I rest with a heavy heart, trudging through sulky days with empty hands. To sleep and then back to wake, empty hands. Soon, more firm forms will transform my life into something never experienced before. It will be a plant in a pot, living but unable to spread the joy for life. I predict to be in the shallows of time, spent in leisure, and must commit despite a certain lack of appeal. More books, more time, more wasting.
Things will be fine, going on as they always do. A new winter day will bring a little more snow, a little more cold, and a stronger sense of the importance of contrast.
I lock myself in this white room, empty handed.
December 4, 2009
And now begins the time when work truly commences; themes and scenes transposed now may survive longer than physical experiences with those of the world. It is the work of a muse; time reels faster than thanks can be passed.
First and foremost, the writer’s love of great pens is unmatched. The smiles and the sharing of experience follows
–the interest in a fellow human being. And last, but never least, the way direction is designated with hands and the subtly effective use of words in degrees i had yet to witness until now. The sweet generosity of time as money for some beer and a tip–that is the least to capture any body’s attention.
December 3, 2009
It does not matter how time is spent, for when i reach my bed things have returned to what has been. I seem to rest in a selfless place, and it has been desolate for much longer than claimed. But yet, i wait for a time to come where sleep can be shared once again.
Although my bed is filthy, there are few other places that i deem even remotely close to sanctuary, although refuge is not what i seek. What i see fit is not quite as i seem, but to where the seams lead. Always in that direction again. There are magnificent minds harbored in this city, and what and whom i know is only just beginning. Only the beginning…
Although the weather is fairly mild for how late it is in the season, the temperature is changing quickly. I can feel it in the air. As more of November passes, i become more stale than ever. My complete lack of ambition is startling and disgusting, and i wonder why i even bother to liberate these thoughts.
I am very sore. My heart aches from the lack of compassion. I only have myself to blame, for i have created several deterrents for the common encounter. I suffer to find something extraordinary; it is this i hope to find here, that in which i strive for the city to show me. Where and when is unpredictable, but until then great care must be taken of my self, because i am all i can have.
Here are some snips i have had laying around, quite literally, on a piece of cardboard. It has been laying around since September or so.
Please try to preserve the sleepless innocence,
It shows the most trying of souls through shiftless inter-changables.
I beg for mercy from these woes,
For there are few others i can relate to these days!
As my body transforms,
And my body warps,
For once in my life
I anticipate the bitter cold!
And i’d rather not hear you speak such banter any longer,
For it is far too much to bare,
Especially in such times
Where both shoulder blades and ribs
Cave in on an aching pity of tirelessness–
Bloodshot eyes and arthritis
Aching from the forearms down.
Academia has yet to begin.
I wring my skin of an aching burn.
The body is weary and demands rest as i can expect it.
Coincidentally, demand is on the rise–
Or could it just be another ideology,
One that explains the universe to the mind?
Depriving the body teaches one how to survive…
November 13, 2009
It is still strange to think that Madison is my home. it is a feeling of chance, that i am now willingly giving my life to a quality job and an education for a few years. More so, it is strange to think of that eerie yellow glow in the night when i walk barefoot to the bathroom.
This is Home.
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.
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.