Windflowers and wild horses...

Once in a dream I saw a snake swallowing its own tail, it swallowed and swallowed until it got halfway round, and there it stopped and there it stayed, it was stuffed with its own self. Remined me of how I only have myself to go on. And for me, that has always been enough. 

I think my entire life I have been drawn to all the wrong things: I like to drink, I'm kind of lazy, like playing video games, and enjoy being settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being. My own little world, with set rules that only I can influence. All of this doesn't make for an interesting person, I know. But I don't necessarily want to be interesting. It just seems way too big of a hassle. So many things to think or and take into consideration. What I really want is only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone. 

My dreams make a mess of me...

Who wants to live forever...

Don't you just want to wake up, dark as a lake?

Smelling like a bonfire, lost in a haze?

If you're drunk on life, I think it's great,

but while in this world,

I think I'll take my whiskey neat.

Guilty as sin...

One last souvenir...

His life is made up of a collection of moments that are not his to keep. The pain he encounters throughout his days spent on this earth comes from the illusion that some moments can be held onto. He clings to people and experiences that were never his in the first place, and that's what causes him to miss out on the beauty of the miracle that is the now. All of this is his, yet none of it is. How could it be? When will it stick into that thick head of his!? Everything is fleeting. To love and let go, love and let go, love and let go. It's the single most important thing he still has to learn in this lifetime.

Let it once be me...

I'd like to believe that I am primarily internally driven, because I know how different it feels. Instead of being drowned by the the weight of expectation coming down from the outside, I get to suffocate as power overflows my body. External pressure breaks me down, makes me even shorter, and places upon my heart a curious burden. Internal drive fills up every crevice of my body, slows down time and barely allows me to breathe. But within that state, I get to grow and run to faraway places yet not landed in my destiny. And how strange it is that no matter how far away I might float, I always find the way back to me - ready for anything.

The tortured poets department...

Still, there are times he is bewildered by each mile he has traveled, each meal he has eaten, each person he has known, each room in which he has slept. As ordinary as it all appears, there are times when it is beyond his imagination.

I've dreamed a lot in this life. Of so many different things. Of different worlds. Of different selves. Of fantastical beasts. Of the unlikely hero I become. Of lovers and friends. Of death and sorrow. Of ascendancy and unending existence. I have dreamt for so long that now I am tired from dreaming but not tired of dreaming. I don't think I'll ever tire of dreaming, because to dream is to forget, and forgetting does not weigh on me. It is a dreamless sleep throughout which I remain awake. And despite it all, through dreams I have achieved everything.

Got cursed like Eve got bitten...

The only thing that's left is the manuscript.

One last trip from my trip to your shores.

Now and then I reread the manuscript,

but the story isn't mine anymore.

Hand on the throttle...

Re-do my prophecy...

Oh life ... how often have you laid yourself before him and forced him to see his reflection. And how he screamed enough! Enough of life so much. Not knowing that the cause for his rupture, was his break with life. His sense of unworthiness, his disbelief in his own prophecy. So there he stands; wronged, maimed, spoiled for aspiration. Farewell life! He screams into the void. And then he hides his eyes and thinks it all ended. But there it is, so quiet only dogs can hear it whisper. Life calls to him in some transformed, apocryphal, new voice. Above him, or below him, or around. He lifts his head and tries to name it. Nature, love, the universe. Trying to trick himself, because he is more ashamed of his own compensations than his griefs. Still, life's voice! Still, he makes peace with life.

I look in people's windows...

This self that I have become now as I leant over the gate looking down over fields rolling in waves of colour beneath me gave no answers. And there is no more opposition. No attempted phrase. My fists do not form. I simply wait. And I listen. But nothing comes to me, nothing. So I cry then with a sudden conviction of complete desertion, accept again that now there is nothing. No fins that break the waste of this immeasurable sea. Life has taken its toll on me. No echo comes when I speak, no varied words. This is more truly the downfall than the death of grandparents, than the death of youth.

Wildflowers and wild horses...

There is something deeply authentic about grappling with our fate. It is looking at a long trail of twisted life-decisions that got us spinning into the abyss. So like all things, we have a choice - and for better or worse we spiral. Embrace the chaos. Go to ruins.

It's not fair. It's not fair that he gets a pass to let his ambition take over, that he lets it rule him. He should be better at controlling it. Knowing when it's okay to let it steer his path, and when he must aggressively press the brakes and stop before collision. It's not right that he gets to be two people. The shy dreamer that passes without a trace, and a hurricane that leaves nothing unturned and no one unscathed. And those unlucky to be caught in the wake of his ascension, have to take what he has to give, and pick up the pieces afterwards.

It's been me the whole damn time...

You think you know me, 

but you hardly even know yourself.

I'd bite my tongue,

and let you think I only wish you well.

So go ahead and ruin someone else's life,

go bug somebody else, so I can sleep at night.

I'll take my whiskey neat...

Fireworks and rollerblades...

Smelling like a bonfire, lost in a haze...

Coming back is always so exhausting. Especially when you are now forced to face reality. The burden of imminent defeat. The calamity of unwavering disappointment. My best try is severely lacking, that I can admit. I guess it's my best under very strenuous circumstances. Not at all ideal. My heart's in it, I'm maybe just not willing to sacrifice enough. I'm not even that afraid of failure. The last years have hardened me for any sort of stumble, so this fall shouldn't hurt that much. I guess in a way I am testing my karma. My power of manifestations. Where are the limits? Where does my good grace end? And how far I've come in accepting that some things are just not meant for me.