Seeing work not finished, just collected
And my motor skills reluctantly continue
Scrolling through words as memories,
Parking and driving and sitting and laying
And talking and working and being a being.
And memories, they keep coming when that’s all you have
Or all you care about– so easily picked, harder to remember what led to them being your
I can move mountains with my mind, but my eyes will only watch and my hands only dig; my lips will only move, my mouth will only dry. A peculiar situation when reality puts you in a place you’d been before but hoped was only a dream best kept sleeping.
I laugh out loud when I think of days, but blank my stare when hanging on to thoughts of nights and all their ramblings.
Just poked fun at myself
Tried to land a soft punch
But didn’t pull back at all
Meant to hold a thought
Forgot to let it go to begin with
And that’s where this story ends.
I can see in the dark. Not by locking my eyes on an object and hoping the exposure to darkness eventually hones a new skill. No, not that ludicrous way. I can see in the dark by focusing on everything at once and acknowledging that there are subtle shades to the darkness and, therefore, bits of light from which to make objects appear against a backdrop, or shadowed on a foredrop.
Perhaps life is that same way a bit misleading. We’re told to look directly at our goals to accomplish them. Stare at until you break out. Not that I don’t believe such a scheme isn’t entirely possible, I just have lived to find my own goals a bit shadowed before they’re clear. In fact, I set such general goals that my accomplishments feel hollow until I recall where I was before. Maybe that’s my clouded mind, or a lovely way to float through life.
I derive pleasure from sounds. Those sounds that string together to create a noise track to life are so exquisitely placed– to not appreciate their beauty and synchronicity is paramount to falling without holding out your hands. The sounds are there to reel you into reality as life walks on without you, waiting for ears to open your mind back up to its surroundings.
To have pets is to have companions and, subsequently, a reason to not become insane. Paths that stay in constant symmetry of days are often given synthetic or augmented experiences to replace those feelings gained by being interrupted by other paths. Pets = paths, just as we do to them.
When I can’t see myself writing, I just write. Only fools and cowards believe in writers’ block. Real writers know you can never stop divulging your life– not for anyone. We’re the opposite of voyeurs, but the stalkers of our own lives.
Stay foolish and imitation will always ruin your gift. Be unrelenting in your approach and you will eventually build your own bypasses around/through/over others.
and, adrift in climb of silence’s stairs,
we hold our eyes along route of that fleeting glimpse of God’s first gift, light in darkest days.
You should always say what is worth saying before committing it to memory. The phrase, “committing it to memory,” can imply memory is an institution. I agree with this. My mind often knows less about relevant responses, and more about fight-or-flight.
Don’t put it back the same way
you found it. That only means
you never existed.
A good king reveals problems,
but still despises the very notion.
Patios are for guests and bird watchers. Star gazers need a hill. Don’t ask me why, but I think it’s just social assumption; that oldest trait we still attribute genetics to.
I always find speed to be less a knowledgeable outcome, more a byproduct of being wreckless in earnest.
Preparedness should never be defined by the variables.
finding out you’re inadequate sure hurts, but so does finding out you’re just adequate. all told, you have to look at everything the world has to offer before you subscribe to the notion that, “one wrong is everywhere.” just like a hitter may need a different rotation, a quarterback a different receiving corps, a coach a different team– just like each of those, you cannot feel as though you are not good enough for all. you’re great for someone, for some team. you just have to find that team, show them you’re worth their time, and grow.
That’s what many fail to realize, really. Growth is not possible in a static/stagnant place. You either cannot expand, or you’re just spreading filth.
i don’t think
i think you
a spot of text.
‘ but not
‘ who i
‘ man walks through
‘ an open door,
‘ he doesn’t look around
‘ stop to turn the handle,
‘ he just
‘ walks through and
‘ you take that to mean
‘ he knows it’s open,
‘ but what if
‘ he’s just walking
‘ and doesn’t
‘ know it’s a door?)
haven’t lost a good friend in a long while
to violence or anything that would be permanent,
but, damn, i feel like i’ve outgrown a few
of my good friends from when we would play war
like death was a distant concern– man, how fast
we grow up when put into a social situation
perpetuated by others and not ourselves, or
maybe i did it myself by not being a bit more
Addiction is a place inside your head,
Where you become locked in a cell
You’re the warden of– your own hell–
You can’t escape, but…
Just walk through the front door.
Stop scheming, be dreaming of
Relief, relaxation from that need–
Realize you’re better being you than
That prisoner of your own mind.
Enter the Maid, a traveler from another side of the city.
Across from the Maid enters Adani, a lover of modern necessities, but classic styles.
Maid (whispering): The carn’val barker knows t’ whispa,
so be c’r’ful of a soft breeze ‘t’s-not
movin’ thr’u’ th’ trees– it’s-a ploy, a plot
to hide y’r drown-in’ in anoth’r’s chatt’r.
Andi: What? I’ve heard that before. Do you know where that’s from?
Maid: Oh, it’s always bein’ said here. s’plains a lot. Can’t always trust a soft speaker!
you’re so far from here,
but i can feel your presence, my dear,
shaking me from the boundaries and into thoughts
of us not having to be missed, but right on time for
never delete. revise, revise, revise, through giving yourself enough time to separate from the thought.
that’s what humans KNOW and PRACTICE every day, but don’t really employ (at all) as often– revising through time, not through repetition and brute force. give something to the world. let what you’ve given mature enough to tinge with rust and brittled corners. once you’ve forgotten what you’ve done, and had time to revise it in your head (there is the greatest space we have and the most time), proceed to revise a copied version. keep the original, so you can do the same thing later. with this method, you will know yourself more than a moment in time you witnessed.
humans never respond the same way– we evolve thought and practice the art of augmentation, ignoring repetition unless it’s the most mundane sub-tasks to our lives. we don’t really let ourselves become overburdened with the fact that our days are all the same, lined up and examined as though they were different– hell, we’d even find ourselves saying a day is better than the last, despite it being the same as today. our hearts follow a course and feel it’s more than the everyday we try to ignore– we never realize we’re doing the same thing until we look back and ask ourselves, “what the fuck was i doing for so long?” it’d be nice to be able to push back the end of a sentence to where it fits and where it doesn’t interrupt an otherwise productive day. but, we must end everything eventually. we must begin to build ourselves as more than who we were– by picking out the smallest subsets of our lives, as with a microscope, and presenting without examination to a crowd.