Sunday, July 7, 2013

Sunday, July 7th 2013; purly ritually, a facade

As of late, I have been pondering the art of making a choice & the possibilities of other choices & the importance of these possibilities. I would suppose that I've come to the conclusion that there is no importance in what "could have been" but there very well could lie great potential in what can happen & there very well couldn't. When contemplating a conclusion there is a delicacy in deciding, for even if you have a sure idea of what's to come, there will never be any way to predict an ending. Which brings me to another thing that I have been contemplating, what if all has been mapped out already? Mapped out by a divine creature or perhaps by the idea that time could not be linear at all? Choices become almost irrelevant, because there doesn't really lie a choice at all. Guilt, anguish, fear, cautiousness, all meaningless feelings. You could have been created to be the fool. All universes need fools.


In fear of taking flight, I refuse to even enter the terminal, leaving me as hollow as a rusty can in a parking lot during the emptiness of the night. All alone, all alone.
What will become of me?
I called for a taxi though only carrying pocket change with me
I left my suitcase in the trunk of the vehicle
I left my heart in the backseat
jumping out, skipping down an alleyway, singing happy tunes
happy to be a fool
happy to be a fool

There are rules that come with friendships
There are binds that come with love
There are laws that come with living
There are laws that come with living
What will become of me?

I could do anything

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Sunday, July 7th, 2013; Completely crowded, completely unnecessary.

I was drinking near tombstones after a hot summer day, liquidating my problems, crying for lost strangers, spiting my secrets at souls that have vanished. There were better things to be doing with my evening, there are always better things to do than whatever I happen to be doing. So what of it? In the grandeur of the cemetery nothing spectacular happened, everything is dead. Most of the people who visit cemeteries are dead also. I suppose the only thing truly alive are the trees, whom intermingle their roots with the deceased.

I don't know why I am thinking of this, but I thought I'd type it out. I would like to write words that evoke thought, and hold meaning, but I always feel that I describe things in the wrong way, that I leave important details out. At least, details normal people might think of. Maybe the cracks aren't important, perhaps that is why I tend to ignore them. The words I shed always seem, so, almost plastic. Flimsy, easy to shatter. I suppose I should work on this. It is rare when I compose something that I find to be genuinely worth something.

I was telling stories to a new friend today; she told me that I should write a book. Writing some sort of novel, or memoir has always been intriguing to me, but a lot of things sound intriguing to me so I'm not sure if I will ever follow through on this little dream my heart has thought up. I have, though, decided to take up writing again. I don't think it does me much good. The second I start writing, I think more, and with thoughts, come truth. With truth comes my cynical habits. So maybe it isn't a very good thing, but it is also a very good thing. All the masters were assholes, what of it? I wish I could be the person I used to be. Two years ago, almost three. Cynical, aware, happy, writing, always writing. School & work are pieces of shit that ruin a soul.


Thursday, July 4, 2013

Thursday, July 4th, 2013;Recycled Souls

(just an idea) (for remembering)

Something seems peculiar about today, but I can't quite put my tongue on it. My vision seems clearer. My fingertips are more curious to explore the texture of already memorized surfaces. Even the familiar patter of rain upon my window sounds like sweet honey dew to my ears. The traffic outside is no longer exasperating to me. I think I may even leave to town this morning.
As I leave my room, brush my teeth, do necessary human things, the cracks in the walls are suddenly bothersome to me; peeling paint has collected itself in the corners of the rooms. Dust  has found a home on everything including my spectacles. All of the empty beer cans on the coffee table have finally made themselves apparent to me. What of it?
I leave. I come home. Nothing makes a difference. Tomorrow I won't notice anything.

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Wednesday, July 3rd, 2013; time is falling apart

I would like to be a lightning bug tonight
& I would like to meet another lightning bug
I would like to go for a walk & scream at the top of my lungs
I would like to feel less imprisoned than I feel

Wednesday, July 3rd 2012; Every fucking day you slaughter me

Good morning to you, good morning to you.
Good morning to you too.
And you. And you also, friend.

Kisses for everyone, even the fucking cats!
Why not? Who cares?
I will wear my smile for everyone.

There is nothing going on during this current instant
except for your greeting to me, and my greeting to you.

No one is breathing; time is still.
Time is a fucking mockery to this moment we share.
This moment, forever, greeting one another, because we have too.

You & I.
Holding hands in hell.
Exchanging fractions of one another, as silently as we can.
Fractions. One, one hundredth. Point five?
Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing at all.
Until I move on to the next stranger to spit lies at.

Good morning.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Tuesday, July 2nd, 2013: Purgatory

The fan blows lightly upon my bare skin , while the dark is slowly swallowing me into a captive state of unwariness. I listen for the slight creaks and croons of such an unfamiliar atmosphere; I play games within my mind, trying to figure out who else cannot dream tonight. The doors outside my own open & close, open & close, open & close. Only a ghost, going back & fourth, for there is no where for him to go, there is no for him to see, no one for him to say hello too.