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.