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What the hell, I'm in the mood for some of the aforementioned criticism. . . be free with your critique!
I don't think there was anything to dream about; there was no other reason not to fall asleep. Muscles sore with lactic acid overload, mind numb with mind-numbing hallucinogens. I wanted a lava-lamp.
Closing my eyes, conjuring images of problems to dwell upon, they kept going back to her picture.
Porcelain face, she had a porcelain face and she couldn't breathe. I would've smashed it off, but I couldn't get near her; she was barring her salvation from herself. Think of something else!
Fantastical imaginings, a thousand different ways to respond to an infinite amount of questions, moments of risk where failure was prominent even in my own world.
Still, I could not occupy myself beyond staring at her in my head.
Lovely golden locks. I'll always see them as molten, no matter what changes.
Oh, God she's beautiful. If she only knew.
If she only knew what? That she's beautiful, or that she's yours?
If I could only write it down in words, it might never reach lips.
Trying is something better than nothing, and besides the alternative is unthinkable.
What's the point? Give it up.
Once, just once I wish I could close my thoughts, and embrace some sort of intrinsic silence. Shut-off the valve projecting this pique of sardonic displeasure
at nothing in particular.
I suppose it's just a part of me. . . like an arm or a leg. . .
gangrine is cause for amputation. . . festering of the mind. . .
Sleep has a most unexpected timing.
Awoken, once again, to admonishing cries and the everpresent humming of a Kenmore 26 de-humidifier.
Insecure in the silence, you need this as much as that noise.
Not very much at all. . .
Couldn't concentrate enough on filling the machine with Tide because the clothes were too yielding; soft and supple like flesh. Her skin.
Another day the faint light from a tall brass lamp coated with dust would have casted friendly illumination on my worldly possessions. I can't help but not notice them for the floor i'm staring at. Blue, grey, beige and white in an ungodly haphazard mixture of years of use. I've been here for two weeks, I think.
Stop and think about what you're doing.
All I could come up with was: "Art is a methodical accident."
Deep in winter weather I turn the heater off so that I can embrace the cold, and kiss the fresh, dry air courtesy of Kenmore. Encased in an arid climate with the windows cut-off, preserving life through struggle so that inaction is more tolerable.
I start to think of how when someone is left alone for awhile, they become consumed by their environment. It edges up into their imaginings, and becomes an extension of their mind. The latter can play some pretty dirty tricks on itself.
Life at the bottom is better because there's no falling down.
The journey to the top becomes more fantastical, which is just an excuse pour les paresseux. Always an excuse for the actors.
The largest dam in the immediate world, holding not water but raw emotional sewage. Silt. When it comes into contact with the air, rarefaction occurs producing bits of prolactin, and manganese cascading down over the misshapen structure. Various times it breaks open for no apparent reason; there is no such thing as regulation. There is only repression. Compression. Depression. Hydroelectricity.
Most of the time pants can be worn a third or fourth time in a row. So long as no one observant sees me twice in subsequent days, I can be free. Funny that there is no exhilaration.
Made a bong out of a plastic sprite bottle (1L), so that the smell wouldn't disturb the peace. Momentary complacency is better than none at all, but regret lasts forever and ever. Ticks and leeches on your backside.
Subterranean homesick alien (a Radiohead tradition after a smoke) invoking some nostalgia or another. Good times, when reading, writing and study were fundamental for my time. The best trichotomy i've ever had the pleasure to embrace.
Starting to remember the teachings from philosophy class, everything looked strange, apart from itself and existing in another tangible realm through use of the mind.
I am omnipotent. If there was ever such a thing as spiritual grace, it would be achieved inside this frame of consciousness. The half-moment of being. . . astride the reality and constancy, with the edge of a dreamer's fluted world. I'm sure, i'm positive.
At these times, I have to look at myself in the mirror and figure out the mystery of my pupils. What is there in a night bereft of starlight? Closed doors are closed doors.
But oh there is an incandescent face, my moon. So pretty beyond belief,
the archway to ambition.
Instead of making everything else more apparent though, she clouds my vision with imposed jealousy. Is it supposed to be like this? This is no better than spurts of mania.
I don't complain one bit.
She floats like a pale cloud-fairy, sniffing the air with caution and moodswings prominent like mine. I seem to know we were meant for eachother, our eternal bond written in the annals of time through a self-proclaimed Shakespearean prophecy.
Just get her out. Get out.
Delicate, more so than a full-bloom flower, and yet possessed but an implacably raging desire. I can see it in her eyes, beyond the reflection.
Like two undisturbed pools of glass over water.
I never thought it possible for the hummingbird to be denied any floral honey-suckle sweetness. I can create my own, and the tools are all here. No, synthetic is synthetic.
Greedy fool. No longer.
There is a walk outside for freshness, remote islands from the dankness of a cave.
Birds and blades of grass, I don't want to think of the winter:
At times I left your house to gather thoughts and smoke hash, by the shore and pier. I wished you'd follow, just like in my own movie. It never happened.
As always, I stared noncommittally across the frozen waste of ice to the lights on the other side. Flicker. Flickering in and out of existence just like you. It was a personification, but i'm not sure that makes it any less real. The lights were so far away, I could only watch and wait. Wait for them to come to me.
A uniformely striped and paved road, with matching concrete slabs courting the splendour of pavement to one side. Life without asphalt. . . Life without cars, industry, megalomaniacal tyrants. . . Life exempt of pollution and war? The trade-off seems fine to me. I've heard of it, stolen from the beauty pageant queens.
So many ghosts, fading away into the recesses of twilight. Dainty ones and sinister-looking ones. Joyless and Spirited. Sagging and Carved. Alight and afire. I was imploding and exploding at the same time. No wonder they all looked scared. . .
The sky was still pink, almost a lavender in places silhouetting silent storm clouds.
Angry, with unresolved stress; hot summer heat with frigid altitude air. Aggrevated by their presence and just wanting the clash of the in-between. Thunder and lightning; shouting and violence. Just waiting to burst from being held back, contained by that forceful light.
I start to wonder what they think as I pass them or they pass me. "Obla di, Obla da, life goes on. . ." most likely.
There is a war happening, and all she can think about is that new brown lab (another prisoner of affection) frollicking in the snow. What a life.
I hoped my precious wasn't thinking the same. If she was, then she was.
Should this disgust me? I've tried to delude myself, but who can ignore a taint so prominent in our ideals? Let sleeping dogs lie.
Every single face an apparition just like mine, dancing in and out of each other's visions.
A million snowflakes falling from a cloud-enshrouded sky, someone's familiar pattern catching me by surprise. I can remember how he hated everything around him because he was consumed by the crushing of his spirit. People like this make sure that everything else feels as they do, and so passes the virus. One rotten apple.
Countless bodies falling to one cry; each an individual, once upon a moment ago.
Unnoticed until they've been caught in memory, there's no way to wash these ones out.
A truant. For what reason? You digress by shirking your duties. I do what I want.
Everyone acts of their own volition until they've given in to someone else. Let themselves be taken, dominated. Going back to independence, it's like riding a bicycle again. But there is a price even for freedom: Nightmarishly all alone.
She smells like a lustery priestess, freshly bathed in wildflowers. How is it that her presence is a feast for all five senses? I walked towards her, keeping in mind my projection of confidence. She can feel any slight wavering of disposition, just like I can feel her every heartbeat from no matter the distance.
These vibrations in the air.
I closed my hand, finger by finger around her neck. Looking into those cherubic open eyes, an unlit hearth yearning for a fire, I let her choke me.
Her pulse was like the thrumming of a stampede; wild animals racing to the beat of a pure, feral heart. If I could have kissed that center of life, it would have been done. Tracing an index finger down, down her robeless chest, resting in her expanse of vanilla skin, I gripped her with passionate words embroidered by hungry red lips.
Our flavours combined, conjuring a taste of moist. . . Just moist. I panicked.
She could feel my panic, she could always feel those types of things. An unseen hand abruptly separated us, and drove me to the bottom of a deep, rotting mire. Filth as black as the reaper's cloak. She to a haven far from the sight of normal men's eyes.
I shrugged and lay down while my sinking form rested comfortably on the sun above me. I could endure this as always, as usual. All I could think about was that she was truly safe, and would be eventually happy once more.
So this is altruism. This is love.
Paths of destruction had been previously noted as one inherent trait of mine anyway.
She knew what she was talking about.
I sat under the living room smoking buds bit by bit, listening to evil turn on itself upstairs.
Gorging on layers and layers of fears and anxieties, until everyone ends up becoming diminished. In order to survive the rigors of a pre-and-post-menstrual syndrome duo, one must develop complacency in the most arduous of situations. And then, there's waking up with. . .
Clandestine glances i'm not sure you were ever aware of.
I can usually tell because the subject puts on a poor acting face.
You were always good at acting.
Sometimes that's a downfall: caught unaware, resorting to emoting.
I thought I had found you out, but I was wrong all along.
I rose off of your couch, and poured myself a glass of water.
I ingested the relief, the moisture. . . I was finally awake.
"See you later." I didn't even wait for the lack of response as I stumbled out the front door. Freedom.
Spring brought the end to the frozen waste of water, now it was just another dwindling memory for some other perspective to skew. Men forget, but never forgive.
There was no connection to the other side anymore, and anyone could drown halfway to reaching the opposing shoreline where the lights shone no longer.
No point. You're free.
I took my first few steps, footfalls never touching the ground at the same moments.
Like riding a bicycle, I ran to nowhere in particular.
I would rather die a martyr than kill with injustice.