Hector Vance

I never wrote an introduction.

“A single, solitary figure creaked back in his rocking chair amongst an utterly empty room, except for the large brick fireplace shoved tightly against far wall. Ash stained and broken, it towered over the frail man like a roaring giant.”

I never could quite emulate the greats- Alta June, Nutella Waffles, Beatrice Macandless.

“His name was Hector Vance, but he HATED the name Hector Vance. Like poison to his lips. It was bad memories and broken relationships; the reason he hated the world.”

I never wanted to reveal my pen name.

“He was a creaky, stingy, elderly, rotted fellow and often very much minded being recognized as such.”

 I never will understand why I have such a connection to Hector Vance.

“The world is full of insane people, Vance thought, each one having their own dangerous wants and wishes. Life is a horror film and mine is a story about one man and a whole lot of blood-thirsty mutts.”

Truth is...
Hector Vance was a character in one of my novels-
A novel that only lasted twenty four pages- yet still had the depth to
successfully carry an entire character on its shoulders.

I never got to write Hector's story.
Not until now

I am Hector Vance
MY story is not written yet,
But I will get to see my book, read it front to back,
 slowing down only at the sweet moments.
The butterflies in my stomach, the tie around my neck, the
starvation for knowledge

Growing old
And staying happy even still.

                Soon enough I won’t be Hector Vance.

                Soon enough my story will develop enough to make a new character.

                                Tyler Cook.

                                      And honestly, I think that that character should be a bit more interesting.

“Sure, you’re strong in stature, but, my friend, your mind is weak.” 

Hector yawned, “I like to think people change,

                                                                                … Don’t you?”

By: Hector Vance

Her Eyes

I fear…

I fear you

                                I fear your soft brown eyes,

                I fear the way they make me feel,

                I fear the way you think, the way you peer to the future with them, the way you pass me in the halls- your stone cold eyes being dragged around by ropes and levers, because they're far too heavy for you to hold all by yourself.

                Your eyes are nets that I can’t help but get caught in- even when you don’t look at me.

                                But I fear…

                I fear the way you hate them.

                You once joked that you thought they were the color of crap, and didn’t let me respond because you knew I’d say some forced broken complement.

                But now I offer you my compliment- so utterly not broken.

                You’re eyes are a song.

            You’re eyes are dreams, so deep that I could spend hours wandering through them. Sure, sometimes they don’t make sense. Sometimes things happen that I don’t count on- sometimes it just feels like a haze, but all the time I wander through them, regardless.

                You’re eyes captivate me.

                Your eyes feel sacred- Maybe that’s why you don’t let people stare into them too long. Maybe that’s why it feels like I’m being excommunicated every time I catch a glimpse into your soul.

                                But I know you fear, also ..

                Yes, I see your eyes are afraid.

I see that you can’t hold your gaze with anyone, but maybe your eyes falter because, in the night while mine rest, yours are skipping between your real life and that fake one we never talk about.

That one where you’re happy

The one where you’re yourself.

                But I’m STILL afraid..

I’m afraid, because when I look into your eyes- with the oceans and the nets and the dreams and the worlds and the deep meanings, beyond beautiful almond colored iris's, I Don’t See...

I don't see me.

 -HV

                                

What Life Is

Life isn’t blank eyes or dulled senses.

Life isn’t following expectations or, “I think I’ll stay in tonight.”

Life isn’t superficial interactions, steely eyes, hoods pulled so high over my head that you won’t even catch a glimpse of my insecurities.

               

                The only part of life I’m about, are the ones where I feel alive.

                The one’s where I can feel the blood pulsing through my veins.

                Life is summer night, a barbeque in the distance, a warm breeze and enough time on our hands that we can see sun rising and setting simultaneously

                Life is the calluses on my fingertips, gliding across the strings and bouncing up and down the frets like they’re dancing.

                Life is those moments where it just feels--right.

                

Go Ahead and Enjoy My Honesty

Honestly, I think it’s time I had an honesty session.

                To start off, I very honestly don’t want to be writing this blogpost- Is that terrible? It seems to me that many are thinking it, but no one wants to actually put it into words. Well, here I am- I have been dreading writing on this blog for the entire day, cause honestly I’ve had a dreadful day. Funny how even after one of the worst weeks of Lone Peak’s life, everyone just falls right back into step. I honestly don’t want to. Again- is that terrible?

                Honestly, I’m just writing this so it’s as entertaining as possible. Honestly, I hope this is decent to annotate.

                Honestly, lately I’ve been contemplating how I can make a difference. I don’t want to be numbered amongst the crowds of robots, laughing when they’re supposed to and crying when their supposed to- at least not anymore. Maybe it’s just the fact that my knee jerk reaction has been the same superficial greeting sense the eighth grade. “Hey man, how ya doin’?”

                Maybe it’s just the fact that “Hey man, how ya doin’?” was one of the last things I said to Terik.

Honestly, I deleted and rewrote that line three times.

Honestly, I think it’s a shame that writers need to filter so much. Honestly, I wish that there was never any criticism on art.  I think that if someone gives their poetry or their musical ability to a crowd of people, who can even judge that piece of art, but the creator himself. What he’s dangled out in front of a sea of critics, is simply his emotions. Whether his poetry has every cliché ever written, or his music sticks to the basic four chords, that how he is feeling. I don’t care if it’s not the most well-rounded, grammatically correct piece ever written, it is him. Too often someone will quit playing the piano or hold back his book of rhymes simply because, “I’m no good.” Honestly, every piece of poetry or sheet music should be framed and put on display, so that others can be given a glorious moment to look through this artist’s eyes.

Honestly, it feels like I’m the only one that thinks so, because once I had a teacher who told me, “Hector, your poetry is too simple. It doesn’t have enough techniques in it.” Who said I wanted to use techniques? This is me. This my poetry.

Honestly, I could go on for pages, saying all of my thoughts and fears.

Honestly, I just wish people would stop putting masks over their faces, because I would like to see more faces. I would like to see more honesty.