♠

     When people respond to the conversation starting question with, “I would want to read minds,” I conceive it laughable. I’m close to saying that it’s immature. However, with thought more elaborate I decide it’s likely a characteristic of someone who would rather live free of reining wonder.

     My conclusion rests on their fear of the unknown until I recall the following: I am petrified of the unknown to the scar of madness, yet I would hardly thirst to contain author’s knowledge by forced draw.

      The eighth circle of Hell with my head turned round just isn’t where I belong.

     Leading me to the night’s wonder: why do people like me? We’re in sixth grade for a moment because I mean like me like me. Usually I don’t attract the children of ages lesser than my own, as a matter of fact they rarely even match me. By the looks of it, I’ve strolled into the ballpark of grown men. Pushing aside the idea of my clumsy stumble I’ve considered the two major league reasons for this. The first being, “They’re immature, that’s why they want me,” and the second, “Or maybe I am on the level they’re convinced I am.”

     Peering beyond a few that provided Pictionary purpose to the prior, I’ve learned enough to keep up the awareness guard for filtering the retention pond. I could easily spot a dorsal fin from miles away with a sharp eye… if it’s open.

     & In the end it’s all an exhausted sport and I’ve tried being a player. Heartbreaking might be fine under Valium-colored skies, but here I’m gazing with a mirrored blank stare at Tamarian Gardens. “You cannot see anything. I tried it too.” As for being blindsided—I’m capable too, I’m capable of anything, after all.

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 21

Nicest thing someone has 
said to you this week

“I want to be your Chicken McNugget,

chewing bubblegum along side you

as the world passes by.”

Just always remember who you are and what you mean to me.

30 Days to an Almost End series list

We ache to dedicate, us in love.

     An intimate disgrace, the fashion in which my inspiration to drive creativity evacuated shortly after you were excused. & when you’re not sure what your ranking is beyond the departure from the ship you savored, where are you to be stranded in the sea of thoughts and names, my oh-so-hopeless Magdalena?

     A tugging from the anchor beckons you, “write write write, if only for the sake of writing every morning at 9 AM as sharp as you are in love.”
     “And if I do, to whom shall it be dedicated?”
     With no siren to accept the grace, to dive into your depths with assuring wonderment, why impregnate the work not yet prose? A sailor waited not prior to your pen’s touch; a sailor waits not now, for he stands stranded and strangled on the shores of self-deceit bearing the name, “your Magdalena, please come home.”

     Incurably scribing poetic dedications and lengthy acknowledgments with sorry aim to suffice our greatest works found lacking a substantial purpose undirected. Who’s to say a subliminally directed message renders something thought imperfect, perfect?

     Lying in what you create by the bed and the tongue, I dedicate this to the “desperately seeking a muse” class of my fellow man. Dear you...

This is about the difference between you and me--

     As we’ve gone along every step of this way hand in hand or falling apart, I have been a step ahead of the game and yours ad nauseam.

     Oblivious in my silence, you assume, still to consider the reality of the matter. Perhaps I knew then, and then, and then, and now again. Hint: I did.

     The set-up: I knew. The girls: I knew. The dilations: I knew.
     We died late. I hope you have regrets.

Are You the Rabbit?

     I am a danger to your life, I’ve come here to ruin it—this we hopelessly surmise. I’m not prepared to ever apologize in my name’s sake, however. I’ve been through this a million times before. One of the onlys of our issues is that you have not, not yet, not with dangerous me. Ruthless, conniving, vindictive; unwilling to surrender with or without a fight to the death of the inevitable end. I am the brakeless train, don’t beg the question of if there should be a complimentary wreck after you’ve promised me there’s room in your life.

     For you this might be exciting defiance. For me it’s a pathetic repetition I should know better than. Although, I will take partial blame, full if it is fault of my own for this lifestyle I’ve dripped into. Do I enjoy difficulties? Perhaps I’m rendering it so.

Thursday’s Thoughts - Theme: Realizations

     Dwelling and eating me inside out like maggots in disguise; I’ve had a few realizations recently.

1.   I was genuine with every inhale of ash blonde breath. Heart-wrenching tonight, it was realized wholeheartedly where you had never found me.
2.   It is possible to use someone after ties have been severed, even if no conscious thought of usage had occurred when they were originally wrung tight.
3.   There are wrong reasons and right reasons for (ab)using someone. I have not justified use with a wrong reason.
4.   My body is simply a body, although it is mine to partially do what I wish with.
5.   Vanquishing specific emotions will eternally be unfeasible, lest I self-annihilate without resurrection to complete the Übermensch show.
6.   I am the Übermensch as long as I want to be, for the ape is still within thee.
7.   Slacking on my studies wasn’t a result of a declining care for biology, instead, an escalator gallivant to the roof of attention in pursuit of a spotlight.
8.   Someone would die in place of me. My value must be high, so shall it remain and rise.

This Week’s Theme: Realizations

“Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.” - Unknown

“But egoism is more than this. It is the realization by the individual that he is above all institutions and all formulas; that they exist only so far as he chooses to make them his own by accepting them.” - John Buchanan Robinson

“Having seen and felt the end, you have willed the means to the realization of the end.” - Thomas Troward

Sovereign

     I’ve never felt sexier in my entire life, notwithstanding the facile appreciation of surreal power over other human beings. This isn’t quite it though, this is something new and something beautiful, something free of the aches of time and caresses of dirt and grime. You couldn’t endure this ascendancy if you tried to hardly comprehend—your capital empowerment grazed with bloody muddy selfishly childish paws, my gra-gra-graded lesser? Wolfy and salty, to not delve into the abyss with abortion risk…

     Batting the cages of realization I pass the escape brink of madness, “Complete damnation, I drowned in,” tout de suite sprinkling me in souvenir of what is effortlessly washed back ashore the island of self-deceit. “But no more!” I said in admirable defiance, I will evade every bullet train you fire with missile-aim to scorch myself within a submarine not quite yellow—blue with steam.

     & Here I lodge in the dwelling of Mulholland Drive, drenched in my own stench of fame and fraud and fortune. What you’ve always been and always are, cowering away to the tone of Sybil’s tormented cries and water vapor… Your cover has broken free. I’m not sorry, for I refuse to apologize to Me.

Case of the Missing Bereavement

     It’s nearly engrossing how less I feel in the arms of what I hold close to you. Your nonexistence, it pleases me. Watching you suffer, God, that too.

     To beyond greater things than the grandeur you were enveloped in—my ideals, perhaps of you.

     What a peculiar feeling to be this so-called “in love,” when we were just falling so terribly far and apart. Maybe I still don’t know what it feels like, your absence just isn’t devastating enough for it to be true…

     For now, this is all I want to feel—but not with you.

This is the desolate unsharable instead by fours...

     Imagine the discredit I’d charge.
     Project the unbelievable and ultimate betrayal to the biggest thing I’ve ever known onto me on the personal, intellectual level of the preeminent masochist.
     I’d drown in the debt.

     When I jump you jump with me and we collide together again, my antilover. I’d have to break my human laws to escape you, you’d annihilate me if I didn’t protect my body and everybody with me. In that event resisting the horizon, what’s bigger and better for me? You, or the mistress of my thievery?
     I feel as if I’m wronging you, but what if you meet the love of your life and you’re already aboard a ship? Are you supposed to just let them pass you by without cannon blasts of your amour? I’m hurtling through, gazing with wonder and amazement, but… all I have is you.

     Loathing will grow, boredom will mount. Do you want me to be disgusted by you like I already am of so much of the spectrum, not system? I care too much, but, I do love you… I just love you in another.

     I’m sorry if our affair ends. I’m sorry for us, not me or not you. We’ve had a great run and who’s to say the finish line is going to be the break in our tightrope?

     Do not shed a tear and you will not become the tear.

“Before everything else, I was like you”

     “The Fragile” is bellowing from two regions of the house, feeling like a surreal type of moment for a reason I cannot define.
     To some extent it’s suggestive of five years past, a time when I should have been luxuriating in life’s young simplicities of being 12-13, in lieu of the intricacies of distorting heartbreak. Wholly—the authenticity of a world I was by no means ready for, shining in a world full of ugliness.
     I suspect the dichotomy is a life on two different tracks, double spaced by time and event and emotion. On the horizon, I go towards the absence of light, where everything is meaningless...

Resist your anthropocism for a moment,

     So few pleasures of this world would I define as radiant and labyrinthine. Grasp onto my meaning when I describe the following et cetera: there’s a bizarre pleasure in the tiny things along for the ride with our insignificant existence. An ice cream cone on Sunday from the unexpected truck making the neighborhood rounds, the innocent kiss of a shy child, opening a late birthday present you didn’t envision receiving.

     Studying the cosmos and the astrophysics comprising it all for ten hours straight, missing rise and set of the closest star justifiably blamed on the consumption of an all encompassing existence lacking an intelligent creation—you create the most gorgeous moment that’s undefined in its glorious warrants. Beyond it, magical in the moment of stepping outside the suicide door breaching the murderous world, newly learned and brave to see...
     Alpha Centauri A, B, and C dancing around a Venus lying in wake of a very Sirius Coma, dying for a Milky Way; that’s all we think of when we consider the cosmos—a charming joke of sharable quality, tales of spineless man, at the shoddiest stab of aforementioned animal-in-denial: a gravity-defying candy bar. Reduced to “nothing of bothering importance,” except it’s everything of me and you and the sun and the stars and the dogs, cats, plants, and animals roaming free. It’s the Sol if there ever were within, yet we go spiraling on to the fixed law of gravity as if none of it matters.

IT

     Tonight is an opportune time to really see how far I can go to conquer all this. Am I bigger than it? Whatever “it” even is? When I kill it, I’ll get back to you.

     It didn’t occur to me, what if I don’t wake up.

Nil desperandum, amor...

“When your presence become what everyone else receives

I believe then you’ll see how much and what I mean.”

The Self of the Sadist

     I hate not knowing what’s next. It’s the stem of my anxiety, blossoming into countless beautiful irrationalities to the sadist. Someone reigning over the rain I’m left under to wade through the unknown. It’s not the abyss nor the galaxy, it’s the absolute unknown. Someday, I might just collide into another, and then? One day this human descent into annihilation? Who knows, it’s all a piece of the feared unknown.

     I’m trying to grip myself, decapitating the condescending fears. I’m afraid of sharks/tornadoes/the unknown, they had become virtues when their result respected vices.

     In the words of one winged creature to another unbeknown:

if you can hear this, don’t assume…

Climbing Mount Improbable

     A black mass of emotions, that’s what I am these days. I think it’s all the encompassing, grasping and clasping me shut and tight away from the world. Another brick in the wall, unjustly so. The further I push the higher I build—climbing, well, maybe…
     I suppose what I’ve arrived at here is my own Mount Improbable, and I suppose what I have to do is climb.

For Your Facial Manifestation,

     I have uncertainty on doing this alone although everything until now has been, obviously not saving your raping gaping holes poking the opposite of happiness into my everything of but what a dark matter.

     I’m on the precipice of unchanged trembling with fear of almost the Room 101 with no no puppy to save me. I received “ticket for two” when what I really requested was a ticket for one.

     My forsaken dance of the fucking death by dial toll is what we once knew as our tender romance of the tender ages, four by maybe five accusations—none deserving the ripe credibility they have grown: cruelty is never a gorgeous gore, no matter the tone.

     When I said that everything is forever changing and nothing is unstoppable, what I really meant to scream at the very top of the tightrope of my lungs was “ME, for man is BVT A WORM.”

 

Not Dead, Yet Dying

     Do you know the rights 

to finding me?

     Today was the day. The only thing coming in my mouth this leap is on an exit to existence, beyond the world I believed to be the only. Nightmares of your faceless stares, reversion into your kingdom for hours on end—you are not the only thing. Earlier gate calls might have saved us all.

 

Part Four: Maxims and Interludes. Section 89.

Terrible experiences make one wonder whether

he who experiences them is not something terrible.

For Truth, Not Martyrdom

    Sometimes I’m not sure why I keep up the ravenous. I shouldn’t have to search for reminders, yet I find myself seeking them in crevices of high and low only to emerge from the median empty handed as beautiful as usual with bruises on my ego. It’s where I’ll always be within or without you, somewhere stuck in the limbo of your absence.

Trio No. 2 in Catastrophic Minor

    It’s the point when life itself becomes your own Hell, no longer is your prison the single skin but the room you inhabit, the area you’re contained within. Encompassing the best we know, we lose ourselves in our false realities and insecurities, dwelling to the frequency we twiddle at. Am I red or am I blue, losing myself to the depths I know, infinite in the sense that I will never stop or begin for I expand from the central point in equal ratio to all my other pieces. The farther I throw the longer I gasp for breath, and when does my crunch take place? Collisions are the only thing keeping me connected to myself, I should be grateful.

Trip Three

     I cannot recall a single time in life where I woke up and immediately began crying. I’m not saying this to hurt anyone or to ride out on a guilt trip disguised as a white horse. I want everyone to understand what COSA18 has meant to me this past—almost—year. It’s a place I can turn to where I can paint my feelings away in the only form I don’t ravenously think—words.
     My thoughts craft themselves as images, likely a candidate reason why math has proven to be difficult for me my entire life. I cannot recall a day from history when words floated through my head. It’s all images, pictures, metaphors for real life. Island of self-deceit, a galaxy, the abyss… these are three forms in which my inner self manifests to represent the core of whatever I am. It’s not consciously chosen, and I’m positive it was helped along by what I know and believe in. Thank you, subconscious.

     I am a single galaxy existing in multiple events of space-time waiting to collide with another who considers themselves just as great or greater as I manage. I want a collision of worlds, absolute annihilation of the horrid and welding of the better, perfect globes. Dwarf stars and exploding thus collapsing supernovas: worm holes to a better place.

     “Lost on an island,” a common description of one’s life journey. A home base, a safe landing space for the extreme in betweens. A location for my tightrope far enough away from the cheering and jeering crowds... I don’t dance for entertainment or praise, but to prove to myself that I still can after everything that’s occurred. The sands are deceitful and card-carrying mood rings, but how they are so tiny grains of me.

     Grasped best—the abyss. My dwelling basement, but I created it there in its place and depth, adjusting the light bulbs as I move along. Left in its existence in case I've lost sight of the importance of life, should I ever need a gaze for recollection of demons, I flick a coin in and watch the city burn beneath me once more.