New Tea Lover’s Treasury makes a joke about cucumbers and gunpowder tea. I find this hilarious, and realize probably no one else ever will. I have found my calling :P
Finally hit the wall, that one that happens at three am when the world is asleep and you are wide awake.
You sit in wonder and many whys, looking at the path you have trod for the past month or two.
You aren’t happy.
You aren’t sad either, but you know something is wrong. What do you do?
You begin to plan, you begin to plot, you begin to scheme. How will we get out of this one now?
Then that is when the calmness comes.
The welcoming absence of self that whispers as it screams utter silence.
You throw away your plans, your plots, your schemes.
You will live and live pure, no more hiding now young one.
You call yourself out, great ego takes a back seat and you begin to drive.
Now I will be as I truly am, no more hiding now young one.
So here I sit, writing in remembrance of the step back in the right direction that I took today.
I am here, and I shall be alive.
No more hiding now young one.
Wake up in a cold sweat, knee knocker against the half poured glass, to and fro like the seas of yore. She followed me here?
Your pseudo uncle harassing the attendants in the checkout line. Many of the young faces, helping the old and decrepit. This man they begin and trail off, their complaints fading into oblivion. Whose day will he ruin today?
You sitting in the back of the truck among five siblings, the youngest your friend the rest you roughly admire in one way or another, the oldest turns from the wheel and continues Oldest of five siblings younger than 48 he exclaims now that’s a fucking miracle right there.
Meanwhile we switch scenes and see a woman across the street 72 floors up on her knees, staring at her wrinkled hands and screaming nothingness into the abyss of sound. Gravity beckons.
All the while, a large face occupies the screen. With those dead eyes he stares deep and the constant droning over and through of the same thing; Everything is not alright. Each time in another foreign tongue yet equally understandable to you. What is happening here? A slow zoom onto the wrinkled face and he keeps going.
He turns just in time, the old truck finds the air and launches itself over the hill. The music swells and Yahweh and Lucifer shake their cups, let the dice fall. The first goes through the windshield head first, the second breaks her neck, the third and fourth play a sick game of tennis with their skulls, laughing all the while. Everything is still in the moments before. Contact.
The woman in the building has found her legs, and walks slowly to the edge.
Your uncle has drawn the rest of the attendants outside, he has left soap in the driveway and everyone is in wheelchairs and slipping and sliding down the way. Screams of laughter, this angry old man has brought them joy. No one sees him slump down into the next. His part is over, his stage departed.
All the while, the old man continues. Everything is not alright in every language you’ve never heard. Everything is not alright he continues, no feasible end in sight.
You begin to shake, but it’s not the cold. You’ve woken up from the nightmare in a place unknown, as a person unknown. What is this? You walk into the crisp cold air and it hits you too late, your terror and the memory of it all. What will you do? Nothing?
Everything is not alright.
Be here for a moment.
I’m sitting in an empty house with only my dog for company. He sits on a pile of boxes so he can see out the window, holding his solemn vigil over the backyard he has called both home and bathroom for many years now. I find it very loud in here, but there is no sound. Only the hanging dust of occupants now out and about, I am no disturbance to the quiet empty.
All the different sides in me become silent for a moment, and that’s when you hear it. Really hear it for the first time, probably how he hears it. Nothing. Nothing at all.
A blissful nothingness, a silence of the mind in an empty house where the dust is unperturbed by one such as I.
This is where I occupy.
Be here for a moment.
Anonymous asked: Where do you stand on relationships with your parents, girl/boy friend, and friends, If you don't mind me asking? Couldn't help but to be curious.
give me your best guess and I’ll give you mine
I am a young white male, here are the things that I am held responsible for according to the internet;
The enslavement and oppression of an entire race
The genocide of another
Every crime of abuse against women
Being a racist all the time
Probably other things
Fuck all that. I know none of you and chances are you don’t know me. I won’t place you into categories when I meet you, please don’t do the same to me. I’m tired of having to take responsibility for things I never did and would never had done.
If I have to read another article on how men are terrible and how I’m a terrible human being I’m going to rage.
Why should I bother sharing something that is not mine? Value is not inherent in the number of eyes that have beheld it. You stand as a mirror to the world, gazed upon but never gazing. Let them be. Let them share what they could never create and call each other artists and intellectuals. I have nothing for you. Your lifestyle is your own, and since you have brought nothing to the table, then I see no reason to share it with the world.
Somewhere, out there, In a very different but all too similar way as right here, life is happening. I would like to know, to be there, to taste it and feel it. Feel as the very winds of change blow mountains into dust and dust into ideas. I want to taste that breeze, to fall into its embrace and let it sweep me off into that other, where all things go eventually. But I feel that life doesn’t always happen that way. I feel that sometimes it just happens in the small moments, and even then the results can be shattering
Lights fade slow on this mid winters eve, a slow flicker of faded sight. We are the revenant, the witness to nothingness, the deep empty of yester morn. What tongues do speak the words of lost nights? I am the foul. The forge of the abyss, the pit. I slumber in fear, in reticent hope of a rising of light that I fear will never come. This was never for you, stop and listen to the whispers I have sent upon the wind. You will know
but i’m not really.
It’s early and I’m falling away.
Into another tomorrow.
Who is watching now, God?
Oh and sometimes I lo and behold that grizzled face in my mirror at the witching hour. Who are you, you drawn out bastard staring back at me? This is nothing and yet everything and just a little too much for me to handle. Razor razor sing your tune, it’s only december but feels like June. Make them wonder, provoke the thought. I’m not exactly lost but I’m probably not found, nearest ditch on the double.
I might make it, who knows.
Odds are falling rapidly below sealevel.
See you on the otherside.
The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali
I am waiting for something. Everytime I walk down the sidewalk outside my place, I look both ways before beginning my journey. Not check, look. I don’t know what is coming, screaming across the multitude in a flurry of blurred lines and neon flashes of damnation incarnate, born of starstuff. I look, I feel, I wait. I can see them coming for me, I will be here
I am sitting curled up in bed one hand clutching my stomach the other my head and rocking back and forth and asking myself why all of this pain, why right now. I look into nothing, i wonder what i should read, what I should drink, I am wandering through all of this without the life raft, i am lost and without meaning. Goddamn where is the red button, the one that ejects life and puts me back in the seat, give me a sign and set me free, amen, alleluia and i’ll see you tomorrow, sign off, check out, go on board with the waves, the show, the neverending stream of confetti and lies that we poured over your lives, this is the jungle of yesterday, the wasteland of tomorrow, the forgotten place of today. We are the simply, the meekly, the poorly done half assed drawings of an absent generation, attempting to create art for the blind, music for the deaf and ask questions of the dumb. Where will you sink to? Will you sink so that the pressure hurts or will you sink to the top where the pressure is only your own?
I am the infinite in this moment, pain and pleasure and forgotten censure, the roiling tumbling avalanche of me.
You will remember my name.