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.