Human emotion is a powerful thing, something that should not be taken lightly.
The spectrum of these emotions are all-encompassing, truly suited to every aspect of life from birth to death. The actions made upon these emotions can be well calculated and thought out, but then there are the rash decisions made in the heat of an upsurge of emotion.
In my short life, I have not truly experienced the extremity or power of nearly all emotions because the need for some has not yet arisen. I am still out to experience the world and that is something that I intend to do. To truly fulfill one's life, I feel that one must explore the greatest emotional possibilities, always pushing the boundary to try and experience the next feeling. We are given our humanity through these emotions, so it is necessary to use them to the greatest extent.
The ability to feel love and hate and anger and fear is what separates us from the rest of the creatures on this planet. I love just living and feeling. I love the way music can make an individual feel such a wide range of emotions that is completely different from everyone else who happens to hear that same piece. I love how someone can read a piece of literature and take something out of it that nobody else will. I love the way that you can feel around one person and will never feel that same way about another in the scope of your entire life.
This is the true diversity of humanity. It does not stem from race or gender, but from the emotions that we feel throughout everyday life. We are separate in our feelings, but connected through the fact that we all inevitably feel them in every situation. I am beginning to see the merit of these emotions when I had often cast them aside without giving them much thought.
In my advancing years I have become more introspective, constantly taking a look at how I feel about certain things and situations after I have experienced them. I do not know if it's age catching up with me or I am going soft, but I am beginning to want more out of life than the same thing everyday.
Change is a welcome occurrence. I need to get out and experience new things and new people. I need to experience a wider spectrum of humanity if I am to ever truly be able to live a complete life.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Time Stands Still
today the silent one does have her say
today all contradictions seemed ok
today's the day that I become the sky
a silent understanding, oh my
today all contradictions seemed ok
today's the day that I become the sky
a silent understanding, oh my
You with the sad eyes,
Light brown flecked with orange,
That can penetrate you
Like a bullet straight to your heart.
You with the sad eyes,
In your heart
Are unspoken grievances and hurts,
That I can only guess but will never know.
But I cannot help you ease the pain,
If you refuse to let go of it.
I cannot help you mend your heart,
If you refuse to leave your wounds alone.
You with the sad eyes,
I do not understand
Why you keep picking at your scars,
Like a child constantly fingering
The scab on his knee.
Re-opening the wounds,
Letting the bad memories spurt forth
Like a nightmare rewinding itself
All over again.
You with the sad eyes,
Unable to let go completely,
Afraid to move on
And search once more,
For the emotions that you’ve long forgotten.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Shiver In My Spine
Fear can be described in many ways, but as most dictionaries put it:
“a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid.”
Fear is one of the greatest tools known to mankind, but is mainly known on the basis of being a weapon. It’s a weapon that was never given an official name and isn’t official recognised as a weapon. But it is the psychological equivalent of an atom bomb, capable of destroying hundreds upon thousands of lives in the mere mutter of a couple of words.
Fear is the voice on the other end of the telephone, saying “I know where you live”, fear is the bump in the night that makes you wonder what it was, and fear is what keeps you from looking into the dark, to forever discover shelter in the light. Fear is instinctive, one of our most primal recognitions, it’s that alarm in your head saying ‘not to go there’, and it’s the pump the fuels adrenaline into your body, making your heart beat so loud it drowns out your thoughts. Fear varies, whether it be standing up in front of a crowd to give a speech, or fleeing from a knife wielding psychopath. It tells you to stay away; it does the handy work of the mind, being the minds manager making sure nothing harms it. So it gives you a feeling of apprehension, making you aware that you are in danger of coming to harm, it doesn’t matter whether it be mental or physical, and it will attempt to stop you.
Fear is so abundant, mankind has even categorized it, simplifying it down to ones most dreaded fear, varying to a fear of open spaces, known as Agoraphobia, to a fear of spiders, known as Arachnophobia. But what I ask is what the name for a fear of time is. The undying fear of what’s to come, the fear of what tomorrow shall bring.
For my fear lies here, I find myself up at the early hours of the morning , not going to bed to when ‘late’ becomes ‘early ‘, and night becomes day. For my fear is a subconscious fear, for how can one avoid time, numbers with meaning attached to them. But it’s better to say that I fear change, for one’s own world to warp beyond recognition. I did not learn this until recently.
For I wouldn’t be able to comprehend how my world would collapse in on itself and regrown as something else, all within a year.
Looking back I thought that 2007 would be a lucky year, a year I would never forget, and I was right about one thing at least. Within that year, I fell through a door that accelerated my artistic skills further ahead within less than three months, than I had ever improved with the previous decade. My ideal place of refuge was blown out the door, in the processes I lost memories that had multiplied and spawned as inanimate objects. My kingdom of refuge was torn away from my grasp, for I was never to set foot in it again. My fear began to multiply with the feeling of utter dread at the start of a new year, a new beginning, a new person . . .
A new Fear.
“a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid.”
Fear is one of the greatest tools known to mankind, but is mainly known on the basis of being a weapon. It’s a weapon that was never given an official name and isn’t official recognised as a weapon. But it is the psychological equivalent of an atom bomb, capable of destroying hundreds upon thousands of lives in the mere mutter of a couple of words.
Fear is the voice on the other end of the telephone, saying “I know where you live”, fear is the bump in the night that makes you wonder what it was, and fear is what keeps you from looking into the dark, to forever discover shelter in the light. Fear is instinctive, one of our most primal recognitions, it’s that alarm in your head saying ‘not to go there’, and it’s the pump the fuels adrenaline into your body, making your heart beat so loud it drowns out your thoughts. Fear varies, whether it be standing up in front of a crowd to give a speech, or fleeing from a knife wielding psychopath. It tells you to stay away; it does the handy work of the mind, being the minds manager making sure nothing harms it. So it gives you a feeling of apprehension, making you aware that you are in danger of coming to harm, it doesn’t matter whether it be mental or physical, and it will attempt to stop you.
Fear is so abundant, mankind has even categorized it, simplifying it down to ones most dreaded fear, varying to a fear of open spaces, known as Agoraphobia, to a fear of spiders, known as Arachnophobia. But what I ask is what the name for a fear of time is. The undying fear of what’s to come, the fear of what tomorrow shall bring.
For my fear lies here, I find myself up at the early hours of the morning , not going to bed to when ‘late’ becomes ‘early ‘, and night becomes day. For my fear is a subconscious fear, for how can one avoid time, numbers with meaning attached to them. But it’s better to say that I fear change, for one’s own world to warp beyond recognition. I did not learn this until recently.
For I wouldn’t be able to comprehend how my world would collapse in on itself and regrown as something else, all within a year.
Looking back I thought that 2007 would be a lucky year, a year I would never forget, and I was right about one thing at least. Within that year, I fell through a door that accelerated my artistic skills further ahead within less than three months, than I had ever improved with the previous decade. My ideal place of refuge was blown out the door, in the processes I lost memories that had multiplied and spawned as inanimate objects. My kingdom of refuge was torn away from my grasp, for I was never to set foot in it again. My fear began to multiply with the feeling of utter dread at the start of a new year, a new beginning, a new person . . .
A new Fear.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
In All Of Us
I am an artist – not because I dream of glory or fame – those mean nothing to me now.
I am an writer not because I wish to master language, though as writer that is important for me, but because once upon a thousand times, I fell in love. Since then my life has not been without words.
I am a musician because as a lady I have decided to strive for one thing – to be alive – to live a life that means something, and singing is a way to keep myself accountable – if I’m not living, I’m not creating.
If I can’t write music, it must be because I am not pursuing life passionately enough. Writing at this point in my life, is life, just as drawing or painting once was, and I hope is again one day. The only life worth living is a life worth writing about. If you wouldn’t want to read a book about your own life, I’d venture to say you’re dead already, and I’d put forth the question, what are you living for? Is this narcissistic? Maybe . . .
We live in a dead and dying world – we walk and talk and work with dead people – living dead lives. The only way one can truly write something that means something is to go to great lengths to either live, or great lengths to die. To be mediocre, is to be forgotten. To be mediocre, is to be no one. To be mediocre, is to be mere dust blowing in the wind, dirt between your toes, sand on a beach somewhere.
I am an writer not because I wish to master language, though as writer that is important for me, but because once upon a thousand times, I fell in love. Since then my life has not been without words.
I am a musician because as a lady I have decided to strive for one thing – to be alive – to live a life that means something, and singing is a way to keep myself accountable – if I’m not living, I’m not creating.
If I can’t write music, it must be because I am not pursuing life passionately enough. Writing at this point in my life, is life, just as drawing or painting once was, and I hope is again one day. The only life worth living is a life worth writing about. If you wouldn’t want to read a book about your own life, I’d venture to say you’re dead already, and I’d put forth the question, what are you living for? Is this narcissistic? Maybe . . .
We live in a dead and dying world – we walk and talk and work with dead people – living dead lives. The only way one can truly write something that means something is to go to great lengths to either live, or great lengths to die. To be mediocre, is to be forgotten. To be mediocre, is to be no one. To be mediocre, is to be mere dust blowing in the wind, dirt between your toes, sand on a beach somewhere.
Thank you for raping me of everything I hold dear.
It's never your fault.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Another Mile
My sister has always got on my case about referring to perfume, as perfume. She tells me it’s vulgar.
Get her!
Apparently, ladies who have been raised correctly call it scent. She knows I wasn’t raised correctly, she was there after all. I was dragged up by the lapels of my Woolworths strait jacket, and so was she.
I'd like more choices. Two aren't enough.
When I choose not to decide no one listens.
He had the road maps on his ass. I just didn't care to follow it. Now I don't know where I am, except that no one else is here. I shunned those little conformitys. And now I've been shunned by the bigger ones.
I think God sells lemonade on the side of the road, in wooden stands. Out of plastic pitchers like any child would. Broke and naive to the conditions of humanity. I think God is the big bad wolf in all those faerie tales where children get eaten. Let's cut his belly open - save them!
Save everyone!
From the paranoia - The hysteria of those that would try to control us.
I think love isn't that different. Serving best only those that would abuse it. Taking advantage of the rest.
I think I'm thirsty and I'll gladly buy any one's lemonade. Including Gods- if it could cure my thirst.
But I'm just silly like that, I need results.
Get her!
Apparently, ladies who have been raised correctly call it scent. She knows I wasn’t raised correctly, she was there after all. I was dragged up by the lapels of my Woolworths strait jacket, and so was she.
I'd like more choices. Two aren't enough.
When I choose not to decide no one listens.
He had the road maps on his ass. I just didn't care to follow it. Now I don't know where I am, except that no one else is here. I shunned those little conformitys. And now I've been shunned by the bigger ones.
I think God sells lemonade on the side of the road, in wooden stands. Out of plastic pitchers like any child would. Broke and naive to the conditions of humanity. I think God is the big bad wolf in all those faerie tales where children get eaten. Let's cut his belly open - save them!
Save everyone!
From the paranoia - The hysteria of those that would try to control us.
I think love isn't that different. Serving best only those that would abuse it. Taking advantage of the rest.
I think I'm thirsty and I'll gladly buy any one's lemonade. Including Gods- if it could cure my thirst.
But I'm just silly like that, I need results.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Sleep Demon
I sat down and had a good think about things and my emotions were ranging through every aspect of the spectrum. And without giving it much conscious attention, I walked over to the wall where my guitar was hanging and took it down.
It was dusty.
For some reason, this surprised me.
All the dust floated off when I started playing it so all was well and by the time I was ready to go to sleep I had a new song in the tank. I was rhyming words without thinking about it and, given the subject matter, it was my frustration with my situation that really brought my art back to the surface. I'm thankful for that.
It was dusty.
For some reason, this surprised me.
All the dust floated off when I started playing it so all was well and by the time I was ready to go to sleep I had a new song in the tank. I was rhyming words without thinking about it and, given the subject matter, it was my frustration with my situation that really brought my art back to the surface. I'm thankful for that.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Bear's Lunch
That certain tightness, right there, right in the middle of your chest, you swear it's your heart clanging around, beating itself against your rib cage, which is reflexively trying to contain it. Makes it a little tough to breathe. I thought things were getting better, but it seems reality is making things worse. I thought the numbness was going before, but now I realise that was just the complete shock wearing off. Look at that landscape, the fog of denial gives way to the chasms of depression, the sky is gray and the ground is bare. Being objectively lost in the wilderness is fun.
love and hate
Two supposedly diametrically opposed concepts, so why then do I flip back and forth between the two. Each flip is like a strong electric current getting close enough to create a huge arcing spark.
Heavy Heart
My heart feels like it wants to plunge through my diaphragm, slip down my left leg and rest by itself on the floor. It is literally tugging, pulling, downward. I keep having these thoughts. When I say keep I mean perpetually smashing themselves vigorously onto the inside of my mind not allowing me to think much else. The most insidious is that thought that somehow if I could put the parts back together everything would be alright.
Of course this is surrounded by techniques for getting this to happen. Even worse the brain decides to build a detailed story board of how the reunification will take place, and then how wonderful it will all be. This is obviously absurd fantasy and the rational mind screams all the while that this road is a dead end track with cliff of fatal proportions waiting at the end. It is only inevitable that you do eventually go sailing off this cliff back into the abyss of despair. I'm still working out how best to avoid this road, or at the very least conduct a u-turn. In the mean time writing it out in odd metaphors seems to at least have a short term positive effect.
Of course this is surrounded by techniques for getting this to happen. Even worse the brain decides to build a detailed story board of how the reunification will take place, and then how wonderful it will all be. This is obviously absurd fantasy and the rational mind screams all the while that this road is a dead end track with cliff of fatal proportions waiting at the end. It is only inevitable that you do eventually go sailing off this cliff back into the abyss of despair. I'm still working out how best to avoid this road, or at the very least conduct a u-turn. In the mean time writing it out in odd metaphors seems to at least have a short term positive effect.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Sweet Lemons
I've been thinking a lot about dreams lately. I've always been a self-professed day dreamer. I much prefer to spend my time dreaming about all the wonderful things I could be doing than wallowing in the pit of remorseful regret that is so damned easy to fall into.
I've been in that pit many times in my life, but it's always so much more fun living in a land of dreamy dreams than it is facing the harsh reality of what your life is. So much more giddy excitement dancing with women you've never met than moping about all the dances you left by.
The problem I have come to realise with dreams is that they are malicious little bastards.
Looking back on my life now I wish I had come to this conclusion a year ago. It is all well and good having a dream, just as long as you never ever ever try to solidify this dream into reality. You may want something badly enough, you may desire to be somewhere with every beat of your heart, yearn to change the very essence of your being...whatever your fantasy, I've come to the conclusion that it is better to leave it as just that.
However hard you try; no matter how many sacrifices you make; regardless of how much work you do to get those dreams close enough to hug whilst copping a furtive bum squeeze - something will happen to stop it.
Triggers suck. That one little smell, word, object and situation that has you fighting your past with full on effort. There are days when my triggers seem to have very little power but then there are others where something that seems so insignificant on the surface brings flashbacks that leave marks on my soul.
I've been in that pit many times in my life, but it's always so much more fun living in a land of dreamy dreams than it is facing the harsh reality of what your life is. So much more giddy excitement dancing with women you've never met than moping about all the dances you left by.
The problem I have come to realise with dreams is that they are malicious little bastards.
Looking back on my life now I wish I had come to this conclusion a year ago. It is all well and good having a dream, just as long as you never ever ever try to solidify this dream into reality. You may want something badly enough, you may desire to be somewhere with every beat of your heart, yearn to change the very essence of your being...whatever your fantasy, I've come to the conclusion that it is better to leave it as just that.
However hard you try; no matter how many sacrifices you make; regardless of how much work you do to get those dreams close enough to hug whilst copping a furtive bum squeeze - something will happen to stop it.
Triggers suck. That one little smell, word, object and situation that has you fighting your past with full on effort. There are days when my triggers seem to have very little power but then there are others where something that seems so insignificant on the surface brings flashbacks that leave marks on my soul.
Help me escape . . .
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Perhaps
The other morning an angry woman called me at 9:30am. What was she angry about? I had not returned her phone call the night before. Of course, there’s more to it than that. Essentially, her charge was that I rarely ever call, that she is the one constantly pursuing me, asking me out to dinner, inviting herself over for a drink.
I did not argue with her. I sat and listened. I figured if I tried to turn it into a dialogue then it would only get worse. She laid into me for about five minutes. I wanted to scream at her, “I’m obviously not as interested in you as you are in me. Do I need to sit you down and state this implicitly, or are you going to salvage some of your dignity and take the various hints?”
But I didn’t say that. I listened quietly.
“You are so selfish!” she shouted. “Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings besides your own?”
For some reason, this comment struck a chord. It doesn’t take a licensed clinical therapist to know that I am damaged goods, that once upon a time I was quite the romantic, a hard-loving optimist. And you don’t have to be Miss Cleo to see that a series of bad relationships has sucked the sensitivity out of me. So my position on love and sex now, as logical as it may be, is purely reactionary.
But selfish?
I have never wanted to believe that about myself. Perhaps my selfless ways only apply when it's in my benifit, or I deem someone worthy.
I did not argue with her. I sat and listened. I figured if I tried to turn it into a dialogue then it would only get worse. She laid into me for about five minutes. I wanted to scream at her, “I’m obviously not as interested in you as you are in me. Do I need to sit you down and state this implicitly, or are you going to salvage some of your dignity and take the various hints?”
But I didn’t say that. I listened quietly.
“You are so selfish!” she shouted. “Do you ever think about anyone’s feelings besides your own?”
For some reason, this comment struck a chord. It doesn’t take a licensed clinical therapist to know that I am damaged goods, that once upon a time I was quite the romantic, a hard-loving optimist. And you don’t have to be Miss Cleo to see that a series of bad relationships has sucked the sensitivity out of me. So my position on love and sex now, as logical as it may be, is purely reactionary.
But selfish?
I have never wanted to believe that about myself. Perhaps my selfless ways only apply when it's in my benifit, or I deem someone worthy.
Monday, April 21, 2008
What Cycle?
Dear Dr. Blogspot,
Sometimes I sit alone in the dark, feeling incredibly sorry for myself, crying, and listening to my own songs on repeat, all for no good reason. Is this normal?
Thanks,
Bexiness
Sometimes I sit alone in the dark, feeling incredibly sorry for myself, crying, and listening to my own songs on repeat, all for no good reason. Is this normal?
Thanks,
Bexiness
Sunday, April 20, 2008
ROSES AND PINK COFFINS
Do you ever get spacey from sleep deprivation, shaky from over-caffeination, and shivery from the miserable weather, all while teetering on the brink of tears and destruction caused by listening to a song on repeat too many times?
It's when I feel the most like myself.
Addendum:
It's a quarter til midnight, and I just realized that I've been wearing my shirt inside out all day.
Yes, I've truly never felt more like me.
Today was the best day. I love jam sessions good friends great dro and lots of laughs. Thanks to all who make me smile in the midst of my mental turmoil. Without you, every song would be sad. x33333
It's when I feel the most like myself.
Addendum:
It's a quarter til midnight, and I just realized that I've been wearing my shirt inside out all day.
Yes, I've truly never felt more like me.
Today was the best day. I love jam sessions good friends great dro and lots of laughs. Thanks to all who make me smile in the midst of my mental turmoil. Without you, every song would be sad. x33333
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Selfless Creation
Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.
Yesterday had been a bad and sad day. I fell terribly sick and the whole day was filled with senti and emo moments. It sounds tragic but with those tears that fell incessantly, I reinstated my belief that the world has always been unjust; the same goes to the people surrounding you. I am not skeptical but perhaps far too contemplative for my own good.
I asked myself many questions; silently, when I lay on my bed trying to fall asleep with a cold towel on my forehead. Am I being too sensitive and too ardent to ask for a little attention? Am I someone with a horrible attitude when displeasure masks my face? Do they sincerely care? Will I find the truth and sincerity behind those incessant affectionate phrases that were said to me every time?
Maybe I am too sensitive and far too contemplative for my own good. Their actions hurt. I’m hurting without them knowing. All I want is to know how significant I have been in that person’s life because I don’t know the core of my existence. I could be asking too much but somehow I find myself entitled to the truth that I yearn to know but it will sound horridly selfish when asked bluntly.
At this moment, I feel so bare with all my emotions dried up. I feel fictional and have nothing to offer anymore. I have always enjoyed the role of being a giver and not taker but I am so bare because everything has been taken yet I’m still to give all I can. I’m hurting, without that person knowing.
Sometimes, I feel like I am an object for temporal happiness. When my existence is felt and appreciated, I will be painted in the abstract art but the sad this is that the form of art that represents my being will be erased when my existence is not felt. Thus, began my journey of learning the nooks and crannies of living an artless life and how appreciate this new form.
I feel so disengaged but to whom does it matter?
Friday, April 18, 2008
Tiny-Chia
I think that retrospection is very close friends with reason and rationalization, which is interesting considering that reason and rationalization seem to have a love-hate relationship with one another. Retrospection is like the glue holding the other two together while simultaneously being the wall that separates them and forces one to choose between one or the other. Rationalization is a bit of an ass. It likes to dress up in reason’s clothing and parade around as reason, making everyone think that it is something that it certainly is not. Reason, while being more honest and altogether better for you, doesn’t always taste as good as you wish it to taste.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Grass Is Brown
Satisfaction is more of an ideal than a simple state of being. The more that I think about it, the more I wonder if perhaps never being truly satisfied is merely another ugly aspect of human nature that we all prefer to ignore. Or, maybe, is never being satisfied a good thing? Does it force us to strive for more, to always keep looking towards the sky? I suppose it’s a double edged sword, really. Our inherent lack of satisfaction coerces us to always search for something more, but it also has the capability to blind us to something wonderful that is standing right in our vicinity.
Perhaps I am looking too much into my own experience, but considering that my experience is the only way that I can perceive the world I suppose that I cannot be too far off from whatever the truth may be. While I wish that I could say that I find myself to be satisfied with all aspects of my life, I know that it is simply not the truth. I am constantly feeling as if something is missing, as if there is something more out there which I just haven’t managed to find for myself yet. I do not think that I am the only person that has this feeling lingering in his or her chest. I think that it is possible to be satisfied with certain part if your life (e.g. your relationships, your work, your schooling, et cetera), but will you, can you be satisfied with everything?
I would suppose that, if things go as planned, a point comes in one’s life where all of the important things (whatever one deems to be important, anyway) are working out well, they are all fulfilled and then all the little disappointments do not seem so upsetting. Maybe you have an excellent spouse and the family you’ve always wanted, or perhaps your career is excelling at such a fantastic rate that you cannot help but feel proud of yourself. Maybe you believe that you are on your way to living a full rich life and so everything else, all of the little annoyances that ate away at you before just… don’t matter.
Is that satisfaction? Being happy with everything else? Is it contentment? Are satisfaction and contentment essentially the same, just a different amount of syllables? Will I ever be satisfied? content? or will I always be looking for something different, always something better? I have yet to reach a point in my life where better meant nothing, did not exist, but I’m sure that it’s possible.
I just wonder if I will recognize satisfaction when it finally comes knocking on my door.
Perhaps I am looking too much into my own experience, but considering that my experience is the only way that I can perceive the world I suppose that I cannot be too far off from whatever the truth may be. While I wish that I could say that I find myself to be satisfied with all aspects of my life, I know that it is simply not the truth. I am constantly feeling as if something is missing, as if there is something more out there which I just haven’t managed to find for myself yet. I do not think that I am the only person that has this feeling lingering in his or her chest. I think that it is possible to be satisfied with certain part if your life (e.g. your relationships, your work, your schooling, et cetera), but will you, can you be satisfied with everything?
I would suppose that, if things go as planned, a point comes in one’s life where all of the important things (whatever one deems to be important, anyway) are working out well, they are all fulfilled and then all the little disappointments do not seem so upsetting. Maybe you have an excellent spouse and the family you’ve always wanted, or perhaps your career is excelling at such a fantastic rate that you cannot help but feel proud of yourself. Maybe you believe that you are on your way to living a full rich life and so everything else, all of the little annoyances that ate away at you before just… don’t matter.
Is that satisfaction? Being happy with everything else? Is it contentment? Are satisfaction and contentment essentially the same, just a different amount of syllables? Will I ever be satisfied? content? or will I always be looking for something different, always something better? I have yet to reach a point in my life where better meant nothing, did not exist, but I’m sure that it’s possible.
I just wonder if I will recognize satisfaction when it finally comes knocking on my door.
Unmapped Isle
I feel confused and yet my mind is so clear.
I am neither happy nor sad, perhaps simply content.
I wonder where I am going, but my mind is preoccupied with where I have already been, especially lately. I have never really been one to dwell on the past, but as the nights come I find myself staring up at the ceiling and thinking about what once was. It’s unusual for me. Foreign, but not necessarily unwanted. I know that no amount of thought can ever change the past. Maybe… maybe I can learn something new by analyzing, remembering. But change? No. I cannot change what has already occured, I can only change how I perceive it.
I feel so different and yet so the same.
I haven’t changed, but I’m not me.
I’m me, but I’ve completely changed.
Trying to make sense really isn’t my forte, I suppose. My mind is everywhere and no where at the same time. I can’t even really explain how I feel; I do not know if I have actually ever felt like this before. I saw people today and I wasn’t needy for their attention. I did not care much one way or the other. They could choose to talk to me, they could choose not to talk. I find that the less I care, the more people seem to enjoy my company. Probably because I am calmer, more sane when I am not in a fit of worry? Can others feel that?
I floated today. Like a cloud. A lax, easy-going cloud with no feelings one direction or the other. And while there was a very real emptiness lingering in my chest, I realized that the emptiness was due to the fact that somewhere along the line, I have lost a part of myself. That missing piece isn’t someone else that I need to find, it’s me. I suppose that finding that piece of yourself that you lost is like trying to find mythical buried treasure. You don’t know what the treasure is, or if it is even worth the effort, but you know that you’ll feel unaccomplished if you don’t try to find it.
Maybe that is the reason that I have been looking so much into the past as of late? Maybe I’m just trying to retrace my steps, trying to remember when I lost that little piece of my heart.
Too bad I already know . . .
I am neither happy nor sad, perhaps simply content.
I wonder where I am going, but my mind is preoccupied with where I have already been, especially lately. I have never really been one to dwell on the past, but as the nights come I find myself staring up at the ceiling and thinking about what once was. It’s unusual for me. Foreign, but not necessarily unwanted. I know that no amount of thought can ever change the past. Maybe… maybe I can learn something new by analyzing, remembering. But change? No. I cannot change what has already occured, I can only change how I perceive it.
I feel so different and yet so the same.
I haven’t changed, but I’m not me.
I’m me, but I’ve completely changed.
Trying to make sense really isn’t my forte, I suppose. My mind is everywhere and no where at the same time. I can’t even really explain how I feel; I do not know if I have actually ever felt like this before. I saw people today and I wasn’t needy for their attention. I did not care much one way or the other. They could choose to talk to me, they could choose not to talk. I find that the less I care, the more people seem to enjoy my company. Probably because I am calmer, more sane when I am not in a fit of worry? Can others feel that?
I floated today. Like a cloud. A lax, easy-going cloud with no feelings one direction or the other. And while there was a very real emptiness lingering in my chest, I realized that the emptiness was due to the fact that somewhere along the line, I have lost a part of myself. That missing piece isn’t someone else that I need to find, it’s me. I suppose that finding that piece of yourself that you lost is like trying to find mythical buried treasure. You don’t know what the treasure is, or if it is even worth the effort, but you know that you’ll feel unaccomplished if you don’t try to find it.
Maybe that is the reason that I have been looking so much into the past as of late? Maybe I’m just trying to retrace my steps, trying to remember when I lost that little piece of my heart.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Keeping Fish From Drowning
I think that this story requires parental supervision
Can you give an autobiography a rating like a movie?
Why is it that we all seem so much more scandalous on screen?
When imagination is superfluous, do reservations prevail?
Here’s the thing, Love
You and I, we won’t make it
I can see you shaking that pretty head of yours
But I promised you from the beginning that I wasn’t going to lie
Our eyes are going to meet from across the room
We’ll look past the mutilated bodies and the mountains of cocaine
You’ll glance up and smile at me just after taking a particularly potent hit
I’ll wink at you just as your pulling the syringe out of your arm
No, no, not the arm
Tonight, it is the back of your knee
There are a lot of tracks that I’ll run in life
But some of them you were never meant to see
You are never going to tell me the truth
Not completely
You’re going to fill our bed with half truths and insecure doubts
Or maybe that was me
I’m going to tell you how beautiful you really are and
Dear God
You’re going to hate me for it
We all need something to hate
Pause
Do you need an intermission, Love?
Take a break, get some water to replace the tears that you’re sure to shed
Then again, maybe that was me, too
Rewind <<
Play >
We all need something to hate
Sometimes after we’re done fucking, I’m going to despise you
I’m going to hate the way you taste
No
I’m not
I am only going to hate how your words feel while nibbling on my earlobe
Their favorite meal is my ego, which they devour with infantile eagerness and desperate need
I won’t stop it, though
I’ll only glare at you, the taste of you still fresh on my tongue
When you say nothing, I’ll turn my back
Secretly hoping that you will place your calloused hand on my shoulder and say something
Anything
To combat the silence
But you won’t
Ever
And I will wallow in my own self-induced misery while maintaining the stubborn silence
Every night you’ll tell me that you love me
And I’ll believe you
I don’t know why
You’re like a god, high on your throne among mere mortals
I’ll turn my head toward you one day and I’ll swear for a second that your throne is made from the anxieties and fear that you elicit from me
But only for a second
When I come back to my senses, I’ll realise that your throne is made of nothing so abstract
(How could you sit on that, anyway?)
But rather something concrete like the ladies you got bored with before me
One more hit, one more bump
One more round of sex because, fuck, we’re such fantastic lovers
You'll enter me slowly and then tear me apart
You'll do to my cunt what you did to my heart
So ironic, ‘cause I’ll like it
You’ll run right, I’ll crawl left
You north, I south
I’ll lick my lips as I dream about you
But you’ll only see me when your vision is filled with a cloud of white
Are you still listening, Love?
Are you still lucid?
This story hasn’t ended yet
Grimm hasn’t collected the conclusion to this tale
You know what really happened to the Little Mermaid?
She drowned
Baby, I love to swim
For a while, I will hold the belief that I will save you
But by the end of our story I’ll realise that I was only saving fish from drowning.
Can you give an autobiography a rating like a movie?
Why is it that we all seem so much more scandalous on screen?
When imagination is superfluous, do reservations prevail?
Here’s the thing, Love
You and I, we won’t make it
I can see you shaking that pretty head of yours
But I promised you from the beginning that I wasn’t going to lie
Our eyes are going to meet from across the room
We’ll look past the mutilated bodies and the mountains of cocaine
You’ll glance up and smile at me just after taking a particularly potent hit
I’ll wink at you just as your pulling the syringe out of your arm
No, no, not the arm
Tonight, it is the back of your knee
There are a lot of tracks that I’ll run in life
But some of them you were never meant to see
You are never going to tell me the truth
Not completely
You’re going to fill our bed with half truths and insecure doubts
Or maybe that was me
I’m going to tell you how beautiful you really are and
Dear God
You’re going to hate me for it
We all need something to hate
Pause
Do you need an intermission, Love?
Take a break, get some water to replace the tears that you’re sure to shed
Then again, maybe that was me, too
Rewind <<
Play >
We all need something to hate
Sometimes after we’re done fucking, I’m going to despise you
I’m going to hate the way you taste
No
I’m not
I am only going to hate how your words feel while nibbling on my earlobe
Their favorite meal is my ego, which they devour with infantile eagerness and desperate need
I won’t stop it, though
I’ll only glare at you, the taste of you still fresh on my tongue
When you say nothing, I’ll turn my back
Secretly hoping that you will place your calloused hand on my shoulder and say something
Anything
To combat the silence
But you won’t
Ever
And I will wallow in my own self-induced misery while maintaining the stubborn silence
Every night you’ll tell me that you love me
And I’ll believe you
I don’t know why
You’re like a god, high on your throne among mere mortals
I’ll turn my head toward you one day and I’ll swear for a second that your throne is made from the anxieties and fear that you elicit from me
But only for a second
When I come back to my senses, I’ll realise that your throne is made of nothing so abstract
(How could you sit on that, anyway?)
But rather something concrete like the ladies you got bored with before me
One more hit, one more bump
One more round of sex because, fuck, we’re such fantastic lovers
You'll enter me slowly and then tear me apart
You'll do to my cunt what you did to my heart
So ironic, ‘cause I’ll like it
You’ll run right, I’ll crawl left
You north, I south
I’ll lick my lips as I dream about you
But you’ll only see me when your vision is filled with a cloud of white
Are you still listening, Love?
Are you still lucid?
This story hasn’t ended yet
Grimm hasn’t collected the conclusion to this tale
You know what really happened to the Little Mermaid?
She drowned
Baby, I love to swim
For a while, I will hold the belief that I will save you
But by the end of our story I’ll realise that I was only saving fish from drowning.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
An Ode
If you could see the path in its entirety, if you knew the broken stones upon which you would stumble, if you felt the shade you rest under, if you sensed the dark promise at its end - would you still walk it? Would you still say yes?
I whispered in your ear last night; the words were intimate and animate portraits of my state of mind, a view through the looking glass; did you see much of yourself in me? Did you think my words might be your own but for the distance of souls?
She is - Liquid sorrow trickled on asphalt memories and shattered upon flawless dreams
She is - Stone cold steel, a hollow vessel filled with shades of shadow
She is - Wilted white roses on the peeling windowpane captured in elapsed time
She is - An elusive tangibility forlorn and forfeit, remorse in repose
She is - Soft shallow silences of letters never written and things best left unsaid.
And I can't even see but I can see you, I can't focus. Yet one glimpse of you captures all my senses. Remind me why we do this? Why I do this to myself every day? We wonder, I wonder . . . Senseless and numb. To never breathe with you would be such a terrible waste of what I thought was untainted perfectionism.
I whispered in your ear last night; the words were intimate and animate portraits of my state of mind, a view through the looking glass; did you see much of yourself in me? Did you think my words might be your own but for the distance of souls?
She is - Liquid sorrow trickled on asphalt memories and shattered upon flawless dreams
She is - Stone cold steel, a hollow vessel filled with shades of shadow
She is - Wilted white roses on the peeling windowpane captured in elapsed time
She is - An elusive tangibility forlorn and forfeit, remorse in repose
She is - Soft shallow silences of letters never written and things best left unsaid.
And I can't even see but I can see you, I can't focus. Yet one glimpse of you captures all my senses. Remind me why we do this? Why I do this to myself every day? We wonder, I wonder . . . Senseless and numb. To never breathe with you would be such a terrible waste of what I thought was untainted perfectionism.
I Am ♫
We write into the quiet, the great expanse of night, our fingers clacking on keys as we scratch out our thoughts and desires. We define ourselves in small quotable paragraphs, determined to prove ourselves in a form palatable yet sublime.
Exhibitionists, one and all, we are addicted to the art of exposure, bequeathed status in the the approval granted by the unseen horde, the eyes that watch our confessions, both titillating and mundane.
We are redeemed not by our actions but by our sentiments. We have been baptized in the font of ennui - enjoyed the soft possibilities of spring and endured the stark emptiness of winter. Our words are spun in spools of self, the act of creation becoming the art of re-imagining, re-defining, until we no longer write what we are, but are what we write.
Exhibitionists, one and all, we are addicted to the art of exposure, bequeathed status in the the approval granted by the unseen horde, the eyes that watch our confessions, both titillating and mundane.
We are redeemed not by our actions but by our sentiments. We have been baptized in the font of ennui - enjoyed the soft possibilities of spring and endured the stark emptiness of winter. Our words are spun in spools of self, the act of creation becoming the art of re-imagining, re-defining, until we no longer write what we are, but are what we write.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Salvation In Starvation
Just how hungry am I? You dare entertain yourself with forces whose worries and pleasure you can not, if even attempted, understand.
Hungry enough to strip you bare and then clothe you in the firm grip of hands that know the fine places to touch you, and then the finer places - the places that make you go weak in the knees while anticipation drives your pulse to race and your skin to tingle. Hungry enough to reveal you layer by layer - removing all pretension and lies until you are completely exposed and yet anonymous in the truth of who and what you are.
Naked, you feel everything. Covered in your lovely armour you feel only the hate and love that resonate between my words and the warmth of the light orange flashes send by me into your eyes. They do say, I am quite the surgeon when it comes to soul-deprivation, well this time I am to be likened only to a butcher.
Hungry enough, I find myself, to see just how far you’ll go to find the edge. To see your boundaries - to push you over with one shoving hand while keeping your head above water with the other. Drown you in heat while giving you breath in kisses that never quite end, but move one into another, on lips, neck, curves.
Hungry enough to whisper of things that you’ve often thought of but never let touch your lips. Letting my own self divulge the seemingly innocent myriad of love and affection. Hungry enough to make you speak words that burn when spoken but taste like sweet indulgence. I make you speak of dependence. Dont for a moment think that I have forgotten your past and mine. We are both machinist killers of the contemporary world, psychopaths and psychopants beyond the understanding of the world.
What exactly do you think binds up, the lust we asphyxiate into as love, or the blood we have shed.
Always remember, how and why we met.
Hungry enough to draw out each desire with fingertips that find the most sensitive locality, and just the right timing - just behind your knees, the small timid bulge of the back of your neck, the side of your neck; fingertips that write naughty poetry on your thighs; fingertips that speak in a language you have to lose yourself in to understand.
Hungry enough to trap you. Havent I already done so with poetic injustice? Have you ever been caught in a gaze that knows you better then you know yourself?
Knows which way you’re going to run? Knows where you are most vulnerable? Knows how to go for your throat - and wants you to know she can. And she waits, until the tension is sharp enough that the delicate coiled heat inside of you can be set off with just one touch, one word.
Hungry enough to teach you what it means to be so bad that it feels good - and reminds you that you are, indeed, *alive*.
How hungry are you?
Hungry enough to strip you bare and then clothe you in the firm grip of hands that know the fine places to touch you, and then the finer places - the places that make you go weak in the knees while anticipation drives your pulse to race and your skin to tingle. Hungry enough to reveal you layer by layer - removing all pretension and lies until you are completely exposed and yet anonymous in the truth of who and what you are.
Naked, you feel everything. Covered in your lovely armour you feel only the hate and love that resonate between my words and the warmth of the light orange flashes send by me into your eyes. They do say, I am quite the surgeon when it comes to soul-deprivation, well this time I am to be likened only to a butcher.
Hungry enough, I find myself, to see just how far you’ll go to find the edge. To see your boundaries - to push you over with one shoving hand while keeping your head above water with the other. Drown you in heat while giving you breath in kisses that never quite end, but move one into another, on lips, neck, curves.
Hungry enough to whisper of things that you’ve often thought of but never let touch your lips. Letting my own self divulge the seemingly innocent myriad of love and affection. Hungry enough to make you speak words that burn when spoken but taste like sweet indulgence. I make you speak of dependence. Dont for a moment think that I have forgotten your past and mine. We are both machinist killers of the contemporary world, psychopaths and psychopants beyond the understanding of the world.
What exactly do you think binds up, the lust we asphyxiate into as love, or the blood we have shed.
Always remember, how and why we met.
Hungry enough to draw out each desire with fingertips that find the most sensitive locality, and just the right timing - just behind your knees, the small timid bulge of the back of your neck, the side of your neck; fingertips that write naughty poetry on your thighs; fingertips that speak in a language you have to lose yourself in to understand.
Hungry enough to trap you. Havent I already done so with poetic injustice? Have you ever been caught in a gaze that knows you better then you know yourself?
Knows which way you’re going to run? Knows where you are most vulnerable? Knows how to go for your throat - and wants you to know she can. And she waits, until the tension is sharp enough that the delicate coiled heat inside of you can be set off with just one touch, one word.
Hungry enough to teach you what it means to be so bad that it feels good - and reminds you that you are, indeed, *alive*.
How hungry are you?
Sunday, April 13, 2008
No Mistakes
In my position, I must always be one step ahead of the game. When playing, it doesn’t matter what side of the board each piece is on; what is important is knowing what is possible with each piece in play. Where each move can lead. Grasp this, and it doesn’t matter if you control the board - you can make sure the end game is in your favor.
The truth of the matter is that recently, to keep both the queen and the king on the board, I have been playing a more passive role then I am used to; waiting to see where each move will lead.
Generally, playing passively will not, ultimately, win the match. But there are times where it is more valuable to bide one’s time so that a piece can be subjugated and made captive. Do you see the hidden lines, the invisible net on the board? Do you fall into the carefully laid trap or take the safer path?
The safer path is to stop reading now.
The safer path is to not let fear and desire find their way any deeper; they are dangerous, and together they can rip you apart.
The safer path does not go through dark woods; it does not remind you of your hunger to be consumed.
The safer path does not lead you into places too dark to see your own hands, where the hands that are needed to keep you from the sins in the shadows may feed you to them instead. In the darkness, there is no place to hide. Here, you are given the freedom to indulge without being judged.
The safer path is to not respond to this, to forget you read it, to go on with your life.
The safer path for you is to walk away.
The truth of the matter is that recently, to keep both the queen and the king on the board, I have been playing a more passive role then I am used to; waiting to see where each move will lead.
Generally, playing passively will not, ultimately, win the match. But there are times where it is more valuable to bide one’s time so that a piece can be subjugated and made captive. Do you see the hidden lines, the invisible net on the board? Do you fall into the carefully laid trap or take the safer path?
The safer path is to stop reading now.
The safer path is to not let fear and desire find their way any deeper; they are dangerous, and together they can rip you apart.
The safer path does not go through dark woods; it does not remind you of your hunger to be consumed.
The safer path does not lead you into places too dark to see your own hands, where the hands that are needed to keep you from the sins in the shadows may feed you to them instead. In the darkness, there is no place to hide. Here, you are given the freedom to indulge without being judged.
The safer path is to not respond to this, to forget you read it, to go on with your life.
The safer path for you is to walk away.
No Words Spoken
Sometimes I forget.
I forget how it is to want something.
I forget what it is I want.
It is impossible to stop human nature. People change. Feelings change. Thoughts change.
But it is possible to pervert human nature. To adjust its course. To put up a dam or two and watch how thoughts and actions alter course.
Sometimes you can stand in the river, an obstacle yourself, and despite the current, stand utterly still.
And wait
(Sometimes I forget how beautiful you are. There are nights that I fall asleep and I want to feel your warm bare body curled into mine.
Sometimes I forget that smile, when you let yourself love me more then you should. That slightly mischevious look over candles, or dinner, or just talking.
Sometimes, it is even enough.)
I forget how it is to want something.
I forget what it is I want.
It is impossible to stop human nature. People change. Feelings change. Thoughts change.
But it is possible to pervert human nature. To adjust its course. To put up a dam or two and watch how thoughts and actions alter course.
Sometimes you can stand in the river, an obstacle yourself, and despite the current, stand utterly still.
(Sometimes I forget how beautiful you are. There are nights that I fall asleep and I want to feel your warm bare body curled into mine.
Sometimes I forget that smile, when you let yourself love me more then you should. That slightly mischevious look over candles, or dinner, or just talking.
Sometimes, it is even enough.)
False Pretences
Of the two, seed and egg, I would rather the egg.
The planting of a seed within the mind will quickly lead
To roots that bury deep
In memories
Bear fruits of new quandaries
And other plausible metaphors
But an egg will hatch a serpentine, sensual succubus
Insidious in form
That will slither, slip, silent
Never content to rest
Rummaging through forgotten questions
And astounding observations
Down the spine
Taking shivering form
Ceaselessly hungry
Within the belly
Carelessly pressing
In knocking lose old morality
Cautiously expiring
Only when still
Of the two, sturdy tree and ghostly conniver, I’d rather the one that admits no false stability.
The planting of a seed within the mind will quickly lead
To roots that bury deep
In memories
Bear fruits of new quandaries
And other plausible metaphors
But an egg will hatch a serpentine, sensual succubus
Insidious in form
That will slither, slip, silent
Never content to rest
Rummaging through forgotten questions
And astounding observations
Down the spine
Taking shivering form
Ceaselessly hungry
Within the belly
Carelessly pressing
In knocking lose old morality
Cautiously expiring
Only when still
Of the two, sturdy tree and ghostly conniver, I’d rather the one that admits no false stability.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Shades of Sage
What goes around, comes around.
I am deluded by a pond . . .
I watched it almost sardonically -
Anticipating the return of the lost ripple in the waters waves.
Can one see the folly of inconsistency?
And if it is identified, is it a correlative to its former process,
Or is it a derivative to a new phenomenon?
Oh weeping hell, oh sacred dirt where’s the diligence?
I watched my reflection drown, it muttered to me prior to its demise . . .
Why does a source seek its reflection to identify what it is?
It’s like essence finding salvation in its destruction
The scientists squabble so putridly contemplating and contriving directions and motives the cause of winds, the purpose of light . . .
What of evil or beauty?
Is it that brutal and mundane, simplistic symmetry, grotesque repetition?
This fungus just desecrates, it knows of no end, it feels only its own process
My pond is empty and I seek no consumption . . .
I am deluded by a pond . . .
I watched it almost sardonically -
Anticipating the return of the lost ripple in the waters waves.
Can one see the folly of inconsistency?
And if it is identified, is it a correlative to its former process,
Or is it a derivative to a new phenomenon?
Oh weeping hell, oh sacred dirt where’s the diligence?
I watched my reflection drown, it muttered to me prior to its demise . . .
Why does a source seek its reflection to identify what it is?
It’s like essence finding salvation in its destruction
The scientists squabble so putridly contemplating and contriving directions and motives the cause of winds, the purpose of light . . .
What of evil or beauty?
Is it that brutal and mundane, simplistic symmetry, grotesque repetition?
This fungus just desecrates, it knows of no end, it feels only its own process
My pond is empty and I seek no consumption . . .
Friday, April 11, 2008
Nature Of The Beast
My sweet simple hunger, cutting inward with desperate heat to the heart. I seldom know the truth in fingers where hands might take the place of words but I can’t quite figure the path from here to there and there to wherever it is I think I desire to go. But hey - why let something so simple as not understanding, not knowing, not existing in any real fashion stop me from doing precisely whatever it is I that I want.
I want people to read my words on my lips. I want my thoughts to be painted on my skin, so you can know just how good I am with them. My words are like blades, like tempo setting drums that can pace you to the end in a soft tempor of sweet lingering pain. I want people to know that I know- I know. Yet I don’t think you know what I can do with my lips.
Maybe I just need to tie you up, wrap my fingers around your wrists and throat like a reminder, a warm steady reminder of how it feels to be secure in a way that money, love and even friends can’t give you. I strip you bare of your everything; every face you wear during the day comes off with the snap of my fingers or the whisper of my name for you. Our secret language shared in a look when I have you completely exposed.
This is the moment of surrender, of complete replacement of all those things that hold you back. I tie you up to free you from your inhibitions. I hold you down that you finally struggle for life. I rip you open so that you can feel all the way to your core what it is to breath in synchronicity and breath out the remainder of your self in perfect rhythm to my fingers. I pretend to know you. But all those secrets I know about you I learned from myself.
I want people to read my words on my lips. I want my thoughts to be painted on my skin, so you can know just how good I am with them. My words are like blades, like tempo setting drums that can pace you to the end in a soft tempor of sweet lingering pain. I want people to know that I know- I know. Yet I don’t think you know what I can do with my lips.
Maybe I just need to tie you up, wrap my fingers around your wrists and throat like a reminder, a warm steady reminder of how it feels to be secure in a way that money, love and even friends can’t give you. I strip you bare of your everything; every face you wear during the day comes off with the snap of my fingers or the whisper of my name for you. Our secret language shared in a look when I have you completely exposed.
This is the moment of surrender, of complete replacement of all those things that hold you back. I tie you up to free you from your inhibitions. I hold you down that you finally struggle for life. I rip you open so that you can feel all the way to your core what it is to breath in synchronicity and breath out the remainder of your self in perfect rhythm to my fingers. I pretend to know you. But all those secrets I know about you I learned from myself.
I touch you like I want to be touched; I push you where I want to go.
2:22 Book Of The Beast
How does one wake up a beast?
You approach, careful to stay far enough away that it cannot snap at your heels. It knows you are there - it has your scent and the length of your words to tell it where you are - but you are too far away to be more tempting than merely in it's dreams, and so it sleeps and dreams away in the lazed bestiality that is it's mind where it chases clever vermin and sleeps under a moon large enough to shelter a growing hunger, and in the sleep of the beast it dreams an older dream, one without moonlight or victims, or anything at all, really, except for those things which are best kept away from judging eyes.
But this isn't about that dream.
This is about the beast, the fear keeps you from coming any closer, and the curiosity that ensures you do.
Wake me up at 2:22 P.M.
I wont bite.
Not somewhere where it wont hurt.
You approach, careful to stay far enough away that it cannot snap at your heels. It knows you are there - it has your scent and the length of your words to tell it where you are - but you are too far away to be more tempting than merely in it's dreams, and so it sleeps and dreams away in the lazed bestiality that is it's mind where it chases clever vermin and sleeps under a moon large enough to shelter a growing hunger, and in the sleep of the beast it dreams an older dream, one without moonlight or victims, or anything at all, really, except for those things which are best kept away from judging eyes.
But this isn't about that dream.
This is about the beast, the fear keeps you from coming any closer, and the curiosity that ensures you do.
Wake me up at 2:22 P.M.
I wont bite.
Not somewhere where it wont hurt.
What do you fear more?
Being bitten, or being bitten and it not hurting?
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Half Past Moon
A lie I carved out of words, and never blinked, not even once.
Even when what I forced out of you was the teary truth of your past, I almost laughed out my rage when you once broke my heart, and then, as I laid my hand on your shoulder, just before I walked away, I knew that I shall be remembered for ever, for pain is not easily forgotten, and a heartbreak is never forgotten.
I told you to have your beliefs close to your lips, for one day the darkness shall come, I never told you I would be it. I prepared you in the fires of lust and passion, the hazing mist of your eyes has given me much pleasure, only to disappoint me. You have disappointed me.
Feeling the return of my power, I have sensed my realm has returned. I have returned, to crush you and your words with my hand and light. The foundation of my being had just crumbled yet you could have buried me, but your inherent flaw showed, you showed your mercy. My battle has be long and weary, yet all it took was nothing, in its exactness - it took emptiness. I revel in the victory, and my return to the throne . . .
We treasure that which hurts us most
Even when what I forced out of you was the teary truth of your past, I almost laughed out my rage when you once broke my heart, and then, as I laid my hand on your shoulder, just before I walked away, I knew that I shall be remembered for ever, for pain is not easily forgotten, and a heartbreak is never forgotten.
I told you to have your beliefs close to your lips, for one day the darkness shall come, I never told you I would be it. I prepared you in the fires of lust and passion, the hazing mist of your eyes has given me much pleasure, only to disappoint me. You have disappointed me.
Feeling the return of my power, I have sensed my realm has returned. I have returned, to crush you and your words with my hand and light. The foundation of my being had just crumbled yet you could have buried me, but your inherent flaw showed, you showed your mercy. My battle has be long and weary, yet all it took was nothing, in its exactness - it took emptiness. I revel in the victory, and my return to the throne . . .
We treasure that which hurts us most
Greater the sacrifice
Better learnt the lesson
Deeper the gashing wound
Darker our desire to take the hand that wields the knife
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Renascent Awareness
Transcending the baseness of our physical beings, the moment spoke to the prurience of our minds. The softness of your lips is disparate with the decadence of my nature, but instead belies the implicit curiosity of yours. You elicit an unlikely candor from me with your gentle mouth; your bottomless eyes cause me to question the methods I have always embraced. Leading us away from the mundane and toward the incomparable sensation of deep understanding, you eclipse my reservations with your sweet syllogism.
Thank you kindly.
Thank you kindly.
Soft sunlight shakes the sleep from my eyes
Life sighed upon me when I said goodbye
The earth stalled in its orbit just for me
A universe in sync with the perfect breeze
A flare of passion that died a violent death
Is now reborn an aching tenderness
An ember glow in the dark night
Rocks me gently, softly, with all it's might. . .
Bringing Death Back To Life
Poor little ghost boy
It could've been a dream
Pray for the setting sun
of all these things we've seen
And I will run you far
and we can wash away
Oh the things they did to you . .
Yesterday
Nearly home
Nearly home
Another mile
Another mile
One foot in front of the other foot
Poor little ghost boy
A gift to you, my heart
We'll find a little ghost girl
they dreamt in the far
and this time little children
will sweetly play their games
Without a force to be done
grown up counting games
Nearly home
Nearly home
Another mile
Another mile
One foot in front of the other foot.
Where'd you go?
Where'd he go?
I don't know
Why?
Just a while..
Poor little ghost boy
swallowed since by sin
To reach into the lovely new sky
From bruised and bloodied scenes
To drift down as a feather
and settle down by the stream
We will find the waterfall
To dream, dream, dream...
Nearly home
Nearly home
Another mile
Another mile
One foot in front of the other foot.
Cant it stop?
Watch the moon
our whole lives
I feel crossed
and so lost . . .
It could've been a dream
Pray for the setting sun
of all these things we've seen
And I will run you far
and we can wash away
Oh the things they did to you . .
Yesterday
Nearly home
Nearly home
Another mile
Another mile
One foot in front of the other foot
Poor little ghost boy
A gift to you, my heart
We'll find a little ghost girl
they dreamt in the far
and this time little children
will sweetly play their games
Without a force to be done
grown up counting games
Nearly home
Nearly home
Another mile
Another mile
One foot in front of the other foot.
Where'd you go?
Where'd he go?
I don't know
Why?
Just a while..
Poor little ghost boy
swallowed since by sin
To reach into the lovely new sky
From bruised and bloodied scenes
To drift down as a feather
and settle down by the stream
We will find the waterfall
To dream, dream, dream...
Nearly home
Nearly home
Another mile
Another mile
One foot in front of the other foot.
Cant it stop?
Watch the moon
our whole lives
I feel crossed
and so lost . . .
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Is This Remorse?
I find myself on the threshold of being alone again, without the warmth I have grown used to, yet unencumbered by the onus of another’s emotions which has heretofore bound me in a torpid lull. All things that flare with passionate light must in turn fade; it is fallacy to fight the progression. Without your arms to hold me, without this crutch I have leaned upon for far too long, I stand unattached but not lonely, for what I have always relied upon, above all other things, has been myself. Solitarily, but with solidarity of purpose and volition, I go on.
Yet I can't help but to think that the moments of my youth have been replaced by the hours of maturity; I can feel the days slipping, converging on the years of aged aeons, pressing on headlong toward the decades of amenable existence.
The callow caprices of old fade unto cold rationality, and take with them the eyes of inexperience which saw only in shades of black and white, but viewed the world without reservation, without stipulation, and were not afraid to believe consummately or to act with conviction.
Today’s eyes are shaded by the inconsiderable daily details of life: we don’t have time to think in these old terms of black and white because gray abstracts and facts and figures obscure so may of our ideals.
I am convinced, this what they (you) want.
Here I will stay forever traveling through cryptic channels and electric wires of my mind, an image of starlight mingling with moonlight; the village of insane lies is risen once again. The truth and fiction melt together in a swirl of blurred delineations and muddy gray areas. Reality is lost to me forever, so I join them, the masked figures who dance in the park at a quarter to midnight. They are the Introspectres, the bringers of daydreams and the steganographic truths. Day by day they tell us who we are, but we do not listen. We choose instead to sit jaded and satiated at the feast of universal anonymity and drink from the cup of disbelief.
Yet I can't help but to think that the moments of my youth have been replaced by the hours of maturity; I can feel the days slipping, converging on the years of aged aeons, pressing on headlong toward the decades of amenable existence.
The callow caprices of old fade unto cold rationality, and take with them the eyes of inexperience which saw only in shades of black and white, but viewed the world without reservation, without stipulation, and were not afraid to believe consummately or to act with conviction.
Today’s eyes are shaded by the inconsiderable daily details of life: we don’t have time to think in these old terms of black and white because gray abstracts and facts and figures obscure so may of our ideals.
I am convinced, this what they (you) want.
Here I will stay forever traveling through cryptic channels and electric wires of my mind, an image of starlight mingling with moonlight; the village of insane lies is risen once again. The truth and fiction melt together in a swirl of blurred delineations and muddy gray areas. Reality is lost to me forever, so I join them, the masked figures who dance in the park at a quarter to midnight. They are the Introspectres, the bringers of daydreams and the steganographic truths. Day by day they tell us who we are, but we do not listen. We choose instead to sit jaded and satiated at the feast of universal anonymity and drink from the cup of disbelief.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Seek To Define
There exist so many different layers - whatever is immediately within the reach of focus becomes the focus. All points are relative to this focus; while the periphery is a wash of color and life, the reality of the moment is at the core, the center, the focus. Sarcasm. Sincerity. Truth or anti-truth in any form become confused in the verbal sense because all things are true, false, honest or unjustified relative to the focus. Anything is possible. Everything is real. You can never deceive a focused mind, for it will always and for eternity simply BE. Focus on the reality of the moment; to request any more is to ask too much. Diversifying the focus is such a lofty cause, and to what end? What purpose have we served in muddying the details with generalization and confusing the reality of the moment with ideas like "eternity"? Who needs "Forever" when there exists a "Right Now" within which all things are feasible? Who needs "Forever" when the space of one moment could conceivably define a lifetime? Lofty ideas can finally sleep because now, right now, we've got some real concerns to attend to, mainly consisting of life and the subsequent living of such. Real answers, the practical applications to all this spiritual, intellectual strife that I'm forever swimming in when I put the pen to the page, are right around the corner.
Seek to define -
If you cannot define a moment with words, what is lacking?
Seek to define -
What is the gimmick?
(It's all a matter of focus.)
If you cannot define a moment with words, what is lacking?
The moment?
Or the words?
Sunday, April 6, 2008
An End To No Means
As I watch the mice try to find the cheese at the end of the maze, I can't help but to laugh; I see them all scurry aimlessly from a vantage point somewhere above it all. I have missed the drama of our collective youths, it seems, but only for the plebeian amusement it provides me to watch it all go by.
Realise that these things do not revolve around you - I take no satisfaction in your discomfiture. Truth be told, I don't even really care. It is only now that your reaction is of any consequence, only now that I can watch you dart about within the labyrinth of your own device and never, ever reach the prize.
If you had ever bothered to exhibit even the cheapest modicum of civility, perhaps I would have done the same, told you a bit of what you wanted to hear and eased your mind with the gossamer wisps of kind words. It is likely the skeletons could have remained interred, never to see the light of day or reach the narrow gaze of ignorant eyes.
But no, this was not to be.
If purple sunsets are to be followed by night skies, I can do nothing other than resign myself to this period of darkness. I know that the dawn will emerge; in time I will be bathed in the warm sunlight again. If there is an imminent end, it is a necessary progression; all that lives must die, all that exists must cease, if only to be reborn again. And when you left, I did not follow.
If you feel that I have wronged you, I will not plead my case. If you believe what you have inferred from casual statements and ill-conceived words above all of what you know about me, I have no defense. If this is what you wish - this misgiving, this misunderstanding - you may have it. And when you left, I did not follow.
If you love an external ideal that cannot possibly exist, instead of the star that you are, and have always been, I do not feel compelled to apologize. If you allow a single event, either real or perceived, to shake your confidence, or breed diffidence within you, I cannot be held culpable. If you find that you have given me too much power over you, power that I do not deserve or desire, please take it back. And when you left, I did not follow.
Realise that these things do not revolve around you - I take no satisfaction in your discomfiture. Truth be told, I don't even really care. It is only now that your reaction is of any consequence, only now that I can watch you dart about within the labyrinth of your own device and never, ever reach the prize.
If you had ever bothered to exhibit even the cheapest modicum of civility, perhaps I would have done the same, told you a bit of what you wanted to hear and eased your mind with the gossamer wisps of kind words. It is likely the skeletons could have remained interred, never to see the light of day or reach the narrow gaze of ignorant eyes.
But no, this was not to be.
If purple sunsets are to be followed by night skies, I can do nothing other than resign myself to this period of darkness. I know that the dawn will emerge; in time I will be bathed in the warm sunlight again. If there is an imminent end, it is a necessary progression; all that lives must die, all that exists must cease, if only to be reborn again. And when you left, I did not follow.
If you feel that I have wronged you, I will not plead my case. If you believe what you have inferred from casual statements and ill-conceived words above all of what you know about me, I have no defense. If this is what you wish - this misgiving, this misunderstanding - you may have it. And when you left, I did not follow.
If you love an external ideal that cannot possibly exist, instead of the star that you are, and have always been, I do not feel compelled to apologize. If you allow a single event, either real or perceived, to shake your confidence, or breed diffidence within you, I cannot be held culpable. If you find that you have given me too much power over you, power that I do not deserve or desire, please take it back. And when you left, I did not follow.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Lush The Crush
The arms of my favorite vice envelop me like a familiar lover, comforting me through the darkest hours of every season. I need it like I need nothing else on this earth. I need it because it is the only thing I have ever really wanted. I need it because to want, to need, is as close to humanity as I dare to get.
This aspiration, this most implacable intemperance, drives me ever onward toward the gentle embrace of my fixation. I find myself conquered again and again by my ignoble proclivities.
I am that which I desire; by becoming this, I cease to be all other things. This is the annihilation of self through the intensification of the ego. My unquenchable thirsts are as a mantra - built up only to be torn down. That being said . . .
This aspiration, this most implacable intemperance, drives me ever onward toward the gentle embrace of my fixation. I find myself conquered again and again by my ignoble proclivities.
I am that which I desire; by becoming this, I cease to be all other things. This is the annihilation of self through the intensification of the ego. My unquenchable thirsts are as a mantra - built up only to be torn down. That being said . . .
The darkness begins to lose its battle with the daytime
The dawn creeps stealthily in through the gaps in the curtains
Undeterred by the growing light, we continue
Fighting the realization that this night will soon come to an end
Taking with it the pleasure of the clandestine darkness
And replacing it with the cold clarity of the day
In which we cannot hide, cannot help but to be laid bare
All of our flaws in perfect palpability
Fighting our carefully constructed dusk illusions
And the phantasmagorias of our twilight artifice
Primal Desires
We crave food because we need it to sustain ourselves, to fuel our bodies. Food tastes good because if it did not, we would not eat and we would not survive.
We crave sex because we have a biological imperative to procreate. Sex feels good because if it did not, we would not reproduce and we would not survive.
But why does being bad feel so damn good? Why the thrill of going against convention, breaking the rules, or just doing something that is society says is wrong? Why is being wicked so deliciously exciting?
What’s the biological reason for that?
We crave sex because we have a biological imperative to procreate. Sex feels good because if it did not, we would not reproduce and we would not survive.
But why does being bad feel so damn good? Why the thrill of going against convention, breaking the rules, or just doing something that is society says is wrong? Why is being wicked so deliciously exciting?
What’s the biological reason for that?
Friday, April 4, 2008
Regret Can't Change
You transcend all the superficiality of my predisposed boundaries, binding spells with your words. You strip from me my apprehension; you tell me I am too good for it, and that I will no longer have it to hide behind it in your company. You need not ever ask why I feel as I do. I have never met someone with whom I can trade places so thoroughly. I have never felt so connected and yet detached from myself.
You tell me, "Deepest sadness, but I’ve pled my case; I do not know what more to say, as I feel there are no words left unspoken. If I can not give you all that you need, then take it, run with it, and revel in it. This life is meant for pleasure, not for pain, we were born for luxury, not for heartbreak."
Trust, the most illusory of conditions, is rained upon by the blows of a violation, left reeling, unglued, unscrewed and unable to rebound. It isn’t what was revealed (for I am not ashamed of either my words or my actions) but that it was revealed before its time . . .
You must now live with this revelation.
I must now live without my words.
You tell me, "Deepest sadness, but I’ve pled my case; I do not know what more to say, as I feel there are no words left unspoken. If I can not give you all that you need, then take it, run with it, and revel in it. This life is meant for pleasure, not for pain, we were born for luxury, not for heartbreak."
Trust, the most illusory of conditions, is rained upon by the blows of a violation, left reeling, unglued, unscrewed and unable to rebound. It isn’t what was revealed (for I am not ashamed of either my words or my actions) but that it was revealed before its time . . .
You must now live with this revelation.
I must now live without my words.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Self Expansion
The moment hits and I descend into the far reaches of rain-soaked deserts and tropical tundras of perplexity and color. I'm like a rock in a pond; consciousness and reality and coherence come and go like ripples of icy-cool water. Free of all encumbrances native to life, religion and politics, I dive down into the liquid emotion and find it is a long while before I must resurface for a breath.
I speak to the lights and the darkness the with the quietly cacophonous voice of existence beyond death. I dance with the denizens of my own private forest, who fill my as yet empty cup with premonitions of a history I've never studied. I float on like a mesmeric, majestic dragon and breath the fire of omni-sentient butterflies. Rainbows appear in a field of green grass, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. Halos of sunshine surround like an aura, illuminating all I have ever wondered or even thought to wonder. Cloud whispers dance seductively with my psyche. Wisdom hangs on the air like so much smoke.
I do not fear death, only a return from whence I came. Everyone and every thing is indubitably, unimpeachably, infinitely real in my sphere. Knowledge is ripe for the picking, shiny and red or green or gold, or black as the night, blue as the sea, or purple as the sunset. In the house with open windows and unlocked doors, I discovered the future and the past as one . . .
I speak to the lights and the darkness the with the quietly cacophonous voice of existence beyond death. I dance with the denizens of my own private forest, who fill my as yet empty cup with premonitions of a history I've never studied. I float on like a mesmeric, majestic dragon and breath the fire of omni-sentient butterflies. Rainbows appear in a field of green grass, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. Halos of sunshine surround like an aura, illuminating all I have ever wondered or even thought to wonder. Cloud whispers dance seductively with my psyche. Wisdom hangs on the air like so much smoke.
I do not fear death, only a return from whence I came. Everyone and every thing is indubitably, unimpeachably, infinitely real in my sphere. Knowledge is ripe for the picking, shiny and red or green or gold, or black as the night, blue as the sea, or purple as the sunset. In the house with open windows and unlocked doors, I discovered the future and the past as one . . .
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Perception Of A Broken Heart
Never say I don't need you, or that your presence here was inconsequential. I am not deliberately harsh; however harshly deliberate I may be. If I am as the lightning bolt, then those about whom I care the most are as the pile of rubble I have made . . . but only momentarily, as their destiny is so much more than that. I am merely here to hold up a mirror, I am an instrument, an incentive, a way of catalyzing a change which is so direly needed. Further explanation is unnecessary, even presumptuous . . .
But know only this - this is the one thing I do without ego. You merit all due credit for crystallizing this notion and bringing it to light from out of the murkiest depths of my subconscious.
I finally understand what it is that I wanted from you . . . what I wanted is just to want, as it made me feel alive, just a little less jaded, just a little less indifferent. For so long I have strived to command such a consummate control over my life, only to find out that it’s boring me. And yet, even in my recognition, I endeavor to control this, too.
Restless, never satisfied, I either want it all or nothing. I ruin nothing by turning it into something, and turn all into none on a transient whim. Realisation does nothing to alleviate this inescapable cycle, this inevitable pattern. It still thrills me to get what I never wished to have.
For this, and all other reasons, I love you always . . .
But know only this - this is the one thing I do without ego. You merit all due credit for crystallizing this notion and bringing it to light from out of the murkiest depths of my subconscious.
I finally understand what it is that I wanted from you . . . what I wanted is just to want, as it made me feel alive, just a little less jaded, just a little less indifferent. For so long I have strived to command such a consummate control over my life, only to find out that it’s boring me. And yet, even in my recognition, I endeavor to control this, too.
Restless, never satisfied, I either want it all or nothing. I ruin nothing by turning it into something, and turn all into none on a transient whim. Realisation does nothing to alleviate this inescapable cycle, this inevitable pattern. It still thrills me to get what I never wished to have.
For this, and all other reasons, I love you always . . .
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