#244

Things have come a long way. From the day I first started smoking. Like moths to a flame, we are drawn. Delicate pencil shadings, undefined, yet with form and purpose. Ever since he mentioned it. I've wondered, (in my usual pathological nature,) what he meant.

I used to know, but now I've forgotten

Sometimes I still wonder why I continue to smoke. Between the defined lines that outline each character, is a shade of blue. We are after all a shade of blue. Between the defined reality, is a the way we shade our perception of what it has all become, white, or black and blue.

Life is about ups and downs. It's about chance meetings, and unexpected drifting aparts. Its about first times, and second chances. It is about hope, and love, and freedom, as well as being let down, being alone, and being chained. The haunting memory of better yesterdays, causing fear in the hopes of better tomorrows.

I'm missing the point. Or rather I'm not willing to say what I mean. Self censorship dishonest writing can only mean one thing. I'm trying to live my life. So I ask. Would I rather be able to write and be miserable, "on-the-verge-of-suicide" miserable my whole life? Or be happy.

At some point in the life of every person he will be faced with this. (Praise be to my attempt to not be an elitist prick.) As we discover the life of Kalo, we realise it is not shameful to enjoy a simple life, to enjoy a life without great epiphanys.

Its a great crime to write such uninspired garbage. It pollutes the idea of what it could have been. It cheapens everything that comes before it. A fresh sheet again. The mood is not contemplative, its angst on the verge of rage.

I don't trust you. I don't care for your half hearted roles. I have no desire to tolerate your thoughtless actions. The measured way you deal with me. Your hypocrisy, your blood sucking ways.

Sometimes I don't know why I care. Like believing in promises, I just set myself up for disappointment. I search of happiness, and inspiration, but when I find it. I find myself alone, to deal with it. This feeling is winning the lottery, and finding out you're the only person left. Its climbing to the top, when everyone around you is at the bottom. Its not being able to believe in anything, not even yourself. It's crippling, fear, eating down into the very fiber of you.

I had a friend. At least I thought I had a friend. Now I don't. When I look at all the other people who say they are my friends, I'm not as sure as I used to be. I used to be warm, and kind. I once used the last of my money to buy a starving cat some food. Somehow I thought it meant something. I believed in Jesus, when he told people that giving everything you've got makes you a better person. I used to believe in the Tooth Fairy, because my parents did a good job at sneaking in and out of my room and I never caught them at it. Somehow, I grew up and the world lost its naivety, while I lost my charm. One day, I'll stop fighting. I'll stop believing that I was happy yesterdays ago. I'll forget that I was ever loved, and deep down inside me, too deep for me to hear, my inner-child will most probably cry; tears that I had forgotten meant something at one time in my life. And he will regret the day I lost the courage, and decided to live past my time.

People don't cry enough

So close, yet so far away. So old, yet not grown. So tired, yet not asleep. So broken, yet undeniable alive.

Its the contradiction of existence. The bits and pieces in the fabric of us that strive for dominion. The bits and pieces of us that make up the lies of our truth. The wool over our eyes, the shadows in the sunlight, the possibility in stark contrast to the reality. We all want to escape.

Yet again, the numbers trail on, spiraling into the universe, infinity. What a brilliant concept. To imagine the unimaginable, such is the genius of man.

I have grown older. I know this not by the boy who calls me Uncle at the lift. Age is just a number, my daddy told me long ago. Slowly i begin to realise. Our oldness or youngness is not measured in the beats of our almost reliable heart, but in the beats that it skips.

As I lie in bed most nights, I put my hand to my chest, to feel my heart beat. To be sure that I'm still alive, and life's obligations still have a hold on me. When I whispered that I loved you, my heart skipped a beat. That instant time stopped forever. Life changed forever, and I will never know what was down that other road.

Human beings are creatures of time. We live within, and around time. It defines our existence. Who we are, (a 22 year old; too old or too young) and how we live, (between the hours of 7 a.m. and 12 p.m.; too long or too short). We speed time up, and years past in the instant of a memory, and we slow time down, embracing the surge of emotion in the moment that washes over us.

People measure time is measured by the light of the sun, the waxing and waning of the moon. However, we live in heartbeats, in moments, in the spaces between the seconds. We feel alive when our hearts race, and we die when our hearts crash into an unsteady gait.

Sometimes I never want to feel happy again, because the disappointment and impending doom is far too much to bear. I never asked for very much. Only to be treated the way you enjoy being treated. And then I die. Alone, unloved, unwanted, too broken to sit upright, too proud to stop killing myself trying. I only want what is best, even if a part of me has to die in the process.

Closer, but still a million miles apart

Warning. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

Some kind of smoke and mirror hocus-pocus. Focus on the object in the middle and you'll be alright. Just stop thinking about the wonder and illusion. Believe in something that wants to believe in you. Lift and plunge ignore the potential in not doing so.

Flowers

to make up for that crappy attempt to write, here's lyrics.

i want to buy you flowers
it's such a shame you're a boy
but when you are not a girl
nobody buys you flowers

i want to buy you flowers
and now i'm standing in the shop
i must confess i wonder
if you will like my flowers

you are so sweet and i'm so alone
oh darling please
tell me you're the one
i'll buy you flowers
i'll buy you flowers
like not other girl did before

you were so sweet and i was in love
oh darling don't tell me
you found another girl
forget the flowers
because the flowers
never last for ever
never last for ever
never last for ever
my love

Believe... in something

Close, though hardly touching.
Quiet, yet somehow deafening.

Somehow things turn this way. Different from what we have been conditioned to believe. We look for the truth through tainted eyes, that expect what to see before it sees it.

Loved, over and above all alone.
Born, still not truly living.

Over life and death lies the mystery. Beyond the wall, across the vast spaces between what is and what should be. Across vast meadows, vast oceans, vast skies, vast space, the vastness of the mind, infinite in possibilities and as endless as peering into the eyes of your true love.

Because time stops, and nothing exists anymore, because it doesn't have a need to.

Possibilities

Love and murder pretty much go hand in hand. Dreams and possibilities as well. Some day, they all go, that love we though would last forever, the life we thought too long and heavy to bear, even dreams that are intangible, who's elusive lives flit between the reality of secret whispers, stolen glances and silent moments.

Where does reality stand in this, where does the truth begin and the lives we formerly led end. The question is simple. Would you die for what you believe in? Put in another way, one might ask, if you are to die for one thing you believe in, what is it?

Of course some flippant answer like food or clothes or even money comes to mind. Simply because we either cannot comprehend living our life for anything other than ourselves who we have no choice but to stick with until we pass on. However, instead of death, which the living can not comprehend, imagine the most gruesome death painful death you can. St. Catherine's Wheel for example. What conviction do you have thats strong enough for you to suffer. Fully aware of the transient nature of the world.

You who do not know are empty. You who do are either romantics, or retards. Sometimes I wonder if I can ever trust someone that much again. That even when that faith has been broken, I still find it in myself to keep it alive.

I prefer to live in a world where I'm not alone, throughly enjoying my solitude.

I found my muse, though more accurately, she found me. Thanks T, I've been waiting awhile for someone like you.