"In the event that life teaches you, it’d behoove you to listen."

The night is beautiful, and I am apart of it.
So what does that make me—
as I walk among the lamp-lit streets
with my shadows underneath?

Prose-Forgetting

He’s forgotten life—he’s forgotten what’s worth remembering.  The tangles bend and take away the air, and the air leaves peacefully without saying the slightest goodbye.  His life then has forgotten him.  Amongst the rows of people in unholy pews, he stays alone, knowing that their faces will never change from his view, and their presence will mean nothing even as they realize that he is sitting as a beggar on the floor—not with a hand lifted for a hand-out, but with an outward hand pleading for them to stop.  He’s forgotten what it was he was looking for—what it was he’d not ever had, or something that was lost.  The faces glimmer as if they were ripples in the water, the cricket waves that catch and reflect the light pouring into the expanse of the now present, and they always seem the same.  He searches through those waves to find clarity, sanity, and a moment of serenity—a moment that might hold truth.  But the eye’s forever keep their searching gaze as if they were a cat seeing through glass a golden swimming meal.  Except there’s no means of reaching the treasure that they seek.  He looks on forever, because each glance does not matter—because each view is forgotten after.

Jabber: That’s it.

I have so much inspiration and energy right now it is ridiculous. I only wish I could work on the plethora of projects I have waiting to be fleshed out with this sudden surge of thought. But no. No, no, no, that won’t be done. Work is to far from me too. So, what is there for me? There’s thanks to be given, to the amazing writers I get to read; their works uplifting and amazing—and so very moving. I love it. And them.  My mind is moving faster than the instruments I’m listening to right now—running faster than the guitar strumming, more violently than the drum beat of these folk songs.  It makes me love this world.  We have coffee and tea brewing on the stove, steaming in their pitchers.  We have the rain, misty and brooding; we have the city lights that shine at dusk; we have nature flowing around, here and there; and we have words that show us even stranger worlds than our own—everything around us filling us to the brim with inspiration.  There’s music—reverberating emotions that we’ve felt before, or would like to have—keeping us in its grasp. I can’t really describe every little things I have read, just in such a small time that I have kept writing and reading, but, there are such amazing minds out there that just keep me in awe. I’ll never get over this world—from the view outside as I walk, to each little feeling of either pain or bliss, even to the minds I am blessed to know. I’ll never see these things as simple; I can never pass them off as “boring” or worse, “uninteresting”.  I can’t do that.  There’s too much to take in. There’s too much feeling to have in the things we can find here.

"And in reverie I wait to be renewed by this new-found feeling of rescue. I’m freed, even just slightly, from myself, by simply finding what was always there to be found."

Me, myself, and the inspiration from someone else.

Prose-Musing

All throughout my life I’ve looked for reason and inspiration in science, thought, and the world around me that I could see.  I thought that that was how I was—that I could only find the things of reason—and purpose—through the plain working glass before my eyes as useful or engaging.  I ran to those things that could change the physical world, businesses flocking toward the new revolution—hoping to renew themselves and their vision.  I believed that I saw the world as each atom running off of one another, creating the air, the rain, and whatever else that formed my perception.  I was wrong, I think.  As I look for atoms, I see tiny forms holding up color to bring each image to life.  I see the vibrant branches of each person’s imagination; each wave budding to form new ways of seeing through the same old eyes we have to carry.  I now know that I cannot see through gears, cogs, and purpose.  I see through visions of ethereal shapes, and rows of illustrious findings.  Now, I have to relearn how I take in the world. I must learn how to break through the concrete I placed as my resting place and path, and instead grow a compass from the newly broken ground and find my way to that far away way of thinking—that place that would allow my thoughts to roam and mend my fractured being.

Lord knows, it was a long way down.

A long, long way down—and a venture quickly toward the ground, and to things beneath—will be the end of me.  Yet it was also my beginning. It was my direction, but not the direction I’ve headed on now.  My death lacks something, probably vigor—glory, honor.  My life lacks something too.  I won’t know what just yet, though.  Soon, I’ll learn—so very soon.  Until that time, I’ll continue the journey, because Lord knows I can’t stop now.

No one likes a liar.

ordinarywonder:

One day my mother asked me, “What happened to that sweet little girl, who used to be so loving?” I didn’t have the heart to say, she was beaten out of me. There were still bits of her, encrusted in the dried blood, between my mother’s knuckles. There were hints of her, hiding in the moments between, pain and peace — sandwiched between my fear and relief…

Instead, I answered, “She took a one-way train ride to the moon. Sometimes she gets homesick, but she doesn’t have enough money for the trip back. The good news is that she’s found a job, but they can only afford to pay her part time wages. So, now she makes green cheese, and often feeds the scraps to lunar mice. They stay up late into the night together, drinking space wine and swapping tales of former glory and future conquests. She saves money slowly, so it will be quite a while before she comes back.”

My mother sighed. I thought for a moment she might smack me. 

“No one likes a liar.” She shook her head. “How did you end up this way? I wish I knew.” She threw her hands up in frustration. I flinched; she saw it. “I just have no idea why.” She added, as if she was trying to convince us both of something.

Mom was right. No one likes a liar. But, sometimes, no matter how hard you tried not to… you could still love a liar. 

If not the lies, that they told to themselves, or to you. 

I’m…Something, Aren’t I?


I’m……

a ten foot fool.
Living in a puddle;
swimming till the end:
either mine or my home’s. 

I like to think that
thinking leads me to thought
that makes me think more…
but maybe
I’m just insane. 

Leaving?  Nope. 
Never gone—but always tarrying. 

Alas,
my unbeknownst pupils,
you have failed the test. 
It was about an apple,
not a single string
on a violin. 

So to make ready
for my strong sort of satire,
I decided to fill
my heart and the other
useless organs—my brain, lungs,
and liver—
with useful things,
like peace, hope,
and happiness. 
The problem was—and the problem
that is here and current—
is that my brain
has no use
for peace, my liver has no
thought of hope, and my heart
has lost interest
in happiness. 

But I, myself, am okay. 
Because I never used
those ruthless—traitorous—organs
with any thought, anyway. 

Alas, it’s as such
and as such
it is so, for I
am a ten foot fool—
but only when the snow
has fallen and I leap
to strongly on to it. 
I then am colder
than I was before,
but perhaps my words
would be warmer then. 
Perhaps I could use a bit
of killing cold to provide
some warmth
to my features and thinking. 
Maybe then
I wouldn’t slowly burn those
around me. 

All of us living
in our little pool,
not knowing what to do,
and yet
we’re all going somewhere
very soon. 

Someone, & I

There someone sat, and looked out at the world outside—not far from where they were.  The places, people, and things, however, in their waking dream were much farther than any distance that could be thought—and to great to be traveled.  They thought, and felt; they hurt, and also tried, like how we all try to survive ourselves.  Someone sat, deep in thought and dreaming escapades, but what they didn’t know, was that their thoughts were brought to another, were shared—unknowingly.  They ventured in the same realm, took up the same arms, and then they both slipped right back into reality.  They then left, and someone went back to the world not so far away.  Someone hoped, in the back of their mind, that they might find someone else to share their daydreams with.  The one who was there also thought the same things.  They were intertwined. We are intertwined. And we’re all looking for someone to fill the space that they may already occupy.  Someone brought another a flower from a world known.  That was a key, and also a shackle, to each other.  The chain, the lock, and the attempt to open, all bring us back to ourselves, and back to our reality—and sometimes our daydreams. 

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The Dead and Their Dying

I like to let the dead die away
as a tribute to their lives—like
their bodies now fully decayed,
and their minds
no longer allowed to thrive. 
I try to let
their past lie, letting
the lingering memory—
thoughts, events, and perhaps
certain tragedy—be shed,
as to allow for new skin—
new happenstance—to be grown;
for new life to commence. 
I find that
I always return
to this habit of leaving
the dead to their dying
rather than exclaiming their
history as strongly
as the morning paper;
probably because
there’s always going to be
a life lived more extravagantly—
and also,

I would rather my life
not be given to strangers
on full display after I’m
too far gone
to defend it. 

 
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