Could've been anyone

Ambling past the corner where Saturday night events are stapled in bright hues to wooden panels, meets a building that uses the smokescreen of "condemned" to harbor unfinished business with the mirth of resilient residents, my gaze brushes past the mural. My heart is drawn to it, far more than my eyes, which are now stretching as far to the right as possible to avoid the brilliant colors, flaking off in old age. Limbs of softly painted branches curve around scenes of each season. I remember stopping there and eyeing the entire artwork from top to bottom. It had been warm and exciting. I had peeled away a strip of white paint and remarked that I could draw on it. I withdrew my black sharpie from the side pocket of my jeans and held it out in front of me, relinquishing my sword to its rightful place. Black ink absorbed the strip, curving lines like the acrylic trees. We had to keep going though, so I carried it with us, accumulating a pile of scavenged items as I so often did on these walks. I remember that your interest in the mural extended as far as a quick glance at the sunsets and winter scenery. You were content to stand there behind me though, as I took it all in. You could've been anyone in that respect. But at times when I find myself sitting on the leather bound stool, snapping my wrist against the edge of the rosewood and plucking the curled iron, I wish it were you that sat opposite me, fingering complimentary melodies. It's terribly futile to think of these things now, so my eyes won and guided the rest of me back to the concrete slabs, stacked one in front of the other, stretching farther than I cared to see.

Winter

"The whole world is a narrow bridge; the important thing is not to be afraid."

Sometimes fortune cookies can give decent advice.

The cold was bearable because my thoughts were consumed with warmth. Wooden planks supporting lazy admiration. I walk by them sometimes, and sometimes there's a momentary unsettling feeling. I don't want to be entangled in your tourniquet and feel inclined to speak in monosyllables. I want to feel the railing in my grip, leaning far over the bridge. While watching cars pass by frantically, I thought it wasn't right. I thought that it wouldn't last much longer and that I would have to walk away. The attachment was never very consistently congruent, though I'm not sure you were even aware. There were times that I practiced my speech aloud in front of my reflection, but then I would imagine the surprise in your eyebrows and frown in your lips. I'm not prepared to go on like this. Nothing that is impermanent is perfect, but, do you miss the snow? Do you miss the warmth in the cold? There are things I'd do differently, and maybe you would be one of them, I can't tell for sure. Perhaps this is arbitrary and a course of bad judgment, seeing as how his flower in my hair, a nickname in his voice and his arms wrapped around my back ought to convince me that memories are better left alone, shoved in the blue box beneath my bed with all the others. And lying there under the shade of the tree on a sunny afternoon in early summertime, across from young love and next to an eager affection, musing lyrical bliss, I feel at ease. I feel complete and content. I don't think of the cold, I think of the rope hanging quietly on the branch above me. It's odd, this mixture of conflicting sentiments.

What a lovely daughter

We write to identify ourselves, we hold our bodies close to deflect insecurities, we live sheltered lives in a cage where our daily schedules are designed to keep us occupied and docile like watching a flashing television screen.
There's more out there, did you know? There's a whole civilization beyond the mountains and across the sea, they appear to be the last of the free.
We don't know true freedom here. We know how to be subservient hard workers, constantly taking orders in order to feel some sense of self worth and recognition.
They tell you that you've been crammed into this battlefield along with the rest of us, so that you can get an education like previous generations couldn't. They tell you that one day, you'll get a job that supports all of your needs and wants and that you'll rest easy in your old age. They tell you that you'll find a nice member of the opposite sex to fall in love with and have 2.5 children with in a nice suburban home in a nice school district, with a white picket fence, as mandated by the HOA. And they'll never mention that this is not freedom, they'll never mention that you'll always be hungry for more.
They'll never tell you that you don't need to go to school to learn. They'll never tell you that you're worth something if you don't go to college and get a job. They'll never say that you're a valuable member of society if you don't have a home that they made for you. They'll never tell you that being in love is not for everyone. They'll never tell you that being alone is okay. They'll never tell you that walking around by yourself in a crowded town, just to observe life as it is, is productive. They'll never say that living in modern society with a supposedly "democratic" system, still means that your thoughts, actions, decisions and lifestyle won't be a product simply of you.
They're not going to tell you that fighting in a war is a deathtrap and you shouldn't put one's life in danger nor innocent civilians, they'll tell you that you're serving the country. They'll tell you that it's an honor, a privilege, that you owe it to society.
You don't owe anybody shit.
You are as free as you want to be. Bike where the road takes you, sleep where nature gives you shelter, sleep from sunset to sunrise, grow a garden and become vegan, read all the books that you can, live outside of the system and take no benefits from it.
If you want to.
Make your own decision, nobody else can. Do not fear the unknown, or it will always hold you back.

Like Water

He stirs from his slumber, dropping the weight of his body to graze the aging carpet below him. Cool air bombards his bare skin as he spreads a thick layer of cotton across his shoulders, wrapping either side against his chest, burying his thin hands deep into the pockets as he lets out a low, unsettling sigh. "The snow has turned gray today." he observes with a wrinkle of his pointed nose. Uncomfortably, he shifts from left foot to right and sighs again. His soft blue eyes swing about the barren room like a wrecking ball, aimlessly tossing its mass in every direction. His gaze settles on wooden pipe that had seen many generations of men too distraught to resist another warm inhale. He looks past it and crawls back into the depressing comfort of his bed, folding layers of sheets and blankets against his shivering body. Feeling his eyelids pour over his pupils like a liquid screen dimming the intimidatingly white walls to a safe black, he sighs once more and surrenders his conscious mind to dreams that might soothe him.

god i hate children.

My Apologies

this is going to be stupid. (and edited)

the more i read over it, the stupider it became.

The Wind

It carries the petals raging against the storm.
They are beyond the command of the soil and the pathway ahead is rapidly tumbling in a mass of pebbles and dirt.
You would think that naivety and immaturity would come to pass with youth, but certainly this is not always the case. You would think that having a spine means it wouldn't be kept collecting dust in the closet.
What happened to direction? Why is that as soon as everything's so independently stable, the slightest of feathers could knock everything to the ground? What gives it the right to have such power? Does it have as much power as it does perhaps, because we give it such? Why is it so hard to resist?
Why do I give you the comfort of familiarity? You don't deserve it. Why do I let you control so much? Why are you the only thing that brings about this disgusting and shameful sense of weakness?
You weren't here the whole time, you don't know me.

For Frodo!

I've come to the conclusion, that the only way to truly live is to live selflessly. Not to get weighed down with attachment or personal needs and wants, but to give the entirety of oneself to the greater good, to a world of peace and justice and humanity. It is with the power of hope and courage, that man does not fail. Love for all beings is much greater than the grief for all that is the product of man's decline. It is my intention to die for something far greater than myself, to rest knowing that there is peace upon this earth, and that my journey does not end with my own ashes. And I will not rest until this can be realized.

The casuals are casualties

They hide, waiting for dusk to spread its seductive silence splattered with tiny chirpings of various woodlen creatures, over the vast sea of dry grass, which is teeming with wide-eyed bugs.
They climb, one hand gripping soil while one foot lunges over their head, galloping through the sleeping streets, wild and unforgiving.
They dine on the flesh of men and women laying comfortably between cotton sheets and wool blankets.
How could this be casual?

Bohemian Like You (Dandy Warhols)

It's such a casual easy thing. I think that human nature is fully capable of a myriad of investments. Contrarily, they aren't even really investments. Life is much easier when you skip the attachment process and committing yourself into the unforeseeable future. Simply giving in is easy and really, is accepting ignorance so bad? If you don't ask and you don't know and you are only present in the moment, that moment becomes beautiful and idealized and you can look back fondly. It won't be ruined by burning of bridges or the sudden greeting at the edge of a cliff, it's free and it's simple and it's amazing. You can go on about your life immediately after and you aren't stuck in the sand wondering where or when or if. You just remember with fondness and keep going. I think that is best since you can establish life long friendships more often if you never have to attempt building a bridge or opening a parachute in the first place. 

So what do you do? 
Oh yeah, I wait tables too. 
No I haven't heard your band 
Cause you guys are pretty new. 
But if you dig on Vegan food. 
Well come over to my work 
I'll have them cook you something that you'll really love. 
Cause I like you, 
Yeah I like you. 
And I'm feeling so Bohemian like you

The Peace was under the couch

There's a certain amount of time that one must allow to pass, and during which, one must find a purpose for their being. One will be consumed with this chore at many points throughout their journey, and even if there is no consistent pattern or direction, their purpose is nonetheless valid. There comes great solace from uniting with a community of people and animals. Understanding that one is a part of something far, far larger than themselves is empowering. Looking around at a sea of people, minds wide open and hearts magnified by the size of actions, it is quite clear that nature is beautiful and good. Suddenly, petty things like personal success or love are insignificant, because one can find absolute fulfillment in their community. It's rather heart-warming and I'm glad to experience it. 

I keep talking about control

In the corner of an arcade heavily sits a contraption impaled with a screen too big to focus on. Children readily align themselves on the plastic seat in front, grabbing the wheel in their sticky jam hands and lunging their bodies forward, watching the miniature car spin down hot tar. I miss the feeling of walking slowly. I miss the potential of change within a box. That makes no sense. Why would I want that? No matter how many dewy red grapes are carefully stacked one after the other on either side of the scale, one will always be too much and one will always be too little. It wasn't even a feeling of contentment, but it was there and I feel naive and juvenile for only just now figuring out what it's really like. When will impermanence no longer be a factor and when will attachment no longer be terrifying? I feel like a whiny thirteen year old. This isn't even worth all of the consideration. 

Sometimes, I count the hours

They propel themselves through the air like a fruit fly in search of factory-assembled, fructose-injected perishables. They only have hours. I used to crave the freedom hidden inside of a cave, I used to gaze longingly out the window, desperate to roam aimlessly and alone. I suppose when you're settled into a comfortable cycle kept on its track by a practical and rational force, you desire less control, more spontaneity. Now that romanticized notion seems terrifying and intimidating. Now, because there suddenly is no cycle at all. Certainly no comfort or contentment. One can try to reconstruct these things artificially, and maybe they weren't even so terrific in the first place, but now it's consuming.

white flag

Hands cupped over ears, fingers weaving through fiery hair, tugging at strands. Soft, cotton blankets tangled like a white flag on a ship's mast being distorted in a heavy storm. Knees bent, spine hunched, abdomen doubled over, teeth locked, eyes squeezed tightly, body folding itself from one side to the next like spastic origami. There come great sounds with such a high frequency and deafening pitch, ringing through ears, shattering glass teeth, eyes widen as if they were controlled by the tongue being pulled like a string. Gasping, gulps of air, each one more desperate than the next, throat tightening as if a tourniquet was winding tighter and tighter around the neck. When death comes, is this what she will look like?

Parasitic

Trumpets, horns, violins, drums and one low, grumbling voice wrapping its soothing deliberateness through their ears like an odd, silk ribbon. How long will it take before the deep sounds wear off? When will all of the lazy sunday afternoons in late autumn detach themselves from the spring sun that shines on the sidewalk which breaks off at the intersection? Hours had once passed by and rain rocked the two to sleep, until they awoke moments later to realize that they weren't both supposed to be there. Suddenly the slow, warm afternoons are claimed by tension like a wrench cranking and tugging at the pegs until they're torn out from their comfortable, unified board. At last the sun lowers much later that year, and the two are nestled in a gathering of fabrics and soy products, yet there's a sudden panic after this rain. The warm afternoons were platonic and often teeming with contempt, but week after week, they rolled around in anticipation. They were consistent and reliable. The fabric and soy were only meant to be admired, they weren't supposed to mean freedom.

Waves

It comes in waves, some less intense than others. There is so much that fills the surroundings. There is hope, there is life, there is a collective force pushing for peace and equality. Sometimes that's easy to forget. It's easy to forget that there are other things, besides people. Perhaps if you just lie there, nestled in the pebble-scattered clearing, the surroundings might again become familiar. And maybe, if you resist closing your eyes, to spread your gaze across the farthest reaches of the clouds, you will find salvation in rain. And as the thin drops meet your tongue lightly, you will taste it. You will taste it with your whole body. I know that it was meaningless before. Merely distractions gathered into an assembly line, trying to piece me back together. But once even a part of you is tied down, you can't know true freedom. But on this day, lying atop mother earth, hands gripping soil, mouth tasting one thing that will never be controlled by man, I have reached liberation. Once more. I know no attachment. There is only freedom.

maslow and squirrels

At the top of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, is self-actualization and I've been told that a good amount of people will never meet this phase in their lifetime. I'm becoming more and more convinced. Physiological needs are not even being met by entire countries of people. It is a disgrace that we allow this to happen and it is a shame that so many people will not reach of lack of prejudice, acceptance of facts, morality, etc. It is a struggle to go from reaping the benefits of bliss from shared experience, emotion and reliability, to once again finding happiness in serving others for the greater good. Not to say that these can not overlap, but ... fuck, I don't know. It's odd. I wonder if it's impossible for my thoughts to not be completely my own. That maybe they, like the experience, emotion and reliability, are shared. And if not, I would think that that is rather shallow thought. Or perhaps it is avoided out of fear. But I think it's best to confront these thoughts so that they won't be prolonged. I don't like to think that this will last and then there was impermanence in the first place. It was always something to be feared, something that draws them closer as if a tighter grip might form a force field around the two. And now there are the ramblings of  hateful, old... squirrels. I intentionally write these entries in a cryptic manner because I suppose it's not my nature to be direct. I find it somewhat pompous. Which is also, why these entries are tucked away in a blog, of course it's an accessible one, because I do like to be heard if someone is committed to pondering my cryptic writing to understand what I'm referring to so often. Everything is so complex and there are so many reactions to actions and suppressed thoughts and repressed memories. Now, that I can guide my eyes over the words once spoken, I realize that it was truly mundane. It felt euphoric, but it was incredibly boring. It was painful to watch a cycle of booms and collapses and uninterested banter to keep the flow steady before trailing off in pleasure. It's always a learning experience, but I just want to commit to something that is consistent and stable. I don't want to reevaluate everything and analyze everything and tear everything apart in my head until it's meaningless. I just want to sleep for days, though I wish I didn't. I don't mean to sound the way that I do, but... fuck, I don't know. I'm quite happy actually, I just wish I knew it.

It is once more

The seats crowded together in the dark, flashing lights beam across the stage. Fingers gripping, hearts threatening to burst out between the buttons of the grey shirts. There is no sobbing and there is no frown. There is no longing nor regret. Sitting, once more with a slight smile. There are only fond memories. Yet to entertain the thought that these memories will be reenacted, differently from the first production of hair pushing against gravity and lips biting, produces a sigh that digs far deeper than the oil can run.

Retreat

It's a draining cycle. Endorphins are no longer released, although the body has grown accustomed to their consistent flow. Weeks go by and the source has been eliminated along with sensation. Muscles are locked in an expressionless state. Eyes settle, half closed. Teeth grip one another in a tight combination of bone against gum and tongue. Sleep has become the investigation. Waiting for answers to unravel themselves like the strands of dog hair that came tumbling off your sweater. Long after the sun has risen and the alarm has grown tired of moaning, there is a consciousnesses of nothing. There are no strings that will guide, there are no hands that will hold, the scent on the pillow is unfamiliar. All of these thoughts grind the feet back into the ground and they walk. One by one, heavy step after step, imprinting the earth in its deliberately slow pace.  There's no need to rush anymore. Thinking alone used to be a great privilege but now he finds it a burden. He rolls over.

I'm sick of Jesus

Half of western art history is just jesus-oriented. I'm so bored.

The flower has soft petals and sits neatly in a row. There are red ones and purple ones and orange ones just the same. There are tall ones and short ones and dead ones all the same. But the one that reeks of mirth and vigor has been there for months. The dirt around it still packs a moist bump in the earth. The sun beams down on it. I watch as my hand scrapes the surface and seizes it, tearing it from its roots as it falls limp. I thought I would enjoy it better from a glass vase, but now I realize I should have just admired it as it was. Attempting to shove the broken end of the stem back into the empty soil is futile. From this point on, the flower only wilts, it will never grow again, yet I ram it back into the ground just to see it as it once stood. But now it's not the same.

The Mundane

The things we overlook or act in subconsciously, the mundane, are perhaps the most beautiful. Beautiful because they can happen and be at all. Georgia O'Keeffe emphasizes the bodies of flowers on a very large scale to draw attention to subjects that we never take time to appreciate or observe purely to appreciate what is consistent in our lives. Things like giving someone a hug who you hug at the same time in the same way every day, or greeting the cashier behind the front desk with a quick and uninterested "Hi, how's it goin'?" can be so over looked and unappreciated. We grow so used to things that they lose their meaning and when we experience repetition so often, we begin to see the imperfections they might possess. Similar to Andy Warhol's screen print of Green Coca Cola Bottles. There are so many stacked one after the other that at first you just see bottles and quickly glance past them, but eventually, as more and more are presented, you notice that they have become different, or maybe some of them are imperfect. I think this tendency transcends to moments in our lives as well. We become so used to a situation until it is no longer special and it becomes mundane. We lose interest, but eventually, you're forced to reevaluate, and what becomes clearer are those "imperfections" that weren't so apparent the first time. The flaws weren't visible because you could receive such satisfaction and fulfillment out of those things, people or moments just by them being there at all.

Renaissance

The overwhelming feeling of vast emptiness like an agoraphobic searching desperately for the perimeters of a dark and ominous ocean, anticipating the crashing waves to come and envelop their hopelessly thrashing body. Muscles contracting and abdomen churning, it's a sight to grimace at and turn one's cheek from. There is loneliness. The body is untitled, reduced to a crumpled package of limbs, swaying slowly down to the depths of  the sea. Yet they smile and extend their spine to its full length, forming words with such confidence and volume, surrounding themselves with mirth and distractions, even though they feel complete isolation, longing and discomfort. It's a wonder that we put ourselves in such impractical situations to being with. We do it because it's impossible not to submit ourselves to one of the greatest emotions a person can experience. But nothing is free.

Modernist Writers and Discontentment

Recently, that feeling of contentment and peace with my routine has been replaced with pure frustration and anger and feeling distant and withdrawn. When I feel happy, it is only momentary and then reality sets back in. My english teacher was lecturing about modernist writers and how some of them were so aware of their own mind and their internal conflict that the external world seemed so distant and unobtainable until their minds had caused them such grief and insecurity that they were faced with immense inaction. He connected this inaction to poems like the lovesong of j alfred prufrock and the hollow men, etc. to eliot's inability to connect on an emotional level with other people, specifically with a love interest. 

Perhaps the problem lies within my own extreme self-awareness. Maybe I have a tendency to over-analyze things. It is possible that I consider situations for such a prolonged period of time that they are eventually given a new meaning and I come to find fault where there is none. Although, it is just as possible that the fault I find has always been there but I had previously been blinded by a romanticized notion of arcadia within love. 

The other night I suddenly paused for a moment and thought "how are people so young and inexperienced supposed to make this work at all?" and it caused me to reevaluate my motives. Perhaps this is meant to be taken impulsively. Maybe we were never supposed to think about it, just feel it. But that's impossible. Human emotion and thought process are so complex, it's a struggle to consider it all in such depth. I just... I have nothing more to say that wouldn't end up in a vicious cycle of my own inner conflict. I just would like for him to hear me.