I love to write. It comes out in spurts. I’ve half- heartedly promised books, memoirs, best selling insight and cracked open expression of what it’s like to have this ancient soul in a world full of fresh and slightly scarred beings.
I am not a lonely person. I’m often alone.
I wonder if people can hear me a lot of the time…through all of their stuff.
all of their crutches, boundaries, walls and bubble wrap.
it all appears to come out muffled…misinterpreted…a novelty.
Do they hear me when I say, it just isn’t that way?
Do they hear me when I see and speak to what’s stopping them…why their story states how broken they are and how right they are that that’s the way it is?
That they are the way they are. That this world is the way it is. That I am the way I am.
That the safest bet is to give up.
or control – even better.
i am not in control of anything.
i’m flowing with it. i’m unhinged, unattached, hurdling towards an end, to start again?
or just end.
i can’t swim.
and i’m too skinny to float. sink like a rock.
i can’t fly.
i’m no longer afraid to keep trying.
it’ll end. no use trying to control that.
there’s no such thing as control.
there’s also no such thing as drama.
isn’t there enough going on to get it’s just happening?
make a new dream or stick to this one.
does it serve you?
does faith become some sort of esoteric concept that you white knuckle your way towards.
i believe, goddamn it…now let me have it.
let me prove it.
let me show you i believed enough to get what i want the way i want it…now.
why aren’t you listening? why aren’t you being what i believe you to be?
why are you always stopping and starting and making excuses and running.
you can’t get away.
stay put. be present. soak up all of the nothing around you.
it’s empty and meaningless.
put whatever you want in the pot. it is all made up.
there’s nothing cooking.
there’s nowhere and nothing else besides this.
until there’s this. which is this. it’s not anything besides this. it’s just this.
there’s no better or worse.
there’s no holy grail. there’s no perfect one, experience, success or event outside of me that will make this worth it.
it just is.
because it is.
want something? create it.
make it up.
write a story.
sit in the movie theater that is your life and get that you are creating it scene by scene and no one is in the theater with you.
it’s your movie.
no one sees it like you.
no one loves like you. no one dreams like you. no one wants what you want.
and all of this is meaningless as well.
you put the emotion in.
you feel what you feel because you chose to feel it.
you made that up too.
work with your hands.
stare at a wall until it excites you.
this weird mass of what we call elements and energy and life because we chose to and then decided what was beautiful to make what isn’t…in our personal movie…wrong.
outside of you nothing is. you’re it. you are the only constant in the time your heart is beating, your mind is firing and your lungs inhale and exhale.
and yet incomprehensible – that’s sad. that’s morbid. that’s dark. that’s not ok. i have to get away from this. i don’t believe this. i have faith in bubbles and sunshine and perfect love between goddesses and gods that ignite the world with their essence and beautiful display of made up fairy tale nothing.
you’re alone. it’s quiet. fall in love with it.
cry because you get that your eyes leak because you want to emote, express, feel and display the orgasm of life.
yep, tears. orgasm coming out of your eyes.
it’s a release isn’t it?
what is that big old O? a release. of all you pent up inside looking for a place to put it.
share it, sure.
but keep it. it’s yours. there’s no one sharing your popcorn.
write some new scenes. stop and enjoy nothing.
make up the love song and live it out.
and that, i believe, is beautiful.