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.