Isn't it strange?

How inspiration is like sunlight? It kind of feels like when you put your fresh-out-of-the-drier clothes on and all you can think of is the warmth and all the little words mustering up inside the delicately sewn stitches. Isn’t it strange? How we can love people we didn’t even know existed? How we’d gladly take their pain away, just so we can have a little bit of them and keep their unknown soul impervious. It’s kind of like starting in the middle of a season of every one’s favorite television series, knowing it’s going to be good, but you hadn’t been there from the start. Isn’t it strange? How melodic tunes can make us whimper silent poetic harmonies, or dance until our bones rattle with joy? They say it’s the structured character of the music that can pull on your brain and body’s chemicals and make you “feel” different things. I think it’s the humans capability to let go of everything physical and feel everything sublime; To forget the fact that we all are of skin and bones and veins and organs and chemicals, and relish in experiencing something that cannot be explained by things as such. 


At times I can’t find any form of word for any one emotional current I am feeling. Though, at times, I can find a million words for what I want to feel.
Isn’t it strange? 


At times I want you to feel a certain way by the words I say, but I end up never saying them. But sometimes I’ll spill all the light that steals into the world and sometimes you can’t see it. Sometimes no one can see it. 


I’m looking for the one that can.


Isn’t it strange?

Wasted hours

Today I saw an elderly couple at the place I work. They had to be in(at the very least) their seventies. I was sitting on the ground fixing some things here and there, and I look and this older women who seemed to be trying to remember what she was getting, and her husband said "remember the Yeast, honey?" she nodded and smiled, and I bet she was going to go home and make bread, or a pie. She was wearing these loose high wasted jeans, with this pink blouse. She had white curly hair, and he had the glasses that all the kids these days seem to want. I couldn't stop staring at these people. I don't know why. If I had my Konica, I would have asked to take a picture. 


Anyway, It got me thinking. They looked utterly happy and calm. They seemed to be so fragile and small but I could see their hearts beating for each other. I started to long to be that age. To have more lines than the trees that grew in grandmothers back yard diary. I thought maybe I could recycle all my future ambitions and endeavors and lock myself in a place to dispose of my young hood. I wouldn't even need someone next to me.


But I couldn't stop looking at the slant of their mouths when they looked at each other. To see how feeble they seemed, but then notice their strength to hold out so long for each other. To wait for what we are all waiting for. To Leave. To leave with someone. To go home to shaky letters from a husband who is old all the same; To be as equal with someone that you will die with them is completely mind blowing to me. I want to grow old and I don't know If I will. I want to have children who have had children. But I don't know if I will. I want to look back on a life that will grow flowers on my grave. Maybe even make them bloom.
But I think that's asking too much.

Forgiveness book

She’s been writing words for you, filled with leaves and stems. Carving with her solitude, but you will never hear them.

Captivate the loneliness that became a part of she, but acquire the fate you’ve trekked so far to flee.

Expect this to last through the cold winter hue, so harbor in the freedom of defeat. Let her veins keep beating to the vast over needing of all of the secrets you knew.

Stack the forgiveness into books you have written, and scribble your mind on her lips. Lay her to sleep on the bed that you keep hidden in your grandfathers shed.

Read her the words you’ve kept for the birds, and whistle them until you are dead.

I have the tendency to fall in love with the way people interact. How they form their words, as if breathing invisible whispers that are to be swept up by the wind, never to be felt again. Like a tree, quietly swaying in the whispers, I sit and wait to be directly spoken to, or asked a question. I have this fascination with sitting in the background and observing how people stand and move, while they inadvertently chisel their existence permentantly on my skull. Reasons to why I am so obliviously caught up in things as such escape me. Maybe it's because I've been to afraid to live it out; I'm too afraid to walk up and live out what I am so earnestly trying to discern. I'm too afraid to let my branches grow, and intertwine with all of creation surrounding me.

Ingenuously Beguiled

Something as petty and equivocal as allowing myself to adorn movements and gestures that are unfulfilled by the negligence of others, insinuate some attempting to deliberately make arduous what is already exhausting. I am not here to slander ones who inadvertantly induce austerity upon the lives of others, but I am not here to exalt them either. I believe, once all who endeavor to create bona fide occurrences in others lives, have the responsibility to not only speculate their actions, but be perceptive of the life one is pursuing to better(Whether it is theirs, or someone else’s).

It’s merely commonplace to yearn to embark on expeditions that are wholly and equitable. Though, the action that I find most humble is to grasp the fact that sometimes, we as humans, are not capable of such honorable standards. The universe and all of it’s boundless aspects is far beyond anything man can comprehend, therefor we must become content with the all of the unknowing around us. We must differentiate between the External and the Internal. Internal, being the knowledge we think we know, and the External being the knowledge that is; the real, authentic knowledge that is known only partially by man, and fully by something more omniscient and equip. Something worthy of All.

being

This isn't going to be very advanced or intellectual because I am not advanced or intellectual. This isn't going to be interesting or captivating because I am not interesting or captivating. This isn't going to happy or sad because I am not happy or sad. This isn't going to filled with emotion and depth because I am not emotional or deep. This isn't going to here or there because I am not here or there. This isn't going to be unique or different because I am not unique or different. This is not going to be good or bad because I am not good or bad.

How about this is.
How about I am.

these times

In the late nights of unfulfilled heartache, I tend to understand what I truly crave from life. These riveting, yet subtle longings to get up and dance stronger and longer than the oceans currents, or to yell louder than the roar of the famished ocean, are what get me through the day. Sitting outside, with the safety of my car door hiding me from the shrieking corners of this God forsaken place is where my mind rests, but only momentarily. These moments come in bursts, and these bursts come from the the elongated yearnings I have built up in tiny rooms in my thoughts. Sometimes, I find myself taking solace in things that break me. I almost crave things that destroy me, so I can hide away again, and find my balance.


I am still not quite sure what to do with today but that's all the writing I got out of it.

To Whom it may concern:

Being flushed with emotions; having them exposed on one's skin. To see them arrayed for your other parts to witness.

If thoughts are to pervade, maybe the ones walking here incur to behold the beauty each gesture may contain. Perhaps one's belief is contrary, maybe some long to keep them bedfast.


For me, to see those secrets is an honour. It's something I will always withhold in the deep crevices of my abstruse and cryptic thoughts, only allowing to be put on display if I am ever to see the one that once held those secrets again, and inquire the tolerance to keep them a little longer; maybe write with them. Maybe it's me yearning to exist in that life; to move and breathe the same air as the one I am asking permission. Or maybe it's to fall sleep in the same hand-me-down bed sheets of a figure I once took such admiration to. I bet I would find pieces of your continuance hiding in all the folds. Maybe I would find my own reality harboring all the same.

It took me so many moments to acclimate being in more than one piece. I thought we'd meet at the junction, but I never heard the footsteps, or saw the brief stretch of smile I had been anticipating. Now, I am standing at a critical juncture of two fleeting lives I never accomplished to appreciate.

My apologies exceed anything I have ever felt before, and I cannot even begin to apprehend where to go from here.


But the one I once knew is now a stranger I want to know.




You are gone.

Something different

To rise with the sun of dawn,

So little, so fragile, as if she were a fawn.

Witnessing something as bright as she

Wondering all through the night ” Oh, how I wish I wish I was the sea!”

For the ocean feels the Sun’s warm embrace,

Scattered all along the shores, how I wish I could have a taste!

But battered and bruised am I,

Closer than her, but I say with a sigh,

How anxious I get when the clock strikes noon

But alas, I must not forget, I am but the Moon.

Stoicism

We’ve put on our best impressions for people who can’t see past them. We constantly compromise the person we truly are, just to figure out if we can get any far. We root ourselves in folly and fictitious affection; things that cannot apprehend true adoration. I’ve become oblivious to gestures of such.


I aspire to flee from such unsoundness, to maybe witness something more than just a synopsis; An existence pervaded thoroughly and purposefully, something that is meant to be seen by not only the blind, but those unwilling to see.

scattered gratification

Today was forfeit before it even began. I'm tired in so many ways of the life I am living right now. Not tired of living as a whole, but in this specific time and place and setting. The words I speak here are underestimated and misunderstood. The nights are taken advantage of by sleeping and dreaming and I can't help but wonder if anyone here even begins to understand why I want to run in the opposite direction(highly unlikely). I miss the roads and wet pavement. I long for the safe forests and nights next to the vast ocean. 

I sit on a futon and write about things people don't want to think about. As when I speak, I speak of things people don't want to talk about. 

Maybe that's why so many existences are bland and unfulfilled. We talk words and lines, experiences and past. But we don't talk emotion and feelings. We don't talk stories and wholehearted truth. We sit cross-legged, with our chin up hoping no one will ask anything that requires further inquiry from you. Not because you are incapable, but because life is so much "easier" to live when treading the surface; when nothing is intimate and everything apathetic. The part of that philosophy that I find contradictory is, treading water is so much harder than allowing your legs to rest and let yourself float, and eventually drift to the bottom.