pressed against the limits of the sea

The pain pushes out a pulsating beat, incapacitating me. I sit, getting lost in this hopeless little screen. Nothing to do but procrastination, delaying, with no real reason for it. My mind turns to a default image of you. I can't explain it. I write endless phrases, a metaphysical conceit I'm not even sure of myself. Unfullfilled dreams, the wish of carpe diem but there's a chain of trepidation around my ankle. I'm accustomed to a different love, a different meaning, joining, dialogue. I'm just another tourist in your bed, looking at the view. I suppose I write to try and decipher it. Telling you in phrases thick with distractions and song, ideas I understand only fractions of. I want to talk to you. But the words find no escape, the pathway's broken from mind to lip, spirit to finger tip. I'm in tumultuous indecision, a feeling of inadequacy. If I push too much my inner darkness upon you, searching for a deeper connection, I'm afraid I'll get a response of distance growing. I'm left longing for your touch but I'm too afraid to touch you. An etched image of perfection and simplicity, and here I lie, broken. Ambiguous desires I read from your eyes, a disdainful demureness. Half of me wants you to find these stupid words. The adept side tells me to hide them away. A skill I've learnt well. Words of impulse find scorn and regret when change is innevitable.

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neighborhood nights

I feel like somewhere along my life there was a shift. Suddenly nothing was for fun any more, it was all necessary. Suddenly I'm bothering with what others think, afraid to link any connotations I deem negative to my being. Why do I care what people I've never met, who'll forget they ever saw me, think of me; this obscure stranger in their peripherals. It's a warped sense of mind and place, seeing the space around me in my mind's made up ways. So I stray away from everyone, isolating myself unwittingly, turning them against me. Self fulfilling prophecies, I succeed in creating this reality. I need to break free from my mind's mentalities, with which negativity has propelled me. So I've started a new sport. I call it neighborhood night dancing. Donning headphones and heading out alone to the empty streets as the city sleeps, and moving to the beat. Letting it compel me towards a freedom long gone missing. Letting go is an art. Complete release is a tough ...

enter the struggler

Don't give up. I'm only starting to see the gravity of your situation. the extent of your damnation. In short I don't blame you for your frivolous disposition. I blame myself for not being enough to change it. That came out wrong. I can't, nor do I want to, change you. I just wish I was insentive enough to make you wish to change. Or maybe change is non-existant. I want you to grow. You're playing a static and stagnant role whilst I am flourishing and thriving. I know I'm not the same as I was when we were first in love, but the change is amplified relative your inert stance. I've always cared about you, but that too has been altered by the hand of circumstance. I've known countless feelings for you, attachment, love, lust, caring, anguish, concern. I've always felt something for you. Now it's stronger than ever before. No more silly juvenile notions of "love". I care for you like a sister, a mother, a lover, a friend. You say you don...

ecotone

Instead of mindless expansion we should be expanding our minds. Finding solutions to stop our pollution, to reduce our waste. But we all chase after money and pointless things. Thinking they'll bring us happiness, or self worth. But it's the earth that pays for all the shit we throw away. Make take use, and it's garbage in just a day. But it doesn't just disappear. It's all still here, clogging the Earth's pores with eyesores of giant piles of trash. Every last diaper you've ever crapped in, is still trapped in a landfill. and it'll still be there long after we're gone. Where did we go wrong? When did we split off the evolutionary tree and plant ourselves in the soils of skewed priorities? Working to stay alive, working our nine to five as if the blood that fills our veins is made of money. And I find it funny, when we need air to breathe and this is supplied by trees, we clear cut our forests to build up our factories. We make junk to make a buck, b...

rude awakenings

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