Soaking it all up...

Feels like I'm none the wiser...

But does it make any sense at all to know that it ends badly for all of us, even the happiest of us, the most well intentioned of beings, the most pure of heart and soul. How is it fair that we all the same lose everything that matters in the end-and yet to know as well, despite all this, as cruelly as the game is stacked, that it's possible to play it with a kind of joy? To try to make some meaning out of all this seems unbelievably quaint. Maybe I only see a pattern because I've been staring too long. But then again, maybe I see a pattern because it's there.

That's just the way you make me feel...

Don't make me spell it out for you,

all of the feelings that I've got for you,

can't be explained, but I can try for you.

You keep on asking me the same questions,

and second guessing all my intentions.

Should know by the way I use my compression,

that you've got the answers to my confessions.

Everybody wants something...

I think this is a sign from the universe that I'm going to make it out alive. Never before have I felt so calm, so sure that I can piggyback this into the existence I've always dreamt of. There is no more doubt or fear or second guessing. It's happening and I will be ready to embrace every second of it. I don't even care that I am jinxing it. Fate has now gone beyond that. Assurances have been made. The pact has been sealed. Now all I have to do is wait it through. And be ready when it comes.

He woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in his life, the strangest moment of all, when he didn't know who he was. Far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of old wood, and footsteps somewhere far in the distance, and all the sad sounds, and he looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who he was for about fifteen strange seconds. He wasn't scared though; he was just somebody else, some stranger, and his whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.

Under the influence...

When the night was full of terrors...

Allow me to describe my own sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through my mind. Let me describe them with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and use the images from my dreams. I will not try to blame life when it seems poor; rather to blame myself. To admit that I have not done enough to be granted its riches. And even if I find myself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds I will still have my memories and I'll turn my attentions to them. I will try to raise up the sunken feelings of my enormous past; and so my solitude will expand and become a place where I can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance.

Just strangers with memories...

The art of survival...

Afraid that you can't climb higher,

scared that your gonna fall,

every time the road gets harder.

How can I fly with eagles?

scared I'm gonna hit the wall,

today I woke up a fighter.

I've cried high tides...

I think I care too much about people forgetting me. Somehow I need to shift my legacy, so it's, ironically, less about me. Maybe it can be about everything I could do for another. Maybe I just need to try even harder to be someone people gravitate towards. Maybe I need to dream a little broader. With a heart that stretches farther and that won't fit anymore if I ever go back to the same place. I have to become a person of ideas and seek out my own kind. I think it finally makes sense: long ago, so far back I can barely remember, I discovered that staying the same is scary and ever since, changing has become my new home.

A road best left behind...

He wished he liked people more, but somehow he could never get on with them. He never knew what to say. If life was a party, he wasn't even in the kitchen. Sometimes he envied the people who made it seem like they were actually enjoying themselves. Could they possibly even be honest? And if so, could he somehow learn to do the same? There might be a spark of hope left for him, although he knew the limits of his imagination.

I have too many hopes in what's to come, I know. I hope to be led safely to the shore. I hope life will be nice to me, just nice and nothing more. I hope to vanquish this tornado of self doubt and insecurity. I don't ask for the sun to be always shining. I don't ask for the day to be much longer. I don't ask for the guiding stars to be brighter. I don't ask for more flowers or more powers. I don't ask for the sky to be clear from clouds, or for a lack of rain and frustration. All I ask for is some peace of mind. So indeed, I have too many hopes, it would seem. My wishes are infinite, so I wonder, what will the universe do? Don't disappoint me, I suppose, for it already knows.

I hope I learn to get over myself...

It was that time of the year when I kept slipping in and out of consciousness, just like that, several times during the day, as time stretched and flowed around me. At one point my fantasies and reality blurred to such an extent, that it was hard to figure out which was which. I liked my dreams better, though. In them I was fully forgiven, all my sins were washed away and I was able to embrace the love I was given. In them my deliverance is at hand, allowing me to ascend towards the heavens, as light as a feather. A man no longer trying to be somebody else. Someone who loves for free, with someone who just wants me.

The past is gone...

Find balance in the sacrifice...

We're in love with the world,

but the world just wants to bring us down.

By putting ideas in our heads,

that corrupt our hearts somehow.

When I was a child,

every single thing could blow my mind.

Soaking it all up for fun,

but now I only soak up wine.

Hope to find something I can cling on to...

Never getting younger...

I marvelled at the beauty of life and savoured the power and possibilities of my imagination. In these rare moments, I prayed, I danced, and I analysed. I saw that life was good and bad, beautiful and ugly. I understood that I had to dwell on the good and beautiful in order to keep my imagination, sensitivity, and gratitude intact. But in doing so I became the stars and the moon. I became the lover and the beloved. I become the victor and the vanquished. I become the writer and the words. I become the knower and the known. I knew it would not be easy to maintain this perspective. I knew I would often twist and turn, bend and crack a little, but I also knew that ... I would never completely break.

Let the music play until the end...

He turned away from the universe as not to fall for its plea, for it used to seduce and consume him, and there was this one night a few years back and he was not yet accustomed to farewells and just like now he stood waving long after the ship was gone. But he was younger then and easily fooled and the sky was deep and dark and blue and he took his clothes off to let the breeze freeze his bones. He waded until he could no longer walk and it was too cold to swim but still he kept on walking at the bottom of the sea for he could not tell the difference between the sky and the lack of someone he loved and he had not yet learned how the task of moving on is as necessary as survival.

I think if there's anytime for a fresh start, it's now. There is a longstanding rumor that spring is the time of renewal, but that's only if you ignore the depressing clutter and din of the season. All that flowering and budding and birthing, the messy youthfulness actually verges on squalor. Spring is too busy, too full of itself to be the best time for reflection, re-grouping, and starting anew. For that you need December. You need to have lived through the mindless imperatives of your life before you can see that a landscape of new fallen snow is the real you. December has the clarity, the simplicity, and the silence I need for the most profound awakening yet.

Never going to not dance again...

But, oh, one thing I'm never gonna do,

is throw away my dancing shoes,

and don't try me, really, not tonight.

I'll lay down and die,

I'll scream and I'll cry,

we've already wasted enough time.

For once I wouldn't start a fight...

Walking around the world...

No, there was nothing more to be done. He had tried not to go over the precipice, but perhaps the fall was inevitable. And it comforted him to think that the future was certainly inevitable; cause and effect would go jangling forward to some goal doubtless, but to none that he could imagine. At such moments the soul retires within, to float upon the bosom of a deeper stream, and has communion with the dead, and sees the world’s glory not diminished, but different in kind to what he has supposed. He alters his focus until trivial things are blurred. And ever since this has been the attitude with which he has always confronted life: from things too much waited for, too much embellished with anticipatory daydreams, there is in the end nothing he can do but run away.

I'm down for the ride...

I am sad to think that the worst case scenario is coming true. Of all the hardships I had to face so far, none seem to sting as much as the injustice of seeing someone you love get overlooked. The look of disappointment they give you, when they seek comfort in your eyes is heart wrenching. Even more punishing than the simple act of waiting. It's as if I've stepped off the edge of a cliff, and even though my heart's in my mouth and my stomach is in knots, I'm the most scared I've ever been in my life. I want to save both of us from the agony of unspent promises. And I want to be able to look in his eyes and say something meaningful. That would somehow make it okay. 

There are caravans we follow...

I am really nervous for him. More so than for myself. I know that I'm going to be fine either way, but I'm not so sure he will. And it's not that I don't think he's strong enough, it's just he has had so many disappointments that this might be the straw that breaks the camels backs. He is only human after all, and there is only so much one can take. Is there some way I can still steer the strands of fate? Can I somehow convince the universe to sacrifice my future for his? Or perhaps there's a way we both get what we want? Or what I fear most, me getting it, and him losing out by a thread. I guess this must be what purgatory is like. Can't go forward. Can't go back. Awaiting some official judgment. A proclamation of destiny. 

Hello. It's me. Are you there? Would really appreciate an answer. And I know he would as well. We haven't spoken in awhile, but I trust that you have been listening nonetheless. Please be gentle. To him. I'll be fine. But don't be too hard on me either. Not sure where you two had a falling out, but I think it's time you made amends. He's trying, you cannot deny that. And whatever grudge you still hold, it's time to let it go. Imagine me telling you what to do. The audacity. But I've always been bold. You know this. I have a sneaking suspicion that's what you secretly like about me. Anyway. How about it? Can you come through for both of us? Just this once?

Lay me down in sheets of linen...

Something in the orange...

It'll be fine by dusk light,

I'm telling you, baby,

these things eat at my bones 

and drive my mind crazy

But when I place my head between your collar and jaw

I don't know much 

but there's no weight at all.

Hold the sky, it's so wide...

It's coming down, no sound, it's all around...

I read somewhere, I've forgotten where exactly, that once, very long ago, Time fell in love with Fate. This, to me, immediately seemed problematic. As their romance would disrupt the flow of the universe. It would tangle the strings of fortune into knots. I wondered, what might happen to the days and nights were time to suffer a broken heart? What catastrophes might result if the same fate awaited Fate itself? Not sure what, but I think something happened to their love or maybe a higher power intervened. Because time continued to flow as it always had, or perhaps imperceptibly slower. Fate weaved together the paths that were meant to intertwine, though perhaps a string was missed here and there. Then suddenly, it seemed as if events that were once fated to happen were left instead to chance, and Chance never falls in love with anything for long. But the world is strange and endings are not truly endings no matter how the stars might wish it so. Maybe Fate can pull itself together again. And Time is always waiting.

Blurring out my periphery...

I think I have to accept that there are powers far beyond me. Machinations so above what I could ever think of, visions far more vast than what I can ever see with my own pathetic eyes. There are horizons long gone beyond my own. And I think this is what it means to be courageous - to throw away what are my own limited plans and to thrust myself into the hands of these higher powers. To do this is to abide in the realm of the eternal, to walk in the path of the everlasting to follow in the footprints destiny. But of course, I am still weak, and it is so hard to let go. Somehow a part of me thinks I am big enough to meet these strands of fate head one. Even now, as I gaze out the window, and barter with the universe, I wonder about letting go. I wonder what it is like to fly. 

Stars by the pocketful...

He considered himself a stained-glass window. And this is how he lives his life. Closing no doors and covering no light; he is the multi-colored glass with light filtering through him, in many different shades. Allowing light to shed and fall into many different hues. His job is not to direct anything, but only to filter into many colors. His answer is destiny and his guide is greatness. And there you have him.

A very simple recent learning: almost nothing important that ever happens to you happens because you engineer it. I found that destiny has no beeper; it always seems to lean trenchcoated out of an alley with some sort of 'psst' that you usually can't even hear because you're in such a rush to or from something important you've tried to engineer. Turns out, destiny is usually just around the corner. Waiting like a thief to steal away your plans, and replace them with its own grand design. 

Just like snow on a beach...

One night a few moons ago,

I saw flecks of what could've been lights,

but it might have just been you.

This scene feels like what I once saw on a screen,

I searched aurora borealis green,

I've never seen someone live from within,

blurring out my periphery.

I was sunshine, now midnight rain...

Always rooting for the anti-hero...

It's so easy to think that because you can't do something extraordinary, you can't do anything at all. And I've fallen into this trap many times. Small steps seem so ... small. Not monumental enough of shifts to make your heart race and fill you with adrenaline. And then it's easy to decide that if you can't overhaul your entire life in one fell swoop, then you might as well just do nothing. Dealing in these absolutes has been quite the trait of my journey. Often times it has led me to places I never imagined, but also got me stuck in voids without escape. Now, as there are but pieces of me left, I guess what I'm hoping for, is that starting from here, with what remnants of myself are left, I hope it's just the beginning for me. And that all these small steps, might lead me somewhere I've never been. 

Pierced through the heart but never killed...

Tale as old as time...

He leans into life. Even now, even when he's being hunted by shadowy figures, he gapes at the streets of his hometown, he lights up over the knowledge that the universe is listening to him, and continues to plan his grandiose life - as if it is coming true any second now. It's not just about the end goal for him; he wants to come to a place, where he can enjoy every moment of this fleeting life. Where he isn't in a hurry to get home, or in a rush to be alone. Where he isn't the one looking out the window, but enjoys being in the room.

Being gloomy in the fall isn't something new to me. It goes together with parts of me dying as the leaves fall from the trees and their branches become bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But even surrounded with all this decay, I know that there will always be the spring, as I know the river will flow again after it is frozen. And I am quite certain this is not the end of me. Not like this. Not from a cascade of impulsive decision. I am more than that. My story deserves more. 

Burning in a hopeless dream...

You know my nickname, and very obscure parts of my story shrouded in quotes, songs and incoherent ramblings. How the fuck am I still here? Especially during times like these, when it feels like everything has forsaken me. When I rummage over the hows and whys and watch my faith go dry. There was no chance given to explain, to change, to convince, to know better. Just a bang, a reckless decision and my path was completely altered. My mind is busted, life screwed, never the same. And now I know that I have done a terrible thing: I have postulated the basic building blocks of the universe, taunted it with my perception of invincibility, and then spat out to be left for dead. I am done. For to get what I once had, I must do what I once did. And that is impossible. I am done.

Lift me up...

Burning in a hopeless dream,

hold me when you go to sleep.

Keep me in the warmth of your love,

when you depart, 

keep me safe.

Safe and sound.

Take some time and stay with me...

My day dreams have started to possess a life of their own, and have become greater than I ever intended. Sometimes they scare me, for these were not ordinary fantasises my mind kept alive. They were my deepest desires, given life. Wisdom, given voice. They sang when starlight streamed through my mind and offered me new material to wrap my imaginations around. Through them I felt pain and suffered heartbreak. Sometimes they were sinister, grotesque, and would surely make me out to be a villain if ever spoke aloud. And there in lies its biggest magic. As long as I kept them to myself, the world wasn't as scary, because wherever there was darkness, there was also so much light.

Keep me safe and sound...

l

I'll stare directly at the sun...

He asked the universe, what is the one thing that will define his existence. Make it stand out from the rest. He knew he had to know if ever to find peace. For what is this brief mortal life than the pursuit of legacy? Much to his surprise, the universe answered. It told him that he won't be defined by the riptide trying to pull him out to sea, but by how hard he shall swim to get back to the shore. Then it slapped him across the face. He understood that perhaps it's time to quit making his current experience his identity. He has to slowly start remembering who he made him to be.

If a story does its job, it doesn't ever end. Not really. It forever remains in flow, changing with the nature of its teller. Bending to sensationalism and the theatrics we pursue to make our lives seem a little less dull. Our life stories shift with each iteration. They take whatever form suits the bearer best. What begins as a story of sorrow can be acknowledged, held like a sweetheart to the chest, rocked and sung to. And then it can be set down to sleep. It can become an offering. A lantern. An ember to lead you through the dark.

I'm a monster on the hill...

I wake up screaming from dreaming...

When my depression works the graveyard shift,

all of the people I've ghosted,

stand there in the room.

I should not be left to my own devices

They come with prices and vices, 

and I end up in crisis.

I get older, but just never wiser...

I hesitate in everything, often without knowing why. How often I've sought - as my own version of the straight line, seeing it in my mind as the ideal straight line - the longest distance between two points. I've never had a knack for the active life. I've always taken wrong steps that no one else takes; I've always had to make an effort to do what comes naturally to other people. I've always wanted to achieve what others have achieved almost without wanting it. Between me and life there were always sheets of frosted glass that I couldn't tell were there by sight or by touch; I didn't live that life or that dimension. I was the daydream of what I wanted to be, and my dreaming began in my will: my goals were always the first fiction of what I never was.

It's me, hi, I'm the problem...

Swimming in a flood...

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

and that has made all the difference.

Life is made of moments. And choices. Not all of them matter, or have any lasting impact. They are small choices, really. Insignificant as soon as they're made. Innocent. But then. Then there's a different kind of moment. One when things are irrevocably changed by a choice we make. A moment we will play endlessly in our minds on lonely nights and empty days. One we'll search repeatedly for some indication that what we chose was right, some small sign that tells us the truth isn't nearly as awful as it feels. Or as awful as anyone would think if they knew. So we explain it to ourselves, justify it enough to sleep. And then we bury it deep, so deep we can almost pretend it never happened. But as much as we wish it were different, the truth is, our worlds are sometimes balanced on choices we make and the secrets we keep.

Too late to pursue...

Time is such a crazy thing, a junction of every second turning into minutes then hours, and finally into a lifetime. More precious than gold, money, or talent. In the end, it all comes down to how long we still have left to live. And recently I have become aware that I perhaps don't have as much as I thought I did. Yet I keep wasting it, while at the same time grasping for opportunities to make it seem like I am not. To excuse the fact that, as it turns out, I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing, but still allow myself the satisfaction of knowing that perhaps I have not completely fallen off track. I think I'm rambling again. I need a break. 

When chances breathe between the silence...

I saw you dancing out the ocean,

running fast along the sand,

a spirit born of earth and water,

fire flying from your hands.

Hold me closer, tiny dancer,

count the headlights on the highway,

lay me down in sheets of linen,

you had a busy day today.

When his lies became the truth...

Keeping the dream alive...

The truth beckons...

The choices I have made created these burdens I currently bear. Snap decisions that seemed like the pursuit of my destiny, but turned out to be pitfalls of my delusions of grandeur and ego. And now I am stuck here, between a rock and a hard place, with sorrow I don't know how to shake. It is slowly breaking me, even though I am putting on a brave face. I don't see a light at the end of the tunnel. All I see is darkness enveloping me with each passing moment. Deeper and deeper. Is there some choice I am blind to, that would lead me from this cursed state? Something that would make the universe heed my calls once more?

Some might call me unholy...

Everything turns in circles and spirals with the cosmic heart until infinity. Everything has a vibration that spirals inward or outward - and everything turns together in the same direction at the same time. This vibration keeps going: it becomes born and expands or closes and destructs - only to repeat the cycle again in opposite current. Like a lotus, it opens or closes, dies and is born again. Such is also the story of the sun and moon, of me and you. Nothing truly dies. All energy simply transforms.

See, forgiveness doesn't happen all at once. It's not an event - it's a process. Forgiveness happens while you're asleep, while you're dreaming, while you're in line at the coffee shop, while you're showering, eating, jerking off. It happens in the back of your mind, and then one day you realize that you don't hate the person anymore, that your anger has gone away somewhere. And you understand. You've forgiven them. You don't know how or why. It sneaked up on you. It happened in the small spaces between thoughts and in the seconds between ideas and blinks. Because anger and hatred, when left unfed, bleed away like air from a punctured tire, over time and days and years. Forgiveness is stealth. At least, that's what I hope.

Keeping dreams alive...

Power surged through me: unfettered power, unimaginable power. It coursed through me and gave life to my maddened cry, feeding it, making it unnecessary even to breathe. Deeper and deeper my scream became, until it was the primal voice of the very land itself. It was raw, searing. It was the energy of making and undoing, and I had unleashed it wide. But I am amazed how it's not going in, but it's expanding out. So now I don't have to keep trying to make sure there isn't a little atom bomb inside me. But I can trust there is energy everywhere outside, and all I have to do is be open to it. So it comes back to me at the same time.

So caught in the dark...

I've been strong, for so long,

that I never thought, 

how much I needed this.

Strangers rushing past, 

just trying to get home, 

but you are the only safe haven, 

that I've known.

Stay right by my side...

A little lost without you...

Things happened to him, like the crying fits, the panic attacks, but they seemed to descend on him from outside, rather than emanating from somewhere inside himself. And then he found himself standing in a room, looking around, seeing thousands of himself. He banged the walls made of mirrors, but they wouldn't break. Their laugh filled his heart and with fear, he curled up and sat there. And then she came out of nowhere and wrapped her arm around him. She held his hand, together they got up and walked towards a wall. He raised his head and looked at the reflections, but all he saw there was only himself. She turned and smiled at him and touched the wall. It cracked and shattered into pieces. She inside him broke all the walls around him. He was free, or at least one step closer to accepting his new reflection.

Please be true...

Stars, too, were time travellers. How many of those ancient points of light were the last echoes of suns now dead? How many had been born but their light not yet come this far? If all the suns but ours collapsed tonight, how many lifetimes would it take us to realize we were alone? He had always known the sky was full of mysteries - but not until now had he realized how full of them his journey was.

I slipped in and out of consciousness as time stretched and flowed around me. Dreams and reality blurred, but I liked the dreams better. In them I did my best to fight and claw my way back to the life I once knew, but panic had taken over and colours were swirling and fading all around me. It was all turning into a great cloud of blackness, just like the one I had seen in my dream. The looming cloud of nothingness I had feared for so long was finally grabbing me, wiping my world dark and blank. The darkness was thick and intense, an inky void that stretched to eternity in every direction.

I've been thinking, I need you to save me...

Some ways less and some ways more...

I wanna wake up

with your weight by my side,

and I wanna think that

you look good as you rise.

And I wanna turn to you,

turn around by your side,

and I want to think,

but not to say.

Let me face,

the sound and fury.

Let me face

hurricanes.

Tell me when all of this will end...

All them little tricks...

Naturally - and why should I not admit this - I have recently wondered quite extensively how things might have turned out in the long run, if I didn't uproar my life in such a way. I only speculate this now because in the light of subsequent events, it could well be argued that in making my decision, I was perhaps not entirely aware of the full implications of what I was doing. Indeed, it might even be said that this small decision of mine constituted something of a key turning point; that that decision set things on an inevitable course towards this pit I have found myself in. But then, I suppose, when with the benefit of hindsight one begins to search one's past for such turning points, one is apt to start seeing them everywhere. What would have transpired, one may ask, had my vanity not completely washed over me?

I got my head out the sunroof...

The truth can have a funny way of revealing itself. One would like to think, in all its undeniable power, it would always be obvious. Either golden, a glorious beam that parts the clouds and lights the way, or totally hideous, a nasty pit that opens up in the earth, completely dark save the theroid eyes and teeth of those terrible monsters that reside there. But it can be sneakier than these. It can be pernicious. It can creep in like smoke, slowly but unwavering, until all that's left is that blackness that one would expect in the pit, but instead of the monsters, it's the thing itself that begins to kill you, only from the inside out.