What?

I've just spent the last hour sifting through everyone else's blog.
I wouldn't say it's inspired me, no. No no no. But it's been interesting.

What do I write?

I think i've given up on this idea of a blog before i've had time to be consumed by this obsession of "ohh wow I found alternative art, I must post it on my blog". I don't think I could be bothered dedicating time every now and then - definetely not every day, to talk about things no one wants to hear about, like my movie recomendations etc..
For now, it's full of pretentious poetry from last year, and that is probably how it will stay for a very long time.

I could rant on about some "passionate" issue: Maybe Scientology? Vegetarianism...
I dunno.
Can't be fucked.

..........

You know how this is:
If I were to look at the moon, at the red branches and falling leaves of the slow, becoming autumn outside my window.
If I were to touch near the fire, the impalpable ash disintegrated, or the wrinkled body of a log or my fingers, or look out to the vast blue veil of the ocean like an outstretched hand, I would see that everything has carried me to you.
It is as if everything exists – these fantasies and visions; dreams so high and unimaginable, such aromas, lights, sounds. They are all like small boats sailing toward islands and shores of yours that await me.

Little by little, as the comings go and leave me, know that as the feeling flows, it drains me and all at once I find I have dived into your waters and lost myself.
If slowly you stop loving me, I too, shall cease to sing and will stop loving you little by little.

I know how this is:
If you were to suddenly, or over time forget me, do not search for me. I am not there. I have already gone.
For when you forget me, I shall too, have already forgotten you.
There I had thought it long, hard and dreamt about it madly, the series of winds and currents that have sailed and passed gently through my life. You decide to leave me here at the shore, standing amidst the dunes and horribly naked, pointing out toward the sea, and to my heart where my roots lie.
And on this day, remember, at that very moment, at that hour for the last time, I shall lift my arms and these roots of mine will be set free to seek another land. And someday our oceans will meet at our shores once again.

But until then, as each day passes and every hour treasured with memories and fond wishes is endured, feel you are destined with sweetness and desire for a younger meat, as if you were a flower climbing and blooming, to seek what you will, as I have done.
All this fire may be repeated, as nothing in me will ever be extinguished or forgotten. Continuously it will feed on you. Past has shown me not to ask for more than I have. You filled me to the core. I am no longer hungry. I am swollen with the ripe seed that was planted, and that which will swell and grow without you, to set more buds to flower.

I am tired. Soon, sleep will wash over me, draping it’s wings across my face and drown me like a heavy wave. I will cease to see. I will not hear you. And though I may long to feel you, you are not there. You do not exist. You have gone. In dreams you will visit me, from time to time, smiling and laughing with the happiness and innocence of youth. But you stand alone, for I am not with you. You joy is meaningless; a mask that hides your face and blinds your eyes from the sun.

The weather has turned and with it, you. I am ravaged like a dog in heat, fraught with a fever. In the early morning, right at the top of the beautiful view from the sky, I wake to the smell and awake, starting my day with the same habit. Starting the day, going through and remembering all this to feel happier and safe without you knowing. You were never awake, still throwing yourself at me recklessly like the waves far below me. The horrendous sound it makes, as they crash and my body slamming against your rocks. For as long as you live, it will be your arms without mine, and your solitary cliff.

Both the wind and sun were in the words you said. And although it was as if birds were singing and blossoms were budding in my heart, my eyes are stormy and my mind runs wild. This is a nice time of day, such a pity you’ve no words. I have nothing to say. I am flying over his thin imagination and out in the wind with a new medicine, with disbelief it looks as I imagined. His perception of the world seems somehow closer.
The sun is shining in my tear drops and his done everything for himself, with some sand and bruising, cock-tails of sorts. He’s been bouncing around, whilst I’ve not had any fun at all.

Don't Think Twice, It's Alright

There are things in life most mature people can cope with.

The illusion of control and responsibility can be maintained whilst enduring the utmost horror and unpleasant, that can easily be passed as gasseous bubbles emerge, forming clouds and obstructions in life.
They are a blockage - the cause of nausiating and uncontrollable convulsions.

Butterflies, for instance, are perceived to be the bringers of happiness; fluttering past in a haze of patterns vivid. But these same Butterflies, set loose, cause agonising writhing as they claw at the insides. Perhaps this is maturing. When Butterflies are sent to magnify nervousness, destroy appetites and overwhelm.

The pain of Butterflies is soon forgotten, in time. The pain needs no loosely-strung, over dramatic string of adjectives or emotions to describe it.
It speaks for itself.

The stories however, are made no less painful by the universality: blood noses, awkward stumbles, interminable silences, drunken revelations and the like. So meek and passive. Changing the topic.

...........>

The beauty that consecrates with hues shining upon my thought and form.
Leaf-tipped fingers that would linger about my shape. Passing away, leaving my state a dim and vast vale of tears; vacant.
I ask why the sunlight is not forever, and why the nights cease to end, fraught with worry.
Why should it fail and fade, where once it is shown – my fear and dreaming. Cast on the daylight of this earth and today.
No more gloom, despondency or hope. Having such a scope for both love and hate, and feeling both.

No voice more sweet and familiar would ever have given such a kind response. The names and ideas of ghosts, torture and Heaven remain no more than this, in their vein endeavour, with frail spells – whose charm won’t sever all that I hear and see.
Doubt, chance and mutability.

While still young, and speeding, with fearful steps pursuing. With these hopes of high talk with the now dying. I still attempt, calling poisonous names, with which my youth was fed and that which are still near at times.
I am not heard, and I do not see them. I mock them deeply; with life, for sweet times when my vital things were waking. It brought news, and suddenly a shadow fell on me.

I promised and vowed I would keep my powers to myself. Have I kept this vow?
Even now, with a beating heart and streaming eyes I call to him every hour. Even from a voiceless moment, where he has visionary powers; watching me through the night – knowing that such joy never illumed my brow.
Linked with the hope that I would be free and given what words cannot express.

The next day will be solemn and quiet. In the afternoon there will be harmony and a chill in the sky.

I’ve always imagined what it would be like. As if I had been placed on a beam, overlooking the world far below me. In the air again, and painfully stuck. Going to bed the same time every night. Eating what is right and only being a social drinker. Taking-up smoking as another bad habit. Losing things, gaining weight. All the primitive and barbaric ceremonies that have been streamed into everyday life.

My mind's out. Never again. I'm deeply disturbed. I try to precipitate myself into the consciousness of the world, its consciousness of me, but fail. My mind cannot contain it.

Every day I try to imagine the sky with all its constellations - as an extension of myself, as part of my further being.

But my knowing that it is sky, that the stars have a name and a history, prevents my being the sky. I am far away. It rains and I say, it rains. It thunders and I say, it thunders.

The child is otherwise. The child has gone.

I must try to think as he must: I am raining, I am thundering, and am immediately struck with panic as if, in losing hold of my separate and individual soul, in shaking the last of it from my little finger, I might find myself out there in the multiplicity of things, and never get back.

Journey Agent

The night is quiet. It is early. I've become aware of the sudden drop in temperature that surrounds me, and in noting this, have shut the window. It's at these times - the night, that my mind wonders to all places. To the past, it is now. Pretty soon I will begin another desperate search - sick in the mind, yearning again, to the point where I can no longer think of anything else. These thoughts will consume me, lingering til the day-break and then resume themselves. Botherig me constantly, nagging. I'll be hungry, suckling like a baby, until it for now, subdues and I no longer will be quivering from shock and anxiety.
And one day, a stream of the most harmonious words and utter happiness will escape from me - illuminate my surroundings, and I will feel it again. It will have returned, like the some months ago. It will be there. I too, will be there. And knowing how powerful this action would be, I, for a moment, would be lost.
The art of his thoughts, the words, will entrance me and dissolve beyond the present, into the past and influencing my future. In accepting the loss, in acknowledging deprivation, in not believing, to go beyond the basic instincts and maternal feelings, as if looking over a child.
But it leaving, in everything, I know that to remain in this state, is to do something I can no loner bear; to lye awake fraught heavily at night with the memories, the evidence and every day, the hope.
Nevertheless, in the leaving, I cannot help but curse and dread the very things that brought this to me, only to take it away, leaving me sick in the mind and body. And I curse with enthusiasm, and will continue to do so in my thoughts, my dreams, everyday knowing all too well that this is no good- the dream is gone. Waking up in mornings, sore, pinched, nagging. Whispering dreams so high. Still pouring out new curses, but agreeable.
It didn't belong to me. Despite the fixed idea of immunity, the pictures, the short time and boredom. The greatest joy and the most awful horrors all at once, which ironically now, are pleasant. I feel compassion for every break and every moment of seeing and knowing.
The beuaty and confusion it brang. I decided to lay out my whole life, as if in a grain of sand. And i've blown it. When I decided to do this, I felt that the magic I had once experienced was too charming and mighty, for it to be enduring. Too much. I could never go back. I find this awkwardness in this sphere only laughably horrible and sweetly surreal as a feeble monster; highly interesting, but intolerably cruel.

In a few hours i'll be asleep. He'll be a million miles away.