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Archive for the ‘Thoughts’ Category

Nothing

 

The sun beat down unforgiving on the frozen landscape. Nothing moved nothing breathed it was as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for something spectacular. Small Brown Eyes opened on this world of ice and silence, they opened and blinked, and then they closed. The Small Brown Eyes closed on the world and the world returned itself to void, to nothingness. It was a silent, gentle transition, no cataclysm just…

 

Nothing

 

Two children played in a sandbox building worlds of imagination and sand they had wars and adventures; they brought empires too their knees; turned knaves into heroes and always won the girls. Two ordinary boys on an ordinary day doing ordinary boy things. Two Brown Eyes blinked, Two Brown Eyes closed and Two Ordinary Boys disappeared into… well,

 

Nothing

 

Two people, one bed. The sex was loud messy and every teenagers wet dream. She was gorgeous passionate, he was masculine strong; both virile. She arched her back and cried out in her release her long black hair falling picture perfect about her shoulders and breasts. Wide Brown Eyes watched. Wide Brown Eyes blinked and reluctantly closed and The Two Lovers dimmed and turned to mist to…

 

Nothing

 

Two Brown Eyes looked out on a world that was normal, predictable, boring and real. Two Brown Eyes closed and the world disappeared, and reappeared extraordinary and unbelievable. The world unrolled, folded itself, rearranged and remade itself. Two Brown Eyes watched and orchestrated. Two Brown Eyes, blinked and closed and returned to the ordinary, the boring. The World unrolled, rearranged, remade and disappeared into…

 

Nothing

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Unfocused and Unbound, staring, not seeing.

There is a distant space that grabs at my attention, pulling my sight towards it; through my Eyes my Soul flows. Out, flying Out to meet my vision’s gravity, pulled out of Here and Now drawn to invisibility.
My Eyes are magnetisized. Seeing; traveling so far out that I return through the back of my head. Always it is quicker to retrace the light years than pass through my mind. Inside is more distance than all of Outerspace, Innerspace is far more of a vacuum. So much empty area; floating, gently colliding and rebounding.
A dark maze with but one end: down the rabbit hole to the fields by the river Illeism to the mountains against the stars, the land of frost and forest to the tip top where the still lake is a silent mirror. Up here there is no wind, up here the only sound is the sound you bring with you. Shout and the lake shatters the stars and you fall up to meet the broken pieces of the sky to fall back again to a plain surrounded by cliff walls. You awake to where you were all along, the Here and Now, only you have been absent, on a journey light years away to the edge of the universe where it bends back on itself and you ended up lost in your own mind and only just now retraced your steps.

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I can feel it building, damming up in my head, ready to spill and thrill and destroy and, and, and… I was reading Bukowski today, probably not the best thing to be reading. He has a way of making a good day bad. Not the happiest of people but that is what makes him so compelling I think, here is somebody who has it worse than you, who can make your good day shit and you love him for it. Says something about you doesn’t it?

All these double letters in the middle of these words which are completely meaningless and what was I saying?

It happens sometimes, after a long period of no text, of a blank page and a full mind. It happens that all these thoughts build up and overflow into one-another. The girl I am fucking, the girl I used to fuck, the dog and her bad habits, the job I don’t have or the one I do. Till it becomes one big ball of dog-fuck-girl-job-fuck-etc. In my head and NOTHING makes any God Damned sense. She doesn’t like it when I say that; God Damn. It bothers her, as if God listened to me and would personally damn that which I condemn. As if I haven’t fallen out of His sight.

It’s spilling out of me now, into my fingertips and onto the page. A giant ball of damned thoughts and forgotten essays on the vulgarities of a meaningfully meaningless life. And if that makes any sense to you than you are worse off than I am and better for it too.

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“What happens to poems and texts unwritten?” Good question. I would like to think they continue to live, they continue to flit and float and grow and change until they are pinned down, or rather penned down on page or byte. However I also beleive that even after it is penned a verse or song does not die, it continues to change and grow with each reading. Words are the onlything thing I know of that can continue to live and change and grow and become something even more powerful even after they have been housed and boxed, as long as there are eyes to read and minds to comprehend nothing ever writen can die.

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Don’t really have anything to say, nothing meaningful. I just feel the need to write, to express in some way. The wind is gale force outside my window. It blows the world before it. It carries what is here far away and brings what was far, near. I am like this wind. I drift and carry with me all that I brought from the places I have been. I have left pieces of me in these far of places and brought new pieces with me. A patchwork man, a whole man made of small pieces. Fragments and pieces glued together with love and friendship, regret and loss, with all the things that make life what it is. I am a plaid man, a patchwork quilt of love and loss, of rage and regret, of family and friends; of memory, of experience. I am melancholy as I stand yet again at a crossroads and ask the same questions as before: Left? Or right? Only this time I think neither. I will walk straight, and let the pieces fall where they will. Or rather I will take the pieces with me as the wind does, gather new pieces and leave other pieces behind, as the wind does.

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Man is an exaltation of himself.

At least that is what he should be, what he is… that is something altogether different. What is and what should be are two complete and separate beings. The IDEAL, what we have been taught to revere, to put up on a pedestal and never attain will never be attained. For the very reason which I have just described. It was put out of reach, out of attainability by the fear of the great, by the squirming mass which hates greatness because it reveals its smallness.

We are a foolish race because we constantly fool ourselves into believing the least of ourselves. We apologize for and retreat from our own greatness. And the sad thing, the horrible commentary of society is that we love it. We love being brought low, being debased.

I have lived two roads, two paths. I have travelled in the way of the ‘righteous man’ I have wandered the paths of ‘iniquity’ and everywhere Man is the same. Full of fear. We deny ourselves. We revel in the small, in the mean, in the disgusting. In places of spiritual worship across the world Men compare trial and tribulations, they wear smallness as a badge of accomplishment. In the land of the low, of the unwashed, Men laugh at their dirtiness at their ineffectualness and brag about how this elevates them above the greater man because they belong to an imaginary tapioca called “The Common Man”.

I now have a name for that which I have hated in people for the longest time. I at one point called it selfishness. Foolishly I believed the primping and preening and pretending were selfish. I was wrong. It is selflessness; it is subservience to another, one who you don’t even know, can’t even see: the faceless nameless mass.

We are a great creation, a wonderful being yet we constantly debase ourselves by committing the ultimate treason to self: the abdication of self. There is a quote from a movie I saw, a quote which I held on to because of the haunting quality of what it entailed. “You have lost your muchness.” Humanity has lost its muchness. It’s drive for greatness has become the quest for the “greater good”; it’s search for divinity has become an endless circle of prayers and obeisance to a man on raised platform or placed on cross. To search for yourself in the reflection of the eyes of others is to surrender yourself to the mass. Imagine the mass as a seething pile of maggots tearing at the exposed flesh of the world reducing it all to bloody pulp, to undistinguished piles of sameness. There is no Muchness in Sameness. There is only the ‘norm’ and those who do not belong.

I want my Muchness back.

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Lost in memories you wonder why.

I do not. It is not for me these ponderings on past lives.

I do not question, it is for me merely to contend or to concede

If I must contend I will do so till my cause is won or I am beaten

I will be ruthless in my campaigns, pitiless in my press; if I am to carry the day I will do so without remorse.

I am not soft, my heart is not week, my soul is not lacking.

 

 

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