So I guess that it's true...

Rein me in...

In the cold,

to warm me up again

the weather's coming in.

Breathing out,

a force to breathe back in,

the panic's setting in.

Let me out,

so I can get back in,

I'm freaking out again.

When days are long, I drift away...

He wonders if there is something wrong with him; that he can get so much from so little. All his joy comes from not doing much of anything at all. And especially nothing that involves other people. How he came to be like this, is uncertain. He must be very selfish, he thought, for he sets nothing and no-one right; all he wants is to be left in peace to make what he can of this problem called life for himself and his family. Is such a life sustainable? The only constant so far has been that people have left, for he knows he isn't really someone that brightens your day. And he has never really had a problem with that at all. 

If I stop, it's just pain...

It is warm, he is alive, he is calm and sad, he hardly knows why. In this existence so even, so tranquil, and so gentle as he has here, he falls into melancholies of honey and roses. It seems to him that all those friends he loves forget him.

The unreality of the past weeks lifted like a fog, but its residue remained. All of the past is like that, but most especially the parts that are out of the ordinary. I step back further, until I feel cold tiles against my back. It is then I get the glimmer that I associate with memory. As my mind tries to settle on it, it flutters away, like ashes caught in a breeze, and I realize that in my life there is a then, a before, though before what I cannot say, and there is a now, and there is nothing between the two but a long, silent emptiness that has led me here, to me and him, in this home.

The one who always runs...

Leave it all in my head...

In that moment, I felt the canvas of my life lift away from my head, walls flying off me, and a pressure I've never put into words hisses somewhere at the back of my mind as the size of the universe assembles itself in my mind. If I close my eyes, I can see it, the endlessness beyond my ears, and knowing I'm only in a corner of that vastness doesn't make me feel tiny. It is amazing that, though I am small and so insignificant, even I can appreciate the scale of life. And from this perch in my mind, for this moment at least, it seems unimportant whether I will go somewhere, anywhere, when it's all over.

Tell me who's to blame...

All of my favorite stories,

end in some kind of catastrophe,

but I don't need someone to save me,

because this thing that is not a blog and I will never die.

It's such a fucked situation,

petal in the pavement,

just as long as he keeps getting it right,

heartbreak won't bite,

here in paradise.

I hear her in the silence...

Tomorrow is coming faster than expected, as if the future were never somewhere else, but all along part of the fabric of my every present, merely untwining itself again and again into a new distinction that could never truly be new. So I start now to move on not forgetting, but taking the memories with me in my heart and in ink. It's the only way I can somehow hold onto them. Or at least slow down enough every other day to remind myself that I am still here. Somehow the leaf has fallen and it's time for a new one to grow before I let my life live me to death.

Endless pictures of a life that isn't mine...

Each wave that rolls onto the shore has to release back to the ocean. I am the same. Each wave of action I take must release back to the peace within me. I get the most stressed when I resist this natural process. If anything is evident, is that I need a break. Denying it, isn't doing me any good. I need to let myself go and settle with the notion that sometimes, the best thing to do, is absolutely nothing.

He is not a victim of circumstance, situation, nor any external condition of life. He is an active participant in the creation of his reality. He is actively participating in the creation of what he thinks, what he feels, what he spends his time on, who he spends his time with, what he consumes mentally and physically, and all the blessings and contrastive experiences that come his way. Every effect has a cause and every cause has an effect, all of which include him because it is his life to live, his life to use, and his life to throw away.

Loving you like that...

I'm sure you've heard it all before...

Put me in the sky...

Heartbeat, slow and low,

moving like a shadow flow.

Every step, every breath,

pulls me deeper in your chest.

We don't need a reason why,

no tomorrow, just tonight.

If we fall, let it be,

you're the only place I need.

I feel like the last one left...

A piece of writing comes to life, when I can feel it, when it talks to me and starts raising questions. It may dispel biased perceptions; make me recognize ignored fragments and remember forsaken episodes of my life story. And it may sometimes even be nasty and disturbing, especially when I don't want to consent to its philosophy or concept, but it might, in the end, perhaps reconcile us with ourselves. So after twenty-some pieces later of woven tapestry of words, we cradle our hands together, holding a hefty bronze key the size of his palm. There are cracks all over from how it's puzzled together, but it's in the proper shape of a key, and most of all, even if it was once broken, it looks whole again.