..
++dilated eyes++
i could not hear myself scream. it feels like i owe an essence or some mundane thing an afterthought with the life that i am now leading. i'm bleeding for words that aren't there. some were lost, others unborn.
at times i see the profoundness on simple things, then i put
bittersweet ramblings to sophisticate it with the stylings of my
wants.... and what i want is to free myself from me. i want
to defeat my voice.
my hands,
my senses..
to defy them that i may exist--
under a kingdom of wantlessness and stillness. the problem is that i'm ahead of myself in terms of grief, desire, and with the lenience of an insatiable thirst --- the lust for peace of mind.
Cup noodle
We are jealous of the things that are simple. It’s the little and simple things that matter. That’s why a lot of things are trite. A tele-novela, a mushy love song or a novelty song, a lame joke and their twin clichés. It’s too hard to have stillness and bliss. They’re observably hard to achieve. The irony is that the more money and responsibility you have, the greater we are discontented. That is why ignorance is bliss… when you know way too much, you’re going down. Travesties like these are in favor for artistes, writers, and performers who thrive on the very line that separates these thing I’m writing about…which is essentially boring stuff consequential from drinking too much spirits, smoking pot, and from popping all sorts of pills. Of course, it could also be the wine, or the whisky talking…unless it was the instant cup noodles conspiring with that Swiss mocha snifter responsible for all these drivel. Sadness comes when we know too much.. you can write just about anything that randomly swerves inside the conduits of your brain and it transposes to writing that may be interpreted as something that has a denotation or just arbitrary shit from a universe worth of a mind. Which mind you, excuse the pun, should always be the main character of our dreary consciousness. But we’re in a realm and in a generation for that matter that speaks the language of aesthetics. Everything becomes an idea that leads to barriers and stumbling blocks. Beauty wins even if there wasn’t a competition. Are we here to destroy the future? Perhaps. The fault is history. Because if we do… then there would be no past… afterwards, we’d all have to live in the moment of which is now. The instant that we can arrest. It should not be anything tangible. Just something to compose our lifeblood into. A sip of water, a blink of an eye, a sensual touch of skin. A candle lighted, a long and deep breath, a rumble in your gut, a warm strand of tear rolling in your eye, the mock laughter of victory. We ourselves are but ideas. And most often than not, things don’t turn out the way we expect them to be. For good or worse, it comes in full circle. .time happens between shifts. We all complete the cycle in the end. When it does finally happen, end it with an interjection. Let your senses be embraced.
