still live with myself, thanks mommy
I love how I learned to swear, and not really know what else I'm saying
I love hiding in my room, closing myself to everyone else
I love how I care more for people I met 3 months ago, and can't stand the people I live with
I love not meeting you crazy goals
I love never metting you standards, never being good enough
I love being used as a tool against mommy
I love being referred to as "scre-up" amd "little shitbag"
I love pretending to love when everyone else is,too
I love how perfect nights are ruined, again and again
I love how I used to be a kind, sweet boy, and now Im a sadistic asshole
I love my life, and wish to share it with a perfect girl some day

Well, here is the poem that this is named for, how boring, how sad.


I looked, for her, her of the golden hair
But found naught at all and so burdened once more
With the thought of her. Traveling alone,
I visited places, always following, always picking up hidden breadcrumbs,
Lured away by a silent siren, never finding peace.

I stopped, only once, at a place called Home
By an elderly chap named Jones. I settled, only once,
For a brief time, and wondered about my life’s’ choosing;
The perpetual road, the tireless search, the constant need of company.
I stopped at a place called Home, and wondered about my own.

I observed the place called Home, by a clever man named Jones,
And admired the stubborn refusal to die, alone, and surrounded by nothing.
The barn freshly painted, the walkway weeded, the fence mended,
All by a man named Jones, a man thought to live alone,
But Jones found friends in memory, and was content with Home.

Outside of Home, life went on, oblivious of a man named Jones.
Wars raged, babies were born, and no one cared for a man named Jones.
I lived with Jones, in a place called Home,
Only for a short time, but quickly grew tired,
Of a place called Home, and so I left.

Back to the tireless search for her of the golden head,
Never stopping, but I often thought back
To a man named Jones, who lived at Home.
Pity filled my heart, and loathing,
For he had no obligations, he was looked for by no one.

I’d stop to rest and catch some sleep,
Always haunted by a man called Jones. It wasn’t my life, it was his,
And so, malcontent, I wandered, always looking, never halting,
Alone by myself, and dim memories. I’d always be jealous of Jones,
Of him without a care in the world, living in a place called Home.



Nobody has looked at this, kinda depressing, so I think I'm gonna tell my friends about this, but you know, all hushlike, in passing. Pretty sneaky, huh?

I wrote this about a girl I like so here it is.....

The lighter-than-air touch across my heart
Is more treacherous than open love
Betraying me, even unto Death.
I swore to myself not again,
And then willfully dove headlong back in.
The reason of my obsession is honest enough;
I couldn’t not love her, no matter what.
She draws my being like metal draws a magnet,
Unrelenting, yet not on purpose,
The pull of a waterfall on a river.

With the ability to seem vulnerable, sad,
Yet always beautiful, always dignified.;
Her hand lightly touches mine,
And leaves behind a single hair;
The odd mix of blonde and brown
Exploding into golden beauty,
A face beyond words, a dancer’s body.
Physical touch is never enough, yet too much,
Leaving me yearning, yet gorged,
Never getting my fill, but drowning.

If I lose her I would be destroyed
But to gain her, the same fate.
For a beginning implies an end,
And at that I cannot live.
All options are bleak,
To make a move, rejection awaits,
To stop would be like not breathing,
To forever wait, not doing a thing,
That is a fate worse than Death,
Yet the only choice I make.

Well, actually, A Place Called Home is a poem I wrote, and seemed interesting and hip enough to be a name. Come on, If someone wrote a book called "A Place Called Home" it would simply on its title.
My name right now is Justin Micaya, which is of course not my real name, since I don't trust many people out there to use my name appropriatley.
I'm new to the whole blogging scene, so you'll have to bear with me. First of all, most posts will be geared towards you, wandering reader, as if there are any reading some persons blog, with everything to say, but no soapbox. A s such, I'll porbably end up sounding stupid. Not much difference from real life then.
For some general background, I'm 15, live in Hawaii (which isn't as good as many people think), consider myself an independent conservative, have a great sense of humor, and am very seriousminded, unless someone says "duty" becuz it sounds like "doody."
That's it for now, I'm going to treat this as my journal, so I hope to update it soon.