The Curious Case...

"Life can only be understood backward.
It must be lived forward."



In the future your eyes will be granted hindsight.
Your once feeble mind will try to ignite
With wisdom;
To become
A mirror, cracked and broken from this fight.
In the future your eyes will see everything, perfectly.

Aside from the Rest

This stage is different from the rest.
There are no lights to lead the act, nothing to distract;
This stage is mine: the Aside.

You are my most esteemed of guests.
Take your seat and prepare to hear everything clear;
This is the cry of Life:


"Walk with me, but not in front. You will follow, to be blunt, and I will not worry. There is no hurry, no rush, no fuss, only steadiness. Steady forward movement in steady, spontaneous steps: This is what I now represent. Predictability is boring, although warming; I will not fall victim.

"My dictum: You, life, are mine to decide."

Treat Time like a Lover.

Why don't you lay down the bricks
one after the other?
With each step take a deep breath;
Treat time like a lover.

Treat time like a lover.

Somewhere Between Rise and Set.

You awaken one morning in front of the horizon,
as the Almighty Sky grants you the pose of one question.

"How's it going up there?"

"Why son of the Earth how can you not see? This is disarray. I cannot make up my mind whether I prefer the night, or the day. And I fear that in such play I have caused our giants of light to flicker out of sight in mere seconds. But I guess this is how it will always be. Don't you see, don't you see?"

"What are you trying to tell me? Amazing is all you say. I see nothing but the most awing wonders of every which way. And this is how I wish it will always be. But you can't see? You will come to see;"

"You're nothing but a big old beauty."

Playing the Brain.

“Leave me alone, please, I’m trying to play the brain.”

The brain is a being that is being,
Powerful enough to supply those around it with fleeting,
Unsubstantial,
Feeding,
Life.

A strife that is ongoing, connected from one to the next in the night, through a tunnel of light, a hole of black, the pupil which grants sight.
The feeling rushes through this hole, painting a body with soul, a color never to be known.

Making its way to the source, this hue rears its horse and yells to its country men of anger, happiness, and those of the grandeur, the uncountable: the Emotion.
When Emotion and the Being meet, with such devotion, they embrace the notion of something more, and at their core the cycle begins again,

Evermore.

I Long for Shade

"Build me something. How about a tree?" "I'd like that," said the man with the face of worn. He had walked the earth; everything in his way was torn. The man was not a man, rather a giant of sixty eight inches. With nothing left, his life had been left in his following trenches.

Wish You Were Here.

"I dig my toes into the sand. The ocean looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue blanket. I lean against the wind, pretend that I am weightless, and in this moment I am happy. I wish you were here. I lay my head onto the sand. The sky resembles a back lit canopy with holes punched in it. I'm counting UFOs, I signal them with my lighter, and in this moment I am happy. I wish you were here. The world's a roller coaster, and I am not strapped in. Maybe I should hold with care, but my hands are busy in the air. I wish you were here."
-Incubus

Proposition Hate.

LOVE IS DEAD.

Appeal.

It is saddening to drive the street for a few miles, and see close to twenty little yellow and blue posters proudly screaming in your face.



You people die for your undeniable rights, the only thing you can hold absolute and true, then wave around anti-American, anti-human, anti-love banners.


Really?
I'm glad you're so quick to throw others under; it one-hundred percent confirms your close mindedness and utter ignorance.


Here's to losing faith in the human heart.

As Good as it Gets.

Is there anything more amazing in this life
Than actually finding a person who just fits?
You know the answer and you know it is right;
These words, though, meet no justice.

But this is as good as it gets.

Nostalgia

Think back to your childhood. Good. Now imagine a television show or movie or toy, something fairly irrelevant, and bask in the emotion that follows.

Nostalgia, the General, bring forth your arms!
The warmth and comfort, the love of all sorts;
Steady now, aim quick and shoot. Bring on the charm.

You should be basking now.
Enjoy.

I want

to jam.
Right now.

Cold. Play.

If only we could
Capture each moment in a jar.
As fireflies they would
Allow us to see who we are.

While holding the light
Every existence would be clear.
But be wary the sight;
Fireflies die, meaning disappears.

The time when we hold that moment in our hands
Is as fleeting and delicate as any of the other strands.





I sit here comfortably enveloped in faux-suede, back numb, stomach full, legs extended and at rest, toes in an icy winter's storm, as Coldplay is before me, doing what they do best. Their music explodes around my head, unlocked from a shiny, circular prison and let loose through these mesh covered boxes.

My toes are motionless, possibly frozen now, as Coldplay continues to ease. I dare not move them; this feeling is much too fleeting.

To my left is a blinded window, save for the vertical cracks where light squeezes through. Within one of the wider crevasses I see grey; the winter storm picks up. The grey has eaten the blue. Color devoured. A breeze closes the crack; this feeling is much too fleeting.

It seems my senses have all joined, becoming one in this moment. This moment is this feeling. This feeling is this moment. How fleeting.

A siren screams through the cracks. I lost my train of thought.
My toes are still cold; off goes the air conditioner.

How fleeting.

The First

This is the First, and so I post.
Lost in a word-lust thirst, I hurt
To be found; I am your host.


And so I post:
This whole blog deal is an odd one: I write whatever I feel needs to be written, produced as pixels placed in perfect position, and you read. See? I just alliterated a sentence for no real reason, and yet you read. Odd. And still I write on...but what to write about?

Oh yes, I already answered this. I will write whatever I feel needs to be written. Be it poetry, song, story, novel, I will write whatever I feel needs to be written.

And you will read
To be found; I am your host.

And so I post.