Pieces of me.

All over the walls.

I finally feel as if the night asked for some type of release. The extra added background noise that oscilates into rippling con caved waves that radiate when the musik feeds through my pulses and releases it’s a new found euphoric buzz that I’m just learning how to communicate with. It’s a strange phenomenon. I must have a sense of self before venturing off. However, I’m learning how to have more pride. May 31, 1:58. I’m still progressing. I’m sweating, waiting, waiting, waiting, I’m pending. But what happened to the hands of god I felt that one night in the field where a church lurks and I felt the ground quake below me, and this time I knew it to be real, because you were the only one around and when I looked in your eyes I cried and i felt more real than the grass that soaked my socks and collected dew. Morning cry out to me, louder than I can call back because sometimes I just want to be voiceless, stress myself until I am no longer because I wish to disappear, I wish to melt away, sift until only my bones are left and you are left with the daunting task of building me back up, my skeleton hanging on your wall.

Progression is the only path from here.

Timeline of photos to share.

Ostracize

The night was already marked with a promise of the unknown and uncertain factors that we had both acknowledged and agreed upon before hand. A midnight drive into the snowy blizzard night tripping on acid with a practical stranger, who had indeed only reminded and reassured me that i had been tripping on the folds of my own identity. I guess I need to prepare myself better for a malfunction of the mind, in public… I feel the only way to let go, to move on, to simply understand would be to write it all out, release. I’m so lost. But the question I’m not sure how to answer is, why? Why make sense of it, why even try? Why allow the temptation, the curiosity of what lies behind the questions and answers from my past influence me in any sense? Consciousness. Reality bites chunks from me. What do we take from it? Am I even asking the right questions? Am I asking myself enough? I’m filled with nothing but life experience, with memories and numbers, with faces, expressions, laughs, love, feelings, I’m filled with images and scents from the past, however, when upon receiving a simple question referring back to it, I freeze in public, dead cold air shatters my skin and i am left inside pulsing without a beat, because I am just trying to figure that out too. Do you see, do you see that I need to find a beat, i need to release, i need help though. Fill me a table full of drugs so I can try my best to learn about what each one does and then experience a night filled with new boundaries, endlessly. You, you will be my guitar player, you will sing me to sleep, you will hold me until I stand up straight, you will dance with me until romantic shoe laces tie us together mending our calloused feet, you see, you see, you see, you are the light, but you need a name, because right now, the love of my light is the love of my life. I feel the light, I need you, and you need me, the light. The light. The light. You are the fright that follows the light, because deny the bright and you are left with a fight, a fight not intended to bite, but reality bites and sometimes it’s love at first sight.

Quake

I'm a mess. It’s quite apparent shown from the details that have only began to gather dust over the past months, not on shelves but my eyes. Things are slowly gaining on me and I find myself pushed up against a tagged wall, someone else's piss, arguing against myself because I’m split into two, my ying and yang are no longer hanging, I’m completely torn from time. I’m no longer myself, I’m mistake after mistake, a drawn out excuse to allow myself to feel as venerable as I can take. A dosage drawn like blood to please my eyes and my deepest desires. Temptation teases, temps, is ambush, because like Thom Yorke says, I’m trapped, trapped inside this body, and I can’t get out. I’ve been, looking back it looks a lot like mourning, wasting time listening and dreaming into space and I can’t seem to wrap my head around anything too sufficient. Everything is mind drool, mind drool, mind drool, I’m waiting and waiting and patiently agonizing in my own self drought. I’m senseless in a sense, where I can feel all of the vibrations, all of the positivity, all of the culture, the feeling of the universal tides that oscillate between humans and animals and beside expressions and emotions, alongside natures nurture and the deep depths of devastation. I dream of you, but I’m not myself so I refuse for you to be anything other than a temptation. But that doesn’t make sense either, why sift in my own misery any longer than I have to, I have so many unconnected trails in my mind, a mission that pends and bends around time, waiting with grace, glowing grass because I’m a romantic and I imagine a lifestyle that seems only reasonable to chase with every last cent in my heart. A million maker. Wake up, wake up wake up wake up, however slow I set my pace, however slow that may be, I will relish in the difficulties on the way. Taking each bash to the knee, each distaste, every doubt and diminish any trace of it, so that forgiveness follows every moment that chokes up. Because although actions are laced with decisions drawn from selected corners of the mind, the third eye allows for acceptance. I miss writing, I just need to feel myself draining, and that’s why. THAT’S WHY THIS TRANSITION HAS BEEN SO DIFFICULT. The cuts feel deeper than I have ever experienced before. I am slowly allowing myself to drown. But it’s because before I moved out, I just started getting in my own specific routine, one that was never established, one that was never fully me. School was a bitch, but I pushed and pushed and faked and fooled and continued to not care, even though I really did. Now I'm lost, jobless, no phone, no license, no cash flow, just pending decisions and a pen to ease my dreary eyes. I just feel like a fake from the beginning of time, but I know this to not be true, which is also just another reminder of how I have to be strong enough to not let my emotions kill, rule, or confuse. Love and chaos, love and chaos, inspiring flow of feels that reel each moment together, we’re lined, we’re baked, we feel each quake, we don’t stop because we know we’ll get burned, we move quicker, quick sand doesn’t dare to sift beneath our feet. We are hot with coals burning on the soles of our feet, we are desert junkies, and distant travelers, photographers, and dj sound quakers. We are, we are. I am, I am. Who are you? Who am I? Stream of consciousness conceals, corrupts, contains the remninats of who I belong, or who I remain to be, or continue, or change or progress.