Down a dark alley way, a dog looks to me in suspicion, indecisive if I’m worth the taste.
I feel he senses I’m out of place; that I do not belong here.
Is this why I’m here?
Is it possible I’ve grown to hate the idea of “belonging”?
All I know is this is the perfect place to get lost in.
To be a nobody.
I walk past, keeping its presence in my peripheral, while directing my vision toward the iron bars ahead, and the crowd behind it.
If you truly pay no mind to a nervous animal, they tend…
I’ll tell you like it is and I won’t hold back.
The problem is that you desire to control and to image-pad and to prevent nature from showing its true teeth.
You desire to not be who and where you are as you are.
You feel that it’s not amenable and pleasurable and desirable and inline with this fantastic image you imagine to be in your head.
But you’re just as confused as the rest of them.
You run and run and seek and desire for this thing to happen as you believe it will bring you happiness but it…
I don’t need hope.
Why would I regulate what I can have now to hope?
Maybe it’s because I haven’t considered what I have now as much as I should have.
To drop into a senseless void to make sense of it all.
There are so many things at play here.
So many things I’ve only just come to understand and it doesn’t seem like it’s going to let up anytime soon.
Every time there’s a lull, things get turned over.
And then the spontaneous bursts come.
What is hope?
Hope is a whining. It’s a crying into the night…
Back in my own boots.
Not looking is what allows me to see.
No more getting twisted up in the roots.
No more trying to create waves when there’s no wind.
Either it’s captured, or it dies.
Once it’s gone, it’s gone.
No place to go, no place to see.
Almost 28 years, and it’s enough.
When I was young, almost nothing could affect me.
And I’m finally circling back.
Having recognized, that all my life, I’ve only ever done something, so that I may return, to doing nothing.
I’ve always abhorred, something.
I was never one, to chase.
It’s been a while. Stay a while.
Let me tell you about the daggers hanging, handles spinning; blades heavy, and ready to fall.
I knew they were there. I could hear them calling me.
“Don’t look up,” I thought.
Daggers in the ceiling.
False ideals; misguided chases.
Sharp truths, of every kind.
…Don’t look up.
But it was too late.
Having looked it in the eyes, it’d already found me.
Blood spilled, and I didn’t know what to think. Or was thinking too much.
I just had to let it sit with me; to nurse the wound. Even in doubt…
Things come to me and it’s impossible to manage them all.
Every time I think something is important, and that I must “file it away” — hours later, it’s gone with the wind — just to leave me alone in the desert, once again.
I always return to this place: this thatched, unstable hut.
The straw pillow digs into my face, and joy comes when this is okay with me.
Limitless joy is then born of “thick skin”.
But not in the traditional sense.
I trust that you can see the two couldn’t be more different.
The essence of my…
There’s something this world seems to be running away from. And we do this by pretending.
By pretending and hoping there’s something more, than this.
We do it with false emotions; by pretending to care about that which we do not. By pretending to be “better” than we are; to be a “good” person, so that we may feel good. By pretending, or genuinely feeling excited about that which, in a perfect world, we’d know by now can only leave us empty.
It bothers me when I see the disingenuousness in people. The sprawling and pathetic attempts to feel good.
Why waste a moment when you cannot know where it will lead?
This statement is made in response to two judgements: one that considers not “using” the moment as a waste — and one that says this moment will not lead where I want to go.
Both reek of impurity. This type of thinking can lead to nothing but problems.
The idea of wasting a moment comes from the idea that one must extract as much value out of it as possible.
And so it’s not about the moment, or living within it: it’s about what “I”, or the Mind…
Jump into this slipstream before I believe in your dream
People and shadows move together like ventriloquists
Pointed, exact, hidden secret portals allow one to enter new realms
And so let’s exit into a new one
What right now is standing in the way of me and instant genius?
Most certainly the mind
Most certainly distractions
But it’s not the distractions
It’s that you’re distractable
What’s standing in the way of instantly transcending this mind?
Need to do, need to produce, need to get somewhere
And why do I need to get away?
Is it because I’m running from myself…
White walls mocked me with their pale, blank, noseless stare,
As I looked to them for help.
I left that room without understanding.
And then I understood.
I understood that I was being used by the mind.
I stuck my head out the window, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
But I know that it cannot last long,
If I am still taken by the ideas it holds so dearly.
It seems to be that most problems arise from the inability to do nothing.
To stop the pursuit.
But we become so dependent on the pursuit.
We do not…