I have been characterizing the difference between failure and repeat. it becomes nothing more than it can ever be. The rewritten words grow old as the heart has become stale. There is no wonder in this blank room anymore. There is nothing more than a musty cell. I will take it, while i decide to sell my soul. Naturally, it is only here i can reside while i tempt the self with such heartless ambition.
September 14, 2009
There is an underlying rhythm, a pulse deep within the body of this place. Surely this city has a heart, although it is not characterized like a living being; it is much more of a rhetorical entity. While a heart like this is fed as it feeds, it is a complex mechanism that operates both above and below the surface. People depend on this sentimental being, a being that destroys more than it can create. More so, it destroys what it creates. This is not to be confused with what living things create, because this city’s helart is the foundation of our lives, slowly inspiring demise. Strange it seems, the similarities with a civilized human heart…
Life is in the hands of a sentimental people, myself among them, and i cannot seem to bare the thought for much longer.
But it is with sychronization of hearts that i hope to find what the city has to offer–All cities have a heart of inevitable decay, but Madison has a curious sense of innocence. People do not always find what they seek here, but i feel as if it is the creation of opportunities that guides many to and from here.
As i look from a table outside or through a pane of glass from inside, i see many things i sought to leave behind; these are the things that can never leave my life in a city; hungry people, the glazed over eyes of suffering, heartless ambition, dying wills, wage slaves, industrialization, consumerison.
But yet there are some with a glimmer of hope in their sky.
No wonder they were always lacquered. As they, it is i who covers such laughter with nervous ticks.
Time and time again i reach stages where words will simply not come out. Words are not enough anymore, the choices being too numerous and not quite as momentous as i would like; descriptions not as vivid as i perceive. Nevertheless, retribution and balance will be as the sky, always looming above and often taken for granted. Taken for granted by what we give and take, remember and forget, find and lose, and love as we hate. The good, comforting, bad, and terrifying are the beauty of remorse and the vanity of regret.
Now i shall drink my circulation away with no regard for the lost rest.
My mind yearns for something i cannot quite find. Boredom prevails where mental stimulation lacks, and it is a serious issue when i feel like trudging through every single fucking day.
Arriving in the realm of the living with each day is like bailing out a stolen lifeboat. Although striving for the horizon, i feel stranded far too close to the sinking ship. Perhaps, as my hopes are usually up, there is a small island close by that i may reside upon–But until then, this vessel needs a few holes worked out.
I remember when the doves used to wake me at each dawn with their whoos, crows, and woes. Imitating their call, i would prolong my rise to full sun. My exceptions were mornings when the floor was padded for the descent of my brother. Slowly, i would bring his heart to the floor so he could crawl to life’s details.
This is the first lesson.
I document the lives of liars, expeditions that have gone so long untold–and only seen as dreams.
The waxing moon rises and thrives from horizon to horizon, reaching for the bitter-sweet mode of Jove. The cadence of his orb’s rays are quite enough to clear any being of any haze: This is why people dream at night, resting best in the dark.
So these lives untold hold onto a sense of grand deception; it is their will.
Times change and minds move
To tranquil acceptance,
But rests in disguise
Until circumstance releases
A beast from within.
And pervasive sits beneath persuasive,
A subtle hinge on a latch
Holding back radical tendencies
While never drowning them in the dark–
Just resting in shadows where hopes may swell.
But this propensity does not
Dwell on the lack of light.
It waits until the mind speaks
For the night!
Dreams pervade and do not convey
What they initially seem to say!
There is much more depth in the debts
Owed to the self,
Not concerning the return to miserable stakes
Relating to perishing states,
But the subconscious metaphor
Must be devoured
and digested before
These feet will consider straying
from the designated course.
the times shall continue forward
As the search hardly commences.
(although, it began so long ago)
The dream screamed of that presence, and my first thoughts were worry. It was just another dream, merely a subconscious crafting of a feeling and the person connected to such bliss. The aching passion has torture and doubts; they are no longer present. Remaining is the acceptance of the situation and the general direction of my life.