She scrapes at night, whenever it's soft enough to listen. Miniature squeaks to harbinger a miniature menace. They leave our food alone at least (so far), and luckily I'm a pretty sound sleeper. And the nightmarish thought of a flood of mice descending from the ceiling, does not seem to phase me.
And the jobs are okay. They are alright, no really. I am just sort of struggling. What did I expect, deciding to pay rent all the sudden like that? But, what could I have done.
I want to flee, again just like I always have. But these survival commitments become the very mud that sucks at my heels like glue. It's not the money, it's not the things, not even the people so much. What roots still cling in these winter soils? What is it, other than fear and loneliness that could possibly hold me here?
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Monday, November 14, 2011
An Oldest Memory: Behemoth Fucking Trucks
Jobs and residences mill about my indecision listlessly. Each night I count futures. And somehow that's nothing new.
But I have more to say than just that. That is the news; that is the frequency that I'm (still) vibrating at.
I have one those oldest memories: fucking behemoth trucks were at one length of age the absolute shit, and I mean that in the most endearingly sweetest way possible. Who would have thought that some lifetimes later my green blood might despise the superfluous rumbling axels? Well, wait, that's once again besides the point.
The thing is, my engine enamored era did not slide or fizzle to something new. If there was one childhood trait I embodied like some adolescent demon, it was certainly my finickiness. None the less, I remember why. I remember a lot of silly things, like why I wanted the sand back in my bathing suit, why a singular pea in a bowl of soup was a fucked up appetizer, and I remember why chasing after the peers who ostracized me was important. I don't mention these reasons though, because like trucks, I fear they may be stupendously revealing. Like deeper than marrow even. In these rationale my existence is summarized, annotated, and compiled. And letting that out, giving that primitive darkness air, well I believe that would compromise my character, ideals, and person. I believe I might be full of shit then.
Anyway, let's stick to the truck thing, let's get into that. I don't like that little bit, so let's compromise that one. Let's turn an oldest memory outside in. I want to douse this one in light and stop pretending. I am not better than anyone, I am not special.
He liked trucks too.
He fucking loved them. So, I couldn't. I don't remember the order really. He wanted to like them too, but I couldn't do that. We shared books. One of us had a firetruck for a pretend car. That was a real big deal for me. That was huge.
Do you get it? Do you see where this is going? This is a problem.
Fuck trucks. There were dinosaurs, astronauts, superheroes, dragons. But there couldn't be trucks anymore. I didn't really get dinosaurs, which I think now is pretty funny considering how cool dragons were then (and now). Enough tangents though, at what point did my heart tumble? To this day I wonder if I ceded my ground, whether I conflict was ever pondered. I was never much of a strategist, but I really did like trucks, didn't I?
Eventually I found their flaws. Their slow limitations. Their stupidly bright painted sides. Their utter lack of imagination. Constipated, I grew, I forced new perspective into my timid and tiny consciousness. And maybe I withdrew, but I was stronger. I was smarter.
From the picky presumptuous elitism I corrugated and conceal, I grew and grow. I grew and grow, but I need to find another way. I need to find another way, because I am not special, I am not better than everyone else. There is nothing waiting for me to comprehend, compose, create. There is nothing that separates me from the dust I sneeze at in allergic fits. I am and were forever and always an individual and not much more.
It is time I let this go. It is time I learn to grow without the help of others.
But I have more to say than just that. That is the news; that is the frequency that I'm (still) vibrating at.
I have one those oldest memories: fucking behemoth trucks were at one length of age the absolute shit, and I mean that in the most endearingly sweetest way possible. Who would have thought that some lifetimes later my green blood might despise the superfluous rumbling axels? Well, wait, that's once again besides the point.
The thing is, my engine enamored era did not slide or fizzle to something new. If there was one childhood trait I embodied like some adolescent demon, it was certainly my finickiness. None the less, I remember why. I remember a lot of silly things, like why I wanted the sand back in my bathing suit, why a singular pea in a bowl of soup was a fucked up appetizer, and I remember why chasing after the peers who ostracized me was important. I don't mention these reasons though, because like trucks, I fear they may be stupendously revealing. Like deeper than marrow even. In these rationale my existence is summarized, annotated, and compiled. And letting that out, giving that primitive darkness air, well I believe that would compromise my character, ideals, and person. I believe I might be full of shit then.
Anyway, let's stick to the truck thing, let's get into that. I don't like that little bit, so let's compromise that one. Let's turn an oldest memory outside in. I want to douse this one in light and stop pretending. I am not better than anyone, I am not special.
He liked trucks too.
He fucking loved them. So, I couldn't. I don't remember the order really. He wanted to like them too, but I couldn't do that. We shared books. One of us had a firetruck for a pretend car. That was a real big deal for me. That was huge.
Do you get it? Do you see where this is going? This is a problem.
Fuck trucks. There were dinosaurs, astronauts, superheroes, dragons. But there couldn't be trucks anymore. I didn't really get dinosaurs, which I think now is pretty funny considering how cool dragons were then (and now). Enough tangents though, at what point did my heart tumble? To this day I wonder if I ceded my ground, whether I conflict was ever pondered. I was never much of a strategist, but I really did like trucks, didn't I?
Eventually I found their flaws. Their slow limitations. Their stupidly bright painted sides. Their utter lack of imagination. Constipated, I grew, I forced new perspective into my timid and tiny consciousness. And maybe I withdrew, but I was stronger. I was smarter.
From the picky presumptuous elitism I corrugated and conceal, I grew and grow. I grew and grow, but I need to find another way. I need to find another way, because I am not special, I am not better than everyone else. There is nothing waiting for me to comprehend, compose, create. There is nothing that separates me from the dust I sneeze at in allergic fits. I am and were forever and always an individual and not much more.
It is time I let this go. It is time I learn to grow without the help of others.
Sunday, October 09, 2011
What? Is it apathy or is it just indecision? Ah fuck, who really knows. Probably ain't worth stressing out about. Life chugs along at a pretty good clip, won't be too long before I start to freak out about my lack of experience, money, or love. Might as well be tomorrow my twenties start to dwindle and I suddenly find my drive. Time solves everything.
Monday, October 03, 2011
Days Off
It's my day off again, so says the snooze button, tapped once, twice, till noon. And it will roll by, again. I will eat Indian buffet, I will lounge in various positions, I might even exercise, and I am sure by evening I will feel that twinge of "oh fuck". But that's just the way it goes, this life. That's just the life I squander.
So I quit my job. I am going to move, and if I feel guilty enough, I'll come back for Thanksgiving. But I am going to move, it's decided, I am going to live.
So I quit my job. I am going to move, and if I feel guilty enough, I'll come back for Thanksgiving. But I am going to move, it's decided, I am going to live.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Moving Forward
Fighting for a semblance of collection, re-collection—bearing maybe. Maybe not. Well, whew, lately I think the only sane way to live is by not thinking about your future constantly.
But I do it anyway. The cities and occupations, sometimes even careers, they haunt me all. I wake up in the middle of the night unfulfilled. I feel my un-accomplishment burn heavy on each inhale. What's this breath worth? Which direction will it fuel me? Which sail will I fill when I finally let it go?
Well honestly, I breathe a lot, I was probably just planning on exhaling or whatever. It's an awful lot to plan each breath, suddenly there is another one right around the corner! Breaths are kind of similar to loan payments in that way.
At least it beats failure. Standing still is better than drowning and it always will be. Plus, I bought running shoes today, that's gotta count for something, right?
But I do it anyway. The cities and occupations, sometimes even careers, they haunt me all. I wake up in the middle of the night unfulfilled. I feel my un-accomplishment burn heavy on each inhale. What's this breath worth? Which direction will it fuel me? Which sail will I fill when I finally let it go?
Well honestly, I breathe a lot, I was probably just planning on exhaling or whatever. It's an awful lot to plan each breath, suddenly there is another one right around the corner! Breaths are kind of similar to loan payments in that way.
At least it beats failure. Standing still is better than drowning and it always will be. Plus, I bought running shoes today, that's gotta count for something, right?
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
Change
The cool water swam around my sweaty ankles, instantly mollifying a dozen bug bites. I remember catching my breath there, standing in the sand and lake. I had climbed a fence to get to the tiny beach and ripped my shorts in the process. They were pleated khaki and ill-suited for a 36-mile bike ride, but then again so was I. The sun was beginning to set and my muscles ached as my head swirled. In that moment, I was not too sure that I would make it back to Burlington. My bed, food, and comfort were still a dozen miles of bike path away, but I was buoyant regardless: I had done it! I had biked 18 miles and more, all the way to the causeway, all the way down the causeway! I had seen the entirety of Burlington Bike Path, I had gone until the path ended abruptly at a ferry stop, and now I was headed back.
A year before that, I was working out on an elliptical machine as I often did. The seconds ticked down closer and closer to zero and my feet pushed harder. My legs felt number and number until, finally, the words "begin cool down" flashed across the LED screen. And there it was: 300 strides more than a week ago. I did not always weigh myself when I went to the gym, I had spent most of my life avoiding the things, and even though their numbers scared me less and less, I told myself my workouts were not for the sake of numbers.
And then, I was on an island in Denmark. My bike's tires were slimmer and taller than the bike I had ridden down the causeway a year past, and I was too. 60 kilometers had already ticked past and the wind had burned my face and lips a bright red. When we finally reached our destination, the world's largest corn maze turned out to be closed on Sundays. So we sipped our beers from Samsø's microbrewery and no one was dismayed as we stared out at the Baltic Sea. "We should swim," someone said, and then we were all in there; the bitter, brutal cold a glaze of simultaneous numb and sting. And then there were the 60 kilometers back, and they came easy.
I suppose it is not an easy thing to change, I should know that rather well. Though however well I know it, each day I live I try and pretend the lesson a little less true. I have seen unfathomable distances, and woken up a different person. I have seen my face bulge and melt until the only thing familiar in the mirror were the brown eyes looking back. And perhaps, despite everything, that is why I think I can change the world too.
A year before that, I was working out on an elliptical machine as I often did. The seconds ticked down closer and closer to zero and my feet pushed harder. My legs felt number and number until, finally, the words "begin cool down" flashed across the LED screen. And there it was: 300 strides more than a week ago. I did not always weigh myself when I went to the gym, I had spent most of my life avoiding the things, and even though their numbers scared me less and less, I told myself my workouts were not for the sake of numbers.
And then, I was on an island in Denmark. My bike's tires were slimmer and taller than the bike I had ridden down the causeway a year past, and I was too. 60 kilometers had already ticked past and the wind had burned my face and lips a bright red. When we finally reached our destination, the world's largest corn maze turned out to be closed on Sundays. So we sipped our beers from Samsø's microbrewery and no one was dismayed as we stared out at the Baltic Sea. "We should swim," someone said, and then we were all in there; the bitter, brutal cold a glaze of simultaneous numb and sting. And then there were the 60 kilometers back, and they came easy.
I suppose it is not an easy thing to change, I should know that rather well. Though however well I know it, each day I live I try and pretend the lesson a little less true. I have seen unfathomable distances, and woken up a different person. I have seen my face bulge and melt until the only thing familiar in the mirror were the brown eyes looking back. And perhaps, despite everything, that is why I think I can change the world too.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Adventurous
A snow globe of people and places stirred today to settle under the awning of a starlit night; at the end of the day, once the world has shimmied itself around it's axis once more, I hope tomorrow morning that I have fallen somewhere new. I want to scratch the sand out and open my eyes to the unfamiliar.
Uh, well, I guess you can keep your jobs, both of you. Thank you, thank you for this opportunity (that is what it is, you know) for money, for resume, for reference and profit, for life, stability, responsibility, and really everything you could possibly offer me, but I need more. I want less, but I need more. I need life, I need love, I need culture, I need adventure. Not this. From having nothing just a short while ago it seems pretty presumptuous, I know, but god help me I can't settle for less. Because no matter how comfortable and sane it all seems and is (which it's not either of, anyway) I won't ever be able to answer honestly, "why not?"
So fuck it, let's go.
Uh, well, I guess you can keep your jobs, both of you. Thank you, thank you for this opportunity (that is what it is, you know) for money, for resume, for reference and profit, for life, stability, responsibility, and really everything you could possibly offer me, but I need more. I want less, but I need more. I need life, I need love, I need culture, I need adventure. Not this. From having nothing just a short while ago it seems pretty presumptuous, I know, but god help me I can't settle for less. Because no matter how comfortable and sane it all seems and is (which it's not either of, anyway) I won't ever be able to answer honestly, "why not?"
So fuck it, let's go.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
That's All We've Got
Five years or so I've been writing here, if you'll even believe it. I remember when I started; I was perusing the posts of the last blog I had, and I just decided it was a little too, I don't know, unpolished maybe. Maybe too naive, too teenaged. It was renegade in a way that made me feel pretty dumb for authoring it.
Well, I feel the same fucking way about this one now too! Only problem is I ain't much better at this writing thing. My writing is shit, it's highfalutin, puttin' on airs I don't even understand. What is that shit anyway, like I can pretend that some line is real deep just because I'm the only dick who gets what it really means.
And shit, I still don't really "get" semicolons at all. I use 'em often enough, but what is the deal with those things? Seems like a comma or a period does the same thing. I like the way they give me more punctuation, like a line break in poetry maybe, but then again I never got the hang of those either.
I think I might just be a hopeless writer. I'm not really feeling down or anything, but I'm trying to be honest here. I got a lot to learn here and I don't really think I'm learning too fast. And, well, that's it really. I mean I hope I'm still gonna write and all, writing's important, and so is pretending like you got airs. Everyone's gotta have some sorta air I think; maybe you're real good at collecting rare bureaus. Someone probably feels pretty airy about that, and I guess that's cool, why can't a guy feel good about having some rare drawers? Who cares if a million people would make better bureau collectors, their loss plus it ain't like they are wasting their time collecting some pointless bureaus.
That's pretty much how I feel. I've written a lot of stupid stuff, I'm kind of embarrassed about it. And that's probably not going to change. LIfe goes on, stuff gets written, and then you feel kinda stupid for not knowing any better. Oh well, good thing no one knows to read this place.
Well, I feel the same fucking way about this one now too! Only problem is I ain't much better at this writing thing. My writing is shit, it's highfalutin, puttin' on airs I don't even understand. What is that shit anyway, like I can pretend that some line is real deep just because I'm the only dick who gets what it really means.
And shit, I still don't really "get" semicolons at all. I use 'em often enough, but what is the deal with those things? Seems like a comma or a period does the same thing. I like the way they give me more punctuation, like a line break in poetry maybe, but then again I never got the hang of those either.
I think I might just be a hopeless writer. I'm not really feeling down or anything, but I'm trying to be honest here. I got a lot to learn here and I don't really think I'm learning too fast. And, well, that's it really. I mean I hope I'm still gonna write and all, writing's important, and so is pretending like you got airs. Everyone's gotta have some sorta air I think; maybe you're real good at collecting rare bureaus. Someone probably feels pretty airy about that, and I guess that's cool, why can't a guy feel good about having some rare drawers? Who cares if a million people would make better bureau collectors, their loss plus it ain't like they are wasting their time collecting some pointless bureaus.
That's pretty much how I feel. I've written a lot of stupid stuff, I'm kind of embarrassed about it. And that's probably not going to change. LIfe goes on, stuff gets written, and then you feel kinda stupid for not knowing any better. Oh well, good thing no one knows to read this place.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Momentum
The word "stagnant" comes to mind, but I like to think that it's more of a fermentation. These lives we lead are pretty full, I think it must be hard to resist any sort of substance; the brain just goes.
Well that's fine, but still, fuck it all. Fuck these walls, this house and it's cracked foundation. Fuck these memories and stories, and all these heartwarming things that muddle us, constipate us, and worse.
There are things I need to see! Places I won't believe! There are women I need to meet, music I need to hear, expanses I need to explore, and quick! I'm dying. I'm falling asleep earlier each night, getting drunker quicker, and worse to boot. I am dying, I am going to work every morning and smiling, harder and harder, because that is what it takes to excel in this life: smiling harder and harder. It's a slow poison, mediocrity, and it's one I drank out of desperation but I'm not desperate anymore. I'm not desperate anymore so get me the fuck out of this town, get me out of this house and let me into world. I am bright, brighter than the sun and the stars, shining, shining, shining until who cares.
Well that's fine, but still, fuck it all. Fuck these walls, this house and it's cracked foundation. Fuck these memories and stories, and all these heartwarming things that muddle us, constipate us, and worse.
There are things I need to see! Places I won't believe! There are women I need to meet, music I need to hear, expanses I need to explore, and quick! I'm dying. I'm falling asleep earlier each night, getting drunker quicker, and worse to boot. I am dying, I am going to work every morning and smiling, harder and harder, because that is what it takes to excel in this life: smiling harder and harder. It's a slow poison, mediocrity, and it's one I drank out of desperation but I'm not desperate anymore. I'm not desperate anymore so get me the fuck out of this town, get me out of this house and let me into world. I am bright, brighter than the sun and the stars, shining, shining, shining until who cares.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Champions
The Celtics game 5 loss sheathes like a sword reminding us of our own mortality.
Eighty-two games and more, ninety one lounges on couches, bar chants, and heart drops; the season skids and, suddenly, vaporizes. We are all dying.
Each day makes us stronger, but sometimes all it takes is a dislocated elbow to remind us, we are also getting older. Through the long evolution of a team hoping, fighting, believing, playing for a death so full of pride and glory that we might for an instant believe ourselves immortal, and one, we must finally admit, we're not. No one is, and this one surely hurts.
Goodbye Celtics, see you next year.
Eighty-two games and more, ninety one lounges on couches, bar chants, and heart drops; the season skids and, suddenly, vaporizes. We are all dying.
Each day makes us stronger, but sometimes all it takes is a dislocated elbow to remind us, we are also getting older. Through the long evolution of a team hoping, fighting, believing, playing for a death so full of pride and glory that we might for an instant believe ourselves immortal, and one, we must finally admit, we're not. No one is, and this one surely hurts.
Goodbye Celtics, see you next year.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Stomached
The sick rollicks, rolls around my gut like tumble-dry-low, somehow, spinning my love strings dry. So I eat; so I pretend I am still full from yesterday's smorgasbord. The flavors of life and love slip down my throat, away from where I can still taste them. Yesterday digests into a figment of some heretical past. And I want to remember, I try to remember.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Lovesick
There is just one diagnostic for my mellow heartache, I think I must be lovesick. The word sounds like some cold mistake, like "alcohol poisoning" or "Lyme disease." You're love sick? You poor sucker.
Is it naïve to follow the heart (blindly)? Probably. I don't know if there is more to say, I know this one already: sometimes when your heart pulls you one way, you need to reign it in like a misbehaving puppy-eyed pet. Then teach it proper etiquette, because it should know better. It doesn't need to get so attached; it's a free thing, and it needs to be humble. In this post-graduate world where cash moves everything around hope and love and freedom, It needs to move on.
Ohhh, but I still don't want to. And why? There's that tug again. It doesn't have to make sense. No, and it doesn't need that probably painful closure either. It's over.
Is it naïve to follow the heart (blindly)? Probably. I don't know if there is more to say, I know this one already: sometimes when your heart pulls you one way, you need to reign it in like a misbehaving puppy-eyed pet. Then teach it proper etiquette, because it should know better. It doesn't need to get so attached; it's a free thing, and it needs to be humble. In this post-graduate world where cash moves everything around hope and love and freedom, It needs to move on.
Ohhh, but I still don't want to. And why? There's that tug again. It doesn't have to make sense. No, and it doesn't need that probably painful closure either. It's over.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Colliding
Where are my peers? Somewhere, I must have taken a wrong turn or something. I'm still not so sure about this one, but maybe, just everyone else did? It doesn't truly matter; I seem to be a bit lost without them.
Well, welcome to the real world! Where dozens of generations suddenly collide into one jumble of individual ideals and desires. How do you even begin to see through that mess? Maybe I'm blind.
I wanna wander around in some desolation until I start hallucinating; find myself inherently part of a world. And maybe it would even be the type of world where the only desolations around me, weren't rather dangerous to hallucinate in.
Well, welcome to the real world! Where dozens of generations suddenly collide into one jumble of individual ideals and desires. How do you even begin to see through that mess? Maybe I'm blind.
I wanna wander around in some desolation until I start hallucinating; find myself inherently part of a world. And maybe it would even be the type of world where the only desolations around me, weren't rather dangerous to hallucinate in.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Inconsequential
I probably don't need to feel too convoluted to write here, do I? I guess we'll find out, cause I'm feelin' pretty plain.
I'm not trying to fool anyone. I mean, the life I lead is but mostly isn't. In a distracted life, these things happen, but the music still sounds so good. And plus, the sun shines brighter and longer these days.
I can't complain too much, all things considered. I wasted half a year and everyone and everything still loves me inconsequentially. And you know, that's a pretty good feeling right there. Why tarnish it with guilt?
I'm not trying to fool anyone. I mean, the life I lead is but mostly isn't. In a distracted life, these things happen, but the music still sounds so good. And plus, the sun shines brighter and longer these days.
I can't complain too much, all things considered. I wasted half a year and everyone and everything still loves me inconsequentially. And you know, that's a pretty good feeling right there. Why tarnish it with guilt?
Monday, March 21, 2011
Love Letters
There's something pitiful, yet also a little magical, about a journal full of unsent love letters. And you know, for some reason, I can't help feeling like there is also sanity in their unstamped, unread nature too. Even if it tears me apart inside.
Why, oh why, am I always falling in love with the unattainable? These ethereal relationships are my absolute favorite for god knows whatever reason. And I'm not even very good at them either. Ultimately I'm too realistic to seal my heart up in an envelope and send it to an idea.
Sometimes it's timing, sometimes it's distance, others it's just sanity that keeps me from taking any chances. But, I also distinctly remember believing that love overcomes all of these things, especially sanity. That is what I believe, right? In the unstoppable, indomitable nature of love?
Well, maybe that's just it; I believe in it too damn much to ever let it corporate. I'd just be too damn good at it, and then where would my favorite ethereal relationships be, my journal full of unsent love letters?
Sigh, why do I even write here, I always end up back at square one. One of these days, I swear, I will make a decision.
Why, oh why, am I always falling in love with the unattainable? These ethereal relationships are my absolute favorite for god knows whatever reason. And I'm not even very good at them either. Ultimately I'm too realistic to seal my heart up in an envelope and send it to an idea.
Sometimes it's timing, sometimes it's distance, others it's just sanity that keeps me from taking any chances. But, I also distinctly remember believing that love overcomes all of these things, especially sanity. That is what I believe, right? In the unstoppable, indomitable nature of love?
Well, maybe that's just it; I believe in it too damn much to ever let it corporate. I'd just be too damn good at it, and then where would my favorite ethereal relationships be, my journal full of unsent love letters?
Sigh, why do I even write here, I always end up back at square one. One of these days, I swear, I will make a decision.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Intimacy
I think I might be going crazy. Since when in my mundane life riddled with obesity, lethargy, and general lack of confidence, could I be a desirable thing? A moment where I might be considered worthwhile of a person's affection? Persons' even?? Jesus, what is this world coming to.
It's falling apart really, the curtains are crashing down all around (I really am this corrupt). I've had a few fears here and there; fear of bugs, fear of heights and fights and blood and well anything, everything. Fear of loneliness, and apparently even intimacy too. Maybe not the holding, but the singularity, and certainly the idea of finality, of stasis, maybe? I don't even know, but there's gotta be something behind this self destructive tendency. I'm capable of love, shit, I must be full of it! So why am I so scared to let any of it out?
I think, I am just regretful that I didn't give it a chance. Because, I just can't get her out for some reason, and hell, I didn't even know she was in until she wasn't there anymore.
So, am I hopeful or heartbroken? Am I heartbroken, or hopeful? It's awful difficult trying to compensate for a self destructive tendency, when you don't have much in the ways of a sense of self to begin with.
It's falling apart really, the curtains are crashing down all around (I really am this corrupt). I've had a few fears here and there; fear of bugs, fear of heights and fights and blood and well anything, everything. Fear of loneliness, and apparently even intimacy too. Maybe not the holding, but the singularity, and certainly the idea of finality, of stasis, maybe? I don't even know, but there's gotta be something behind this self destructive tendency. I'm capable of love, shit, I must be full of it! So why am I so scared to let any of it out?
I think, I am just regretful that I didn't give it a chance. Because, I just can't get her out for some reason, and hell, I didn't even know she was in until she wasn't there anymore.
So, am I hopeful or heartbroken? Am I heartbroken, or hopeful? It's awful difficult trying to compensate for a self destructive tendency, when you don't have much in the ways of a sense of self to begin with.
Thursday, March 03, 2011
Repetition
I am as I was and ever will be. I'm just too used to my own insecurities to live any other way. You grow and learn, are shaped and formed, and maybe at your core you're not too much, but that drastic change, it's not too easy for folks such as myself. For anyone, maybe. Some are, some change, but me? I was a scared little kid, I was a terrified little man. And it happens. Over, and over again, it happens.
Monday, February 07, 2011
Some Spins
And the world, it spins. Slowly, turning slowly, slowly. Like a calendar leaf, sweeping down, down, down to the cold spinning earth. Moving slug-like to the rhythm tides, the world keeps changing, too slowly spinning, clinging. Clinging to the turf, rhythmically clinging, hoping, the clouds are holding everything together.
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Dodge
The highs are a little lower, but so are the lows. It all works out to something like nothing, which is all I am really doing.
I need to move on, all at once. This slow build up of nothing is ridiculous.
I need to move on, all at once. This slow build up of nothing is ridiculous.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Strange Days
It's possible I don't trust myself enough to post here nowadays. I always saw these thoughts here as paramount. Maybe not permanent, but like pages in a book. So many doubts can make that sort of thing harder to believe in though.
I'm so scared I'm going to write down these pages wrong. Right now I am the only one awake. How could I let myself do that? Now that I'm no longer being taught, now that I no longer can pretend I'm figuring things out, what can I say inspires these hours?
In reality, I've always visited these hours, it's just so overwhelming right now though, it's hard to know where I begin and end. Am I too large? Too noncommittal? God damnit, why do I have to be anything?
I'm so scared I'm going to write down these pages wrong. Right now I am the only one awake. How could I let myself do that? Now that I'm no longer being taught, now that I no longer can pretend I'm figuring things out, what can I say inspires these hours?
In reality, I've always visited these hours, it's just so overwhelming right now though, it's hard to know where I begin and end. Am I too large? Too noncommittal? God damnit, why do I have to be anything?
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Complicated Things
What can I say, I guess I'm not too good at living in Wellesley. The days and nights roll translucently; memories like slides in a projector.
I could talk about direction, I could. I could talk about desire, too, but I wouldn't know where to begin.
I want to see the coral reefs, the northern lights, and sleep under the stars (all of them). That doesn't seem to mean much right now though. What would life be like if I filled my obligations by 30? Maybe by then I'll have some salaried job, salary all allocated about already anyway.
I can't help but get all existential when the conveyor belt stops. When it comes down to it, I only want the simple things: music curling through the speakers as I saute some delicious disaster, the sun blasting through and onto the page of something powerful, provokingly unfamiliar horizons after some disoriented course, and feet not being able to help themselves but groove with it all.
Yeah, I'd take that over coral reefs any day.
I could talk about direction, I could. I could talk about desire, too, but I wouldn't know where to begin.
I want to see the coral reefs, the northern lights, and sleep under the stars (all of them). That doesn't seem to mean much right now though. What would life be like if I filled my obligations by 30? Maybe by then I'll have some salaried job, salary all allocated about already anyway.
I can't help but get all existential when the conveyor belt stops. When it comes down to it, I only want the simple things: music curling through the speakers as I saute some delicious disaster, the sun blasting through and onto the page of something powerful, provokingly unfamiliar horizons after some disoriented course, and feet not being able to help themselves but groove with it all.
Yeah, I'd take that over coral reefs any day.
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