Cry forever. Run until the end of days.
How do you make friends that want to gel in the sunset too? That want to loll in meadows and read and write angry treatises about the sky beyond the horizon? Where the stars come out and we all have so much life to live but I don't know where the pen stops. If I just sit back and let the choir pitch drown me out -- is that living? What is this life? It feels so anchorless, there are to many possibilities and not enough directions that will weigh me down towards the grounding that I feel I need.
Our time is now. This is a part of it. Confusion, pain, scars, anger. This is a part of it. This is all that there is of it. This is all that there will be of it. (So many letters written. So many emails unsent. So many words not spoken because of ... fear? Because of uncertainty? Because I don't trust my own sly, slinking motives that meddle in all things. And a growing uncertainty about the darkness that births itself, each night anew, in the center of my breast.
There is a hole that I've been keeping. Have I wanted to keep it open? That's open for debate, but it's open. It's huge. It's eaten me alive. Like a piercing that took too long to heal, You can see through me there. There's nothing there. Nothing. I don't know what else to fill it with. Maybe nothing. The hole lives on, scarred and pussed, with smooth edges that bely the weight that it has. It pulls down on the corners of my mouth and weights heavily on my chin. There is no lightness in my gaze. Just empty sad. Empty. Sad. Empty.
The sun is setting on today.
I am so afraid that my dreams are but false prophets of an age that will not come.
They are naught but small passing blips on an infinite sea of rudderless, unmanned sailing into the dusk.
(Gazelle on the horizon, slinking lion beneath the ladder that stretches up into the stars wide and high and tall like hope, and forever out of reach).
words are the most powerful thing that you own. words are the worst thing you could ever say. we don't value words enough anymore an...
It's time for the annual year of reading review. There's a number of books on the list this year that really deserve a longer blurb...
Edgar Degas was obsessed with the female form. This much was obvious just from the few works that they had from him at MASP. I would go fu...
We were out on an outing with everyone else. This was late dream, after I had been on the carride and moved apartments and had that strange ...