It requires more than merely knowing why.

A dabble at thought

2011-08-26T11:49:00.000-07:00

Normalcy is the instrument of late striking such chords that dull the very minutes etched into a day. Motivation lacking seconds create days and accomplishments dissolve leaving little to materialize. Existence forever beckoning and yet life so finite.

How are you is but a phrase others welcome yet only simple gestures assist in making puppets continue with their days. Honesty is not what our world longs for as my glass overflows with meaningless dribble a shadow is borne from each encounter.

I've stood before you and never been myself. I've spoken the words and never truly felt. The renditions have been played and new actors take our stage smoking scenes as dead skin peels away.

The dance macabre ode to another vampiric day draining life from life and once we are no more I can honestly say none of this mattered.

2009-11-05T13:57:00.001-08:00

so expectant of the illusion I am that I mourn its absense. I cling to it as the final chord of symphony or some childs mimicry of a musician and yet no sound is heard by the human ear. So many times I have come to this desolate place and want to withdraw myself from all the world. Why do we loose ourselves to these moments and why does my mind fill me with such doubt? Questions have answers but I remain with riddles upon my nerves; an unsettled spirit lingering between worlds and hoping, always hopeful and yet so damned beneath the surface a borne contempt for all mankind lingers, festering and always seeking an outlet.

My harmony is betrayed by stupidity for I play the puppets part and walk into natural blunders and forget mine enemies linger everywhere. Paranoid one would say lest truth remain and if truth remain does this make my actions worthy, for what has worth in this struggle? Long after death I will be no more than a rememberence for the living, those that shared a few pleasurable moments will dance me upon their thoughts as some flicker of candle light but even such is lost when the wax of time courses downward, spiraling and what will they say for a tombstone and a date, for those rail men buried under the pike, these are sad times perhaps, or perhaps it was inevitable, or perhaps he is at peace.

If I could leer from my grave I would, or perhaps give a crooked eye, I am in a dark place and I want to be here, I want to be darker, I need to remember this, I need to hold on to this, I mustnt let the sand fly off into the oceans sun, but how?

2009-09-26T10:17:00.001-07:00

If I am broken can I be fixed,
If I am lost can I be found,
If I am forgotten shall I be remembered,
If you have moved on is what was just a memory,
If I dream am I resented,
If my words no longer reach you do I still exist,
If I have moved forward is there no way back,
If you speak within your world does the willow sway in mine,
If the amber seals away this second will you find it days when I am long gone.

Delivering one self from Friday

2009-09-21T09:39:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in these moments of tangibility I loose myself to such thoughts of mental decay. To surrender value is to become immortal and yet the value one places is enough to ensure disharmony. Life and the ever moving flow of what should be and what is.

Dreams seem to devour me and yet the only time I am awake is when I dream. Free to exist in connection with myself, free to challenge the force that restrains my will.

I saw madness in the eyes of a stranger, abuse and so much damage that words themselves could not reach a person so lost. Shock treatment I thought but I lacked the facilities and the means to electricute my guest or should we call them drop ins, perhaps Kamikazi pilots fits best.

When you find those that life has stripped from normalcy do you envy them. I long to be mad for justifying the very thoughts that connect limb to limb and guide these fingers to move and mesh in a world never mine but belong to those dreamers. Dreamers that tear away the rift between the sleeping world and the waking dawn.

Am I jealous of the world or is this self loathing just another means to an end when caffine fails and the air conditioning blows out. Bukowski perhaps would say fuck this and drink a beer. Tolerate nothing and all is tolerated, become nothing and find everything, the way is just a document, a text of sweet prose and even so I cling to it within this hurricane. I beg and plead for rational. I debate whether monday is a day or merely a nightmare begging to take on the shape and form of a dream no longer violated of innocence.

These thoughts dribble across my mind and I want more, frustration consumes me with this infant like understanding and I am lost here. Returning to work seems so unnecessary but again this is a dream I call my life.

Fortune for the fortune less

2009-09-15T06:40:00.000-07:00

Insanely enough I have begun playing the lotto as if one out of many millions could actually be me. The reality of it is that no happiness or joy actually would come from success. How is it that we seek so much and in the end nothing remains. We cling to these delusions we deem to hold value of wealth and success. Our castles built on poor foundations sinking into the Moore's and yet we are always hopeful.

I look into the eyes of a man that has abused narcotics to such an extremity that his genetic make up has been altered. His ability to be calm and rational as outdated milk has curdled. He speaks loudly and laughs randomly offering me chocolate candy or a can of cat food. He is amazed by my ability to separate perforated paper and I jest that its not his fault he previously ripped the page into 3 separate pieces, it happens to all of us.

For a moment I ask myself what makes us different besides the counter that separate us. I read an article this morning about these archaeologist that seek to understand why the neanderthal become extinct. They hypothesis that perhaps the new species of man came into contact with the neanderthal wiping them out. Would I destroy this man if I had the power? Does his life have meaning? What purpose did his existent have and thus if he never came to be would others truly be affected.

I am drowning in work and this seems as if its my own personal ballad or daily war cry. Nothing makes sense accept the fact that tomorrow this will be here and more paperwork will rise up demanding conquest of my desk as if it was a castle so ancient Templar secrets are borne within.

Do I find humor in all of this because I am weak or do I laugh merely to keep from weeping?

2009-04-10T18:02:00.000-07:00

I find no comfort in it but for a moment having him listen was salvation. A dreamcaster speaking of dreamers fondiling nightmares until they themselves collapsed from the intensity of fleeting moments. Madness as a sweet nectar defiled me and I cast sinister thoughts into being. Light upon light upon light I longed for more sight, aye to see nothing in darkness and yet to see. There was no accursed spirt, no harmfull dye cast, yet the wrong how glorious it is could be felt in every sinew. The wrong of blood flowing beneath vein and the stillness that comes from not having a reaction.

I contemplated happiness and saw no reflection in its mirror. Rocks become soup and spiders pick and choose their prey. Jobs drink of us until withered we are no more gayful youth driven mockers of life. Something in that frenzy is lost and we search dilligently to find it back. Memories drift away from our crisis as hair falling strand by strand. Maker your puppet speaks and its condition no longer reflects that of a star. Maker perfect your instrument but even now coffee does not have that tinge. Maker your craft is failing and the words are shouted across the room.

A glass of water to go hand in hand with this walker, a glass of water slowly becomes a paper dixy cup with moistened wax, pills follow, nothing meds and glitter remains everywhere, oh god how it sparkles.

2009-02-02T23:05:00.000-08:00

My mouth is dry as I recount my thoughts sleep seems so far from here. Where is here but a passage in time, a breath emptying upon a page to speak little of recognition or rememberances. If I drift I am forgotten and yet if I remain no more can you find me than I can find myself.

I looked into her eyes, a mother of two devasted. Her son had ptsd and who was to blame? A war and a systems inability to offer enough service for those that give their lives. She came for help and my position demanded I send her elsewhere. I lent troubled eyes my ears for an hour or two. Threats had been made, nervous breakdowns clear for we each have been there destroying things that we treasure all for some sort of balance, to throw wreckage at our lives, to make what is seen as what is felt from within. She wanted someone to help him but he had a DUI, wrecked his ride she said and her other son was in prison. Dire times and the world ticks on so much unaware of ones crisis and a mothers tears. Pistols in a locked case and arguments strung with rage over images that aren't there, war destroys us piece by piece, the bullets fly half way across the world and this is what lands in my cup of joe. So behind on paperwork, I need to get rid of her but I can't. Is this compassion, is this what it means to pity or sympathise with our fellow man. Tissues are passed and tears are shed. The only outcome is 51/50 if he is still at home but she mentioned packed duffles, she mentioned nowhere to go, perhaps another homeless kid.

The world meshes back together as a stranger in tears hugs me. I go up to the counter to help someone else as the secretary stepped away. Are they helping anyone, why must I break away from my cocoon. Deep breath, we are part of a collective, we depend on one another and yet I think at times this limb has become green and must be loped off. The guy at the counter tells me I have something on my face. I wipe my face per his gestures and he imitates again. I thank him as he says its still there and then pauses to say its only the scar on my face. Is eyesite so bad, did he think it would be such an injustice for me to have something on my face.

This reminded me of the elderly woman that reached across a counter one time to touch my face. The scar is barely visable but she said she needed to wipe something of my face. It made me twitch, repulsion filled me to the brim and I boiled over. She was old pushing 80 or was it 90. Got to let these things go I say, but they surface now and again and somehow I barely see the ticking stroke of another day gone.

I did not manage to make it to the gym or tae kwon do today. Felt as though the emotion drain ate thru every nerve and sinew of my being. I passed out for an hour after watching something on hulu. I joined a writers forum in Sacramento through Craigslist but never really go. I find time enough to delete the invitations as if it helps me belong to something. Is it the same as going if I delete an email. These thoughts swim within the pools of my eyes.

My tongue still hurts, my nose is cold, and I just can't seem to look forward to tomorrow. Don't misunderstand this for depression, depression is not nature and thus I can not look forward to tomorrow for it is not in my nature to consider tomorrow. But still for a 23 year old needing a break from the hard knocks of life I can hope he has a tomorrow, I can hope that no one makes reference to a scar on my face, I can hope for those pizza fridays in gradeschool when life was recess and no one died.

2009-02-01T07:43:00.000-08:00

I wonder if being to sheltered is good for the soul. You long to protect who you are and so easily it falls through the cracks of reality. Slowly everything known is chipped away and replaced by the essense of what is deemed necessary. Who dictated necessity, who create desire, who makes this gestures, these motions.

I visited xanga today for a moment after so much self reflection. I realize that after a few years everyone is gone. Did the world continue or did I stop. In such a place when paralysis takes me can I consider waking. Do I see this stream before me leading to the horizon as fortune?

The past haunts us, the future mocks us, and the present gives us joy. I wish to hold these seconds till all feeling becomes gray and the colors of this world drip from the canvas. The hand of god will clutch quill and ink drops shall splatter across the spirit till each concusion gives way to a new truth. I long for this and I do not relish its coming.

2008-12-20T14:50:00.000-08:00

When ones voice fails do you chuckle?
Do we just mimic gestures and nod in the light of failure?
I have lingered so long before those eyes that judge and seek for more than this string of obsurd commentary,
Yet that presipus at the edge of oblivion forever shinning within those vacant pupils becons me forward as if you snare me with your discussion of fools and by such I dance as the fool.
Is this not what we deem a mockery of gods creation when absent is the mind and peers draw fourth daggers to slay what bit of soul remains. Nay you heed not the words and use some poison to etch away the pixels absorbed into the brain but the image shall not blur, and in time you see the film of your life whispered through the chaos of mundane moments but you shan't have regrets, how can we regret time taken, time lost, time given, time exploited and yet is it time or ourselves that have been lost, exploited, given for the name of art, humanity, existence. You are exiled and your dreams are nothing more than trinkets set before a child that is spoken to by those who hope for genius uncertain where the world will take such voyagers. So I hear the word stop, a child bellows it down the hall, an officer flashes their light at me as a body lays beside a vehicle, a co worker insists, the small world compatriot that wishes for peace as he serves me a breakfast burrito all whisper it. Because the eyes tell they have seen already too much and we can only hope to blur the rest or pray for dementia within our youth to ease the ache of heart and never know such truths.