Quite the chronicle of my mind.
Quite the chronicle of my mind.
So, I’ve tried to start writing again lately, and haven’t been able to in a while. If anyone is interested I used to post a lot of it on here, and now have a link to it on my page, and also here.
The words that chatter gently between my teeth are not in reference to the future; they are ghosts from my past, jumping along with every thought that casts a shadow on my brain. I wish to stop the unstoppable, but my involuntary rapid fire of the human psyche wears thin even the faceless puppeteer signaling the shots.
You’re like a strong wind, my strong wind; A wind blowing away the clouds trapped inside my chest that clog the arteries from spewing amore into my cerebral passages. You’re a wind I will let blow me away, and a wind that I would not attempt to determine whatsoever the coordinates in which I will be dropped.
I am a broken toy being swayed by my wind into a state of functional complete happiness. I am sorry for my current lack of functionality, for as I mentioned I am too weak to control the firing of my melancholy thoughts. What I do not apologize for, is how deeply in love I am with you, my wind.
You do not realize it, but I often lay back and let my body go limp; and the only thing holding me up is you, cradling my limbs, and keeping me afloat in the air I sometimes feel is drowning me.
I stand at a fork in my head once again, with a spoon full of thoughts in each of my hands. One direction I see the darkest of my days with arms wide open, the other I see only the light to escape those same damned days.
It makes me sick still to realize what people are capable of while the blanket of weakness and intoxication drapes over their inhibitions, but these faults follow everyone I’ve ever met. Living life without regret is to mask the horrible things that once were saddled on your back while the morning sun brought you to.
You must not let these riders destroy you, but you must also never forget what you are capable of doing; Whether that be in either of the poles in the spectrum of morality and consciousness, we are only human.
We are only human and we are mostly cold and heartless, and whether we own up to this fact or not, we still run frigid and empty through the closed corridoors of the times we spend only with ourselves in mind.
The trail of bread crumbs I scattered behind me as I walked along has long since been picked apart and disengaged by crows and other scavangers. I’m not scared of finding my way back, because I never want to go back.
I’m too far ahead to pick up any pieces I might have left in my own broken home, and who knows where the summer winds have carried the ashes of the things I’ve already burnt out on in my thoughts.
The eternal cerebral crossroads leave my options broad; To become insane, or to stay the same, neither seem too out of reach.
The audience is screaming my name, telling me which foot to put in front of the other and tossing tomatoes and dirty old words against me as I pace back and forth along the stage. But they can’t help me, nothing really can.
Improving on the rough draft of feeling lost and daft will be my lifes work, my greatest memoire, the one that they’ll say I worked so hard on after I’m finally in the ground for good.
For now I continue to revise; Another day, another couple slow and steady steps towards something in the distance my tired eyes can’t even make out yet.
When I get there I won’t write, I won’t call, and I won’t look back on the things I’m trying so hard to bury under the dirt beneath my footsteps, but I will hold the hand of someone I love and we will laugh at where I was, and adore where we are, as everything else burns down to nothing in the distance we no longer care anything about.
It’s a task to keep yourself awake when you’re surrounded by the lullaby of the telephone ringing itself off the hook. Someones calling to tell someone something, but none of that applys to me.
Picking up the phone is like looking in a mirror. I keep my pockets stocked with change to call myself and make sure no ones home, and I check my reflection constantly to make sure my eyes are still looking emtpy.
I’ve never had he desire to follow a spotlight in the sky to its source, but whoever is maneuvering the direction of the lights knows where they are, and I do not, so there’s no harm in the chase.
Could it bring me to a town full of people that I love, broadcasting themselves behind the clouds in the nights dreary held head? Or could it be only a ghost town full of the skeletons of those I hated, just wanting some company to poke fun at? I’ll probably never make it there to find out.
We’ve always been geared towards the light because we’re taught to stay away, but curiousity will kill the cat and cover my grave tonight. Dig me up when there’s less at stake, I’ll be waiting patiently with my arms crossed over my chest, guarding my heart from the things I never wanted it to know.
We slam our fists into paper bags made of bricks and mortar, trying to punch our way through to something that feels like ice against our knuckles, but we are already free.
Free to fall into the holes that the grave diggers left open overnight, and free to stuff dirt under our fingernails as we crawl back out again, bringing what was dead back into light. We can’t stare at our watches and clocks while the minutes mesh our souls into the melting pot of a thousand words we never meant to say, waiting for the tocking of seconds to synchronize the hands to the beat of our hearts.
Have you ever woken up and wondered why exactly your heart was still beating? It’s because it’s free and you are not. We trap ourselves behind closed gates, becoming a recluse to heartache and happiness when these are the very things that make each breath worth taking.
We don’t need to dig. We don’t need to run. We don’t need to bleed, or cry, or wish.
We are already free.
I’ve heard them say every end gives birth to a new beginning, but what if I wasn’t ready? What if I wasn’t prepared to outline my future with the lines I’ve already drawn in the sand?
The days of counting dashes on the road seem completely out of reach now, but each mile chizzled definition into my heart, leaving me comfortable enough to breath the air of any city that I might set foot in. I just don’t want to forget.
I never want to wake up and not fully remember the days I held so close to my chest for however long we each let ourselves go.
I’m still not sure I’m back from the places that I’ve been, but even though the memories of those midwest hours seem to vague to recall, the point at which I started seems so much further gone.
It seems the time I spend away in dreams takes place during the tossing of a coin. Heads I wake up with my head on straight, tails I wake up with mine between my legs.
The tax of this sleepscape makes it hard to close your eyes at night, not knowing if the hand you wished in, or the hand you shit in is going to fill up first.
If the rays of our sun are polishing everything into perfection, it’s hard not to enjoy the conscious hours, even when you’re lost. But when the clouds leak rain across the skyline, making flowers and smiles sag so low, I open my eyes in the morning and stare at the ceiling, trying to retrace the steps I took that put me here - So I can follow them backwards to that part in the clouds where the sunlight was shining through.
The architecture of our world is frail, and though sometimes its weight weighs heavy on my back, I know I’ll never need to be dug out of the rubble from its collapse.
When I think about your smile, and how many miles seperate it from mine, I start to wonder how we got here. I start to wonder how the walls and pillars I took so many years to build, seem to crumble effortlessly against your hands.
I wonder how the darkest places that I’ve been through, and the horrible things that I have done, lead me into arms like yours.
I am nothing but lost in a place that’s so far from what I can call home, but no matter where I lay my head with you, I am found.
I am thankful for your hand in mine, and I am thankful for you making every daisy and lilly more beautiful to me than they have ever been.
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Another day of downpour. The weekend waterfall rushes over my shoulders and down my back, dripping off my coat tail, while I try again to decode the language barrier of the streets and bus times that have become my unfamiliar family.
Every foot further is inches closer to where I’m imagining myself standing, but I constantly second guess my spinning compass and question the direction in which I’m steadily crawling. Nowhere seems right, but not at all wrong; Just different.
I feel the furthest now that I’ve ever felt, even from the things I didn’t want to do. I keep hoping that one morning I’ll open my eyes and nowhere will have turned to somewhere, but for now I’ll make my way towards the clarity I know is close, with the same old silver lining in tow - I just get a little tired of hauling it around. Weak knee’d and bruised I continue to trudge along through black sludge with my yellow bird, in route to promises I know I’ll keep.
My heart is hanging over my head, and at this point it’s the only thing I have left to follow.
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an emtpy reflection.
I feel the sun creep up behind me, lightly waking me from sleep like my mother would wake me before school. The rain pours down with hope today, hitting my face like knives, and clearing my head of daggers planted by the days before. The molton eggshells my broken feet tread over today are as hard as the rock beneath the surface of the earth, they will not crumble under my embrace.
Though I cannot forget my past, I must maintain the expectance of a meadow dripping with daisies and lilly’s, kissed by the sun, somewhere beyond the crossroad where I stand today. Because these places only exist in dreams every now and then, I must keep myself numb from complete consciousness and believe the light inside will guide me through the blackest caverns of tomorrow.
Some wars I must fight alone; Others with the company of love, and still others with the company of my same-burdened brothers close behind my back. So for today I’ll battle the grey clouds with all I can, grinning as I push them back, only to meet them once again further down the road.
Today I can see past the greyest of those clouds, running through them as fast as I can to stay a few steps ahead, but still always one step behind.
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The exhaust from passing buses creeps its way into your lungs, like the accidental rains creep their way into the top soil around your garden. Both creating a mud that is rich with disabilities, thick, and hard to walk with on your back.
But we tread through the thicket of our nightmares with our hands clasped together, and it leads us into day dreams of greener scenery on the other side. They say the spinning hands of time heal your memories; Both good, and bad. However, their diagnostic in reality is picking apart our memories until there are enough pieces gone and forgotten that it doesn’t really sting with the happiness or sadness as much as it once did.
Somehow my past, like a guardian angel, swore never to leave my side and never to let me forget it.
So I dance between the black and white, and make a home in the grey where the future isn’t quite so clear. I think we should all stay here, for at least a few passes of Halley’s comet. We can lay our heads on the grey hills and imagine what the greener scenery will look like when we get there, and hope the hands on the clock don’t strip us of the memories we have of each other.
Stay here, everyone, and dance with me in the grey.
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It’s easy for the dollar sign to pull your head down from the clouds, like a magnetic force where the negative field should be marked clearly and scribbled across the front and back; Harmful, like a pack of cigarettes. Corporate clawing clowns like wolves scratching at your door are born in an office building every day, with a meal of dollar amounts served every hour on the hour. When will they allow us to starve them with the lack of our punches on the hands of time? When will we let the wolves die hungry in the cold, malnurished and misfortuned?
This will not happen soon enough to dig ourselves out of the greenest graves, and the dirtiest wallets. We will die buried in the snow while the wolves lick the ice from our feet, getting the last of what they need to fill their stomachs.
We are at the unmatched mercy of the ever growing wolf pack. Always on our trail, they are picking up our scent that we left on the knobs of our front doors. We are leading them straight into our homes with the lights left on and a welcome mat smothered in the sweat and tears of our mothers, fathers, grandmothers, and grandfathers. We are locked in a cell of our own making, and the key to dismember this mighty pack of wolves lies trapped somewhere under the ice layered thickly over our hearts.
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