one must always keep in mind
what it is they're leaving behind
in order to fully embrace their new surroundings.

love is hell, hell is love

My toes combing the cold sands of desolate lands in search of pretty sea shells to fill my tiny pockets; a pursuit as futile as filling a cracked bucket with water. the pockets on this bathing suit of mine are so small that they're only good for momentarilly possessing that which strikes the kid in me as interesting; but everything eventually gets dropped along the way. Childlike is the enthusiasm for possession that brings a boy to steal every pretty thing that catches his eye; so too is the tragic forgetfullness that accompanies time for he becomes a spoiled boy with too many toys-so he shall remain for as long as he allows himself to succumb to the temptation of leading a burning life; a life led perpetually spinning round and round on a carousel at some sombre carnival; sad organ music and always raining all the time.
Loneliness lies beneath the surface of every sigh this city tries to keep unnoticed-its everywhere and underneath everything; much like the inexpressible awareness one has when in a different city-what it means to feel the frameworks which surround us; one can never capture in an expression what the big meanings mean, yet we possess the complexity of these meanings by embodying them in our deepest pits prior to intelligibility and expressibilty...loneliness has no skeleton so I let her share mine with me.
The face of my summer starts to show its shadow in a deeper shade of black-working hard will make a man out of you, but now I know I won't have a real job..does that mean that I'll become the monster that love will always makes out of me; or born anew into some new place. But these streets have seen the advertisements for this face for years now, after the show's many finales with cast and crew re-dispersing out and into the atmosphere without even the flyers having ever been looked upon; covered alsmot immediately by somebody else with a need to shine. I foresee what the months that stretch ahead of me will look like-if working hard will make a man out of you and loving will make a monster out of me, then what does loneliness make of you?...As I walk along the sidewalk, I reach into my back pocket and grasp what feels like the ridges of a seashell; a half smile comes to my lips in sadness in thoughts of the day that Hannah spent on the beach and she came back with presents specifically for me-"Here! Take this with you and I'll see you tomorrow!..? Will we?!" Cordelia and Hannah, the angels of my soul that the devil in me had to drown; I kill you only to miss you with every step; every present tense in awareness of your infinite absence-you are gone, the sombre carousel rolls along. I take the shell from my back pocket and present it before my eyes to see the green of nothing other than a beer cap; this is the life I choose to lead my Cordelia; I do not know why exactly, but perhaps its really just some small part of me that can never commit to a future of adult living,
I will always remain a kid cramming shells into his tiny pockets despite how useless I know this treasure hunt to be when this basket of mine can only hold so little-its the only kind of striving thats ever made sense to me; so thats who I am always; the one who wished for love and lost his mind upon having his heart broken-perpetually searching for flowers in the cracks of the rocks that stretch out and into the water at the beach; flowers to bring to a beloved that has long since passed or had never even loved me back; heartbroken and insane over some one and only he never even knew. When a man passes to tell me that the flowers do not bloom in these parts anymore and that they haven't for years-I hear his words but laugh at his distrust for mother nature-tragic is the faith of the mad man who believes in his heart that soon he will possess the impossible in his hands.

an answer for the evening

Awoken on a shiver after having slept the entire winter, only to find that I could not recall any of my dreams. The light creeps through the blinds and I lift the window to let a little air in. slowly, glimpses of the life I’ve led begin to present themselves to me; in fragments, like torn photographs....my memories scattered about on the lowest stratum of my unconscious...they take flight towards the surface of my mind in momentary leaps powered by the subtlest gusts of spring winds. And then I can not help but wonder if there's something wrong with the way I perceive time; with the way my mind experiences temporal living. For this feeling of displacement and disconnection from the months in my recent past is much stronger than its ever been. Perhaps this is merely one of the perks of maturation….the complacency just seems strange when I reflect upon it...I try to not let the implications of it sadden me.
I look in the mirror to a see an unkempt beard and two grey eyes staring back at me. Sunken eyes that with every day I look a little older, recognize me less. For I am always a boy in the deepest pits of who I am. Not quite as determined as Freud would like to believe; not merely some mechanistic robot responding to drives that have been affected by previous lives of mine. But there I am always as a boy behind my eyes, and in my mind-in the field with a baseball glove in hand and a beating heart; and in those thoughts the sun is most definitely shining. But there I stand today, reflected in a mirror in a dimly lit bathroom in a basement at a university I've spent five years attending with only seconds left 'til my last departure. There I am now; looking a little less enthused and a lot more tired. Cliche to say we are always children; but the very proof lies perhaps in the testimony that so many have felt the need to present this articulation...explaining this tragedy as a child whose locked inside some decaying vessel...
I am ridden with shame once again today. For the recognition of my inability to live a non-contradictory existence. I am alone in myself, and its deeper than ever. But I frolic in these fields of mine while the fire scorches the earth around me and soars into the night sky. Here in this burning-I am mine. It’s the rest of it that hurts me so-the time when the world is grabbing at me that I feel my skin being pulled in every different direction. For, there she is with her needs, and here I am with mine. This is the greatest paradox of them all perhaps; though aren’t they all quite great!...a joke it may seem, but of course, every comedy is a tragedy at heart; I don’t know any other way out but to ground myself in this ugly piece of art as some pathos filled clown.

I told her I once lived for the possession of pretty memories and that living that way led to anxiety and a feeling of hollowness. That over the past year I had forgotten to live like that; she took this as a compliment; rightfully so. Finally there was meaning in the present tense, and for the first time in a long time, he recognized that he was at least capable of momentarily being swept away with the tide. No longer completely leading a life concerned only with leaving an impression of himself upon others that he could accept upon reflection; perhaps the avoidance of the feeling of regret was truly the fear he initially obeyed. But either way, he had arrived at a place where there was nothing staring back at him when he held his eyes open wide.... for the thought that it would all become some broken memory laying on a basement floor had stolen the meaning in the feeling of the present right out from under him. He recognized, sitting there across from her that he was alive in these moments in a way that time had never allowed him to be-.....but as I begin to allow myself to articulate what I am thinking I begin to worry about losing possession of the inexpressible meaning that accompanies only immediate experience. When I start to walk in this direction towards reflective possession-the world begins to assume a familiar shade of grey that I have not lived within in a while. Its funny though for I am happy in the saddest of ways when my brain is actively processing and grabbing at my surroundings as a memory making machine....Making things my own; it is the will to do this that I wish to overcome-maybe the maker will show me the movie for what he meant by it.

--

But then, like some divine test of my ability to keep promises I once made to God- I stay late to finish my work. Perhaps in honesty, not why I truly stayed at all and perhaps I was seeking sin from the very first moment she popped into my perception last October-then she was a girl with a boy; an argument ensuing outside of our class and I overheard her say the words, "Just stay!"...A tall kid with brown hair upset opted to leave....from this sight the theif within me became intrigued. ...tonight, I stayed to work on a paper...probably for more for than anything, in acknowledgement of the underlying awareness that strickens me that her and I could never walk home together with only one set of keys. Here I am sitting at a desk I thought-after having used her again like some heartless man… And there sitting, of all people; the one who sat so proudly in that chair I had labeled in my mind many months ago. Did I know this would be the case, that she would be sitting there…. But so late on a Friday night? Still at the library. And oh, what luck struck upon me to see them walking over to me with a smile on their face. Asking me the question I hadn't the nerve to approach them to ask... when I had seen them there thinking away without noticing me. Oh, how kind of you to come walking over to me....
If two people stand aloof then the point is simple-nothing will ever take place but unjustified heart ache. And now, look at the two of us dancing around in my memory, what a pretty scene to me the two of us tightrope walking my bones, with a dangerous future that only I have had the pleasure to foresee and hold. There you are in mind, and I can only wonder if I am at all in yours-and today there was nothing to constitute a 'we' between you and me. Seeking this unity is the only drive I know how to care about now…..But, time plays funny tricks, like a magician of today who waves his hanker over our hands while were holding our most prized possessions, to laugh wickedly while he sends them vanishing into the oblivion of yesterday. Days later your image shall fade and the outline of your face shall become but a vestigial tracing at best….yet I’ll long to look upon the shape that memory renders a mystery within me-for my heart’s anxiety will be the only assurance for me that you remain an interesting and intelligent angel…

Clementine-the contradiction that I am; this is life. I can only say I am sorry for being human. For not a year ago I cursed my perspective that needed to remember and hold pretty thoughts in his head instead of pretty things in his hands in order to feel that he was truly grasping them. And, tonight I am tempted to return to the land from which my wish to abandon has already been granted. And you were the angel who granted me my divine wish; I even prayed for you once....and here I am now; longing to return to a lonely world of memories of pretty things....and then there you are. the one my body knows how to love, staring back at me. What can I do but wonder now what you think of me.

I wish to return to a critique that I briefly proposed in the first short paper assignment, so I suppose I am simultaneously using this email to inquire if a more developed explanation on that critique would be alright by you as well:
The problem I had with the 'meaning-intention to meaning-intuition' topic was the idea that I believed there to exist an expressionless-formless layer of meaning to lie deeper than the stratum of conscious intentionality. We discussed in class how passive synthesis, the hyletics were always re-arranging and re-settling in a way that was constantly under the surface and perpetually informing the noetic acts of trans.consciousness. So I am grappling with how to formulate what it is I am thinking and how it meshes with what Husserl says. This idea of the passive synthesis interests me a lot and seems to speak to the idea that I wish to elaborate upon further in discussing acts of meaning that arise prior to expressive acts of consciousness. Meditation four seems crucial in undertaking this task-the idea of 'active grasping' seems to be where I might disagree with Husserl-for it seems that he believes 'reason' to bare far too much significance in the possession of meaning-I wish to articulate the idea that cogitatum (controversial term in this context?) need not need be 'actively' grasped via reason in order to bare meaning. I might only be saying then, that the passive synthesis are constantly informing us in the nexus that is our constitutive synthesis. My critique might amount to simply asserting then that attempts to explicate embodied formless meanings via eidetic reduction-which explicates into only the essential parts so to render them rationally understandable, oversimplifies the richness of activity that constitutes a meaningful experience in existence. I believe this oversimplification to lie in Husserl's need to aquire universalizable results-in longing for that which is essential, he oversimplifies the richness of meaningful experience.
Another direction I might go with an interest in hyletics would be to provide a more intensive exploration upon the conception of habitual apperceptions affecting us and motivating our activities as a result of the passive synthesis' response to various 'objects'. The idea of a 'developed' ego encountering apperceived objects we've become aquainted with seemingly calls for a more developed explanation. So, here I would want to play out what it means to have our conscious acts motivated by habituated passive synthesis, or in other words; the way our emotions and our passions have grown accustomed to activating upon the presence of kinds of apperceptions and how this internal passional activation determines our choices of action. Our Egos develop and thicken and become aquainted with apperceptions. Our emotions inform the Ego. It seems that if our passive synthesis are motivating us in this sense-that they can have a sort of embodied memory capacity-which means that the way we respond to almost all situations in life would be determined to some degree by the events surrounding apperceptions which led to the thickening process to occur in a particular way. Various events would have left their mark on the strata of sub-conscious passivity-this arises two questions: Does Husserl give passions and conditioned emotions an accurate portrayol in our constitutive synthesis? And, what would it mean if our bodies had a limited capacity for thickening with regard to ways our emotions respond to apperceptions. As I think of this it obviously strikes me that this is the kind of story that psycho-analytics tells which may be disuading from embarking upon it.
Well I've said a lot here; as you can see I'm sort of stuck with a pile of possible ideas-I've written a bit in each direction now but could use a little feedback as to what you think of either of these approaches (whether or not there's any point in pursuing them further and if so... any tips?)

I want to look at her-
But, the longer I stare
the less I care.

There is nothing more worthy of desire than the relative end that is a pretty face. The only thing worthy of a striving for, is the love of a female. Its what ignites one's bones; 'but the chase is all we know-the portraits of a future unreachab;e are never as perfect upon reaching the future.
the true paradox in my opinion, that of eternal aspirations and the temporal tumbling down that I equate with the reality of it....this is the true disappointment that I involuntarily (perhaps voluntarily-a choice to live within truth; the only truth that matters to me.) ground myself within;. I know for certain that this is the contradiciton I find my truthfulness within. In this parenthesis of sadness and refusing-to-believe while needing to find her; here I find my shell.
I get dressed in the morning in the borrowed clothes of someone who still pretends she is waiting-this taste of time tightens the skin on this face though, and I am unable to disguise at times the scolded shape the blowing of the wind has brought upon the bones on this face.

I wish to hold onto the memory of her looking at the books while knowing that I'd soon be coming up the stairs, and that she would be in my view upon coming around the corner. On that day she was till something to me; the mind I intuited to lie behind her eyes before I had spoken to her on more than one occasion. Ah love, truly the cruelest contradiction of them all; a need to believe aligned with an understanding of impossibility-this is the paradox that can weaken one into strength. This is the truth within which I ground my feet. the walls of this bubble encapsulating me all wherever I am; its' air i need to breathe no matter how tired of the taste I've become.

The car is falling apart; black ice sends this death box into a slide right through a stop sign- I coulda killed somebody; I curse thoughtlessness. I curse poverty for imposing itself upon the periphery of my life and demanding to enter as a permanent citizen. Like some glee club choir boy growing up in a nice neighbourhood beside the projects; he fears the market might crash; that pretty soon the bad neighbourhood will be encroaching upon is once pristine front lawn. Some glee club kid who wishes he'd never had faith in something his brain knew to be a tragic endeavour all along-an aspiration that some passion for someone could conquer the conflict that arises within his understanding upon speculating mere moments ahead into the future, should he allow the car to continue to follow continue sliding through stop signs.
The brakes barely work on this thing anymore, soon we'll be sent sliding into some city filled with skinny shadows and echoes of maniacal laughter. That's when you turn to me passionlessly to tell me we've arrived home.

A project of artful deception he thought; he'd show the life you could never keep-enjoy the present tense and never allow the voice of foresight to speak.,,,had to learn the hard way, that when you don't want time to turn, the clock ticks even faster. The feeling like the time for embracing the present tense has long since turned to the past. He thought, 'leave it to an assasin like me to break your heart without blinking an eye....to show her what a broken heart would really feel like...'
I learned a trick from a few guys who lived a few hundred years before me- a method of keeping my outward self completely disconnected from the state of my interiority. Not such a great trick really, for, though the assasin never blinks, only he and he alone can ever know the pain that lies at his lowest layer of sediment. When the sun shines upon his skin-he may be drowning within. Not because he can't swim...or because no others allow themselves to be subsumed by the sea...but only because he feels he owes it to the shiip to at least go down with it.
Simplicity had always sickened him-it was a childish ambition to embark upon a task that the man in him knew would always be an impossibility. The Absolute paradox, in honesty, means nothing to me, yet I know the suffering that lies within embodying a contradiction. With every step I take towards wherever I'm going-a part of my gut lies in the gutter-this is living in the certainty of uncertainty. This is living in the reality that extends about the orchard when a child has learned that an apple only rots upon its being plucked from the tree. He wishes to pluck the prettiest of apples; he longs to taste apples with everything within him; but even as he takes steps closer to the trees, he sees the wormholes, he sees the blemishes-his taste buds leak as his heart grows weak. "Musn't pluck that apple from the tree-musn't pluck that apple from the tree." 'Worse than rotting-is what happens to things I eat.'
He didn't need God- but he desperately sought an eternity for the one true baby. I know this trip necessarilly is an impossibility given the nature of the two seperate hearts that lie at the centers of you and me. Cruelty is the paradox that speaks of eternity in temporality. Even crueler is the contradiction that speaks of pairing two lovers who, in order to attain purity, need to a achieve a subjective monadic unity- when always condemned to the context of humanity.

Last year it was those cheekbones-this year its those translucent eyes I can barely see they're so blue; so light that one thinks her eyes may be completely translucent to allow for another to peer right into her thoughts. But to love is to judge, and the moment I tried to sneak a peak through, I realized that I never should've told myself I loved you.

Let the bubble of negativity sheathe me with the cold knowledge of knowing what I can never hold. That is precisely the tragic hope of love; it is a splitting thread that one needs to sew their entire world together with. That is the contradiction within my soul-the infinite interestedness in interesting eyes; the opening of book only to read it from cover to cover each and every time.

days later-
... someone who knows how the night time works and secretly loathes the currency of appearances of indifference and the 'who's fucked who', as much as I do. It would take years for you to understand her in the way that I do-the night time has been my lover for so long; I anxiously laugh at those who still find her appealing enough to fall in love. Surround myself with those still pretending to buy into her seductive tricks. The thought of you entering into a relationship with her in the spots that her and I still flirt....only to watch you be thoughtlessly subsumed in the current of loud beats and self-promotional pretentiousness; i worry you'd respond with awe as you once did me; this thought makes me laugh, and at that very moment of laughter I find myself filled with the most confusing passion I've always empathically imagined was felt by a protaganist in a tragic comedy, upon realizing that all love built upon a framework of frailty.

a million to land is two years for man
[Apr. 11th, 200811:48 am]
The chariot's got two beautful wheels, but this horse grows tired too easily. There's a heavy load and this horse seems to know, that he is to feeble to pull the load. ----------------------------------------------------------------------written into the weather; god wakes you with a slam, and you are to thank him for letting you know how this story will unfold. So many irrational ways to justify one's inclinations and feeling of entitlement. Im doing my best not to think about how things appear to you; how things are for you, because it bothers me. Anxiety. You are a part of me, and I refuse to think of anything as bitterly. It's really just anxiety; only today does it really become clear to me-a very large source of this pain is the way things are painted by your brain- all I want is to be able to do things my own way.Like a thousand people trying to walk through a door at the same time. Not people, but ideas-mostly representations of people granted-but images of mind- all trying to walk through a door at the same time. Sit by the river and cry. He's got laboured breathing, lighteheadedness when standing too fast, has to sit down and I am too fragile to even ask; the old man never sleeps and I make him consent to me. Don't say goodbye when you leave. Everybody wants something from me and I can't give anyone what they need. When you go it will change; let the pieces seperate naturally I suppose-like two human continents who break away and exist in a much faster time and space; a million to land is 2 years for man.There won' be much, all that will remain is a feeling that things were never that great to anyone else for longer than a a day-anxiety; what renders me afraid? having a lack of freedom; not being able to do things my own way-it's like a thousand people trying to walk through a door at the same time-the door is located at the center of my chest. I am blocked and at the back of the line-waiting for everyone else to fit comfortably inside.

(no subject)
[Apr. 16th, 200811:37 am]
There’s this idea that makes quite a bit of sense to me, I jokingly call this idea the idea of fifteen feelings. That we only get fifteen feelings in life. Fifteen feelings. The first fifteen feelings you have will be the ones that stick with you for the rest of your life; the appropriate feeling will present itself in a situation similar to the last time you experienced the feeling, you’ve got this list within you of just fifteen feelings. There’s this function within you that scrolls the list to pick the one that best suits the present context. I’m not a psychologist, and there are clearly a lot of philosophical problems in this proposition, but I’m not looking for certainty or perfect form. I’m just talking about an idea that sometimes makes sense to me. I probabl pick the number fifteen out of some natural inclination towards alliteration anyway; Im a sucker for the cheap tricks. Nonetheless, it does make sense.
Like this morning when I woke up and read your essay about me. I think you’re dumb and naïve, and you can say nice things way too easily. You’ve got some skewed picture of me, one that clearly didn’t take into account the fact that I find it impossible to believe anything good that anyone says about me. I allow the negative to soak in, and this is the way it’s been for a while now. I could talk about how I justify this mindset but the point Im sticking to for now is all about the fifteen feelings.
Another way of thinking about it…it not JUST the first fifteen, because there are certain contexts which have their own lists. There are specific spaces within you waiting to be filled with feelings.
The feelings I acquired in my first serious relationship are the ones that make me the asshole that I am today when dealing with you. The fact that I use the word ‘dealing’ is so telling of the feelings my body tells me to feel for you. I can feel them already wanting to scream when you tell me there’s people sleeping in your bed, and that you’re still drunk…I suppress the feelings of anxiety and jealousy that three specific occurrences have instilled within me. The night when it all cracked was the night that I swear those last few spaces got filled with the most terrible of feelings. Such feelings that were so strong at first that they ignored the cues…didn’t ever wait to be called upon…they just spoke out of turn snd jumped into the forefront whenever any feelings were to get involved. For an entire year there was nothing else to feel but those last few feelings of misery. It’s not your fault. It’s not even mine. It’s the way my limited little body was made, so that when you say those good things, it’s hard for me to feel. Therapist said something about spending years in situations your body gets sued to feeling certain things. Perhaps my body got too used to feeling like shit from spending years in a place that I was never really happy about in the first place. Like some bird in a cage, who had to have his wings clipped just to be able to accept the limitations of his little world. Just accept these walls and accept that your so small that you can fit inside. And when you say those things that aren’t even all that bad, I just want to start accusing and telling you to fuck off because I’m still angry about being this bird in a cage. It’s not a reasonable reaction, for that’s just what it is, a reaction….a feeling invoked, a feeling recalled from some other time in my life. Feelings that I felt for someone else. There are many striking similarities though in the way this story is starting to unfold: I’m not all that committal, in fact I’m trying to avoid making this happen…I don’t give you anything to go on. I don’t really even like you all that much sometimes….but precisely that is what draws me to you sometimes… the fact that Im annoyed that somebody Im trying to stay away from can bother me so much when she tells me the things that she does. I know she’s trying to make me jealous…but it works.
I’ve made two promises to myself that I haven’t yet kept. The first was that I would never kiss you out jealousy; that I would recognize when my arms wanted to hold simly because I wanted you to be closer to me than the other boys in the room. That I wouldn’t wrap my arms around you to control you, and protect myself. Jealousy made me make my move though.
I also made a promise that I would never kiss you out of empathy. Then when it looked as if you were going to cry, I wouldn’t bend and break to soothe your ache. But one of the feelings I’ve got within me is one that just wants to do whatever it is that will make things okay for you. You looked like you were going to cy the other day and before I knew it, my promise had been broken. My feelings lack the foresight to realize that

tearing away will hurt that much more the longer I leave the bandage on for.

So you see, it isn’t me that can’t be with you necessarily, it’s just this weak little body of mine and the fifteen feelings I’ve found, and let slip onto my list. It’s really just the last few that are preventing me from getting closer to you. They are far too strong to ignore, the fact that your baby has a dad, and that he’s over all the time. I’m so much better than you, and it’s situations like that that will render me weak all over again. I will not allow these wings to be clipped again. But now I am sure that you are an amazing girl, and I am but half of a man. I need things for my own and to only be mine. I hate the way this mind forms thoughts; I hate the roads that my mind always feels inclined to follow. I would do anything to just be beside you now but to not feel so hollow. Wit poured from his lips and he found himself the life of the party at times-he left feeling so miserable, dreamt of death-and woke in despair. Oh what despair plagues us all, a word that get's used to explain it all....this isn't about the fifteen feelings...these last few sentences have been added when this was written a while ago. Despair-what is behind your despair that you are so afraid to face?...what lied behind his suffering when he seemed to have a better grasp on things than everyone else in the place. What renders you so afraid. A capacity for vivid memories and images in the mind-I've always been a collector, never thought it would render me useless and alone in this horrible isloated place. I have memories and images. I never should've let my tongue slip, I never should've said those things to you. I never should've written about you, I should've waited 'til you were fully mine to reflect upon how amazing of a time we have. Despair. The road blows dirt in his face and his hair is flying all over the place; buys a cheap drink at the variety store and avoid the place he steals from. Feels bad about all sorts of things. Can't get a grasp upon anything. What is it that leaves him in despair. Afraid. So bloody afraid of everything. So bloody annoyed by everyone else's easygoingness, when he is stuck up in some tangled mess. How do they all seem to understand it so much easier. How do they all just go with everything. He is a fool. A rememberer, a collector of feelings. He is afraid to move forward. He is afraid of failure, of letting love die for a second time. Overzealous soccer moms live for their children's success, forget to consider themselves. There is no pleasure that I can feel, I only want the best for you and it prevents me from doing anything good for you for any longer than a day; I am not alive, I am a collector needed to be saved. Look at where I am right now, still young with a life ahead of me, but in such a way I cannot see. I see the number twenty three clicking over to twenty four, like the digits on an old alarm clock, minutes are years in life, why I just want you to be my wife. why I can only think about the amazing things as things I need for me and only me. I am no-one though, I am insignificant and hiding while others are out there nightly writing and riding the wave. It is the lack of consideration that paints me into this cave....my insistent judgments upon the subtleties of other's easy loving needy ways. I could never watch them drool on you in the way that others seem to be okay with. Violations-fifteen feelings. I want a new list...one that takes into consideration a human's need for happiness. I am grounded in despair and will never escape so long as I keep thinking of you as the one that will save me. I need to save myself, live for myself, and do things for my own fulfillment. There a thousand things happening all around me that I am understanding far too clearly....when what I need to be understanding is what will allow me to live freely and far from this anxiety.
You make it well known, and though you say things that nobody has ever said to me before, I wonder why, and how you can possibly feel these things for me when I’m not even sure that there’s anything inside.

like some bratty kid brother who insists on tagging along and never shuts up, my brain constantly telling annoying stories and asking to many questions. It's the memories, the faces, the way things work in other's lives that lead to this reflection, like a thousand knives gently poking at my chest without fully stabbing in just yet. Can't make it to the bus stop without my obsessions screaming at me from all directions. I hate that she calls me half asleep. I hate that I am in such dire need. God, is there any way you could allow me to continue to just breathe? I know when I was at an all time low I prayed that you would grant but a few more years of life for me. Those years have seemingly passed now-seems to me that I was only granted one year anyway.Must refrain for letting these emotions soak into my brain-you can turn up the music and write contrived words of pain if you please. But, if you are someone who is in true need, all you'll ever really want is to just be able to breathe.

27

27
[Aug. 29th, 200808:50 pm]
Once again i find myself in a dimly lit coffee shop, huddled over the glow of this screen; a bike ride in the wind, the night is navy blue and the air is moist with a cold mist that tells me that my twenty fourth fall is officially upon me. I ride alone; an adventure back to a place the spring within me wanted to forver leave behind...yet I can't stop myself from returning; the parenthesis of melancholy madness beckoning me to climb back into my bubble of sadness. I wonder if it's just the spirit of the season that makes one long for sickness or merely some primordial willing within me to stand in the sadness I need to soak my feet in in order to feel like myself. I need to return to this place in order to figure out what this silent illness beneath my summer skin consists of, what the source of this pain is that resides within me still.
I need to put the hot lamp in the culprit's face and make him sweat under the light until he confessess to all the ways he's been condemning my soul to plight.

There's an animal within all of us, a criminal within all of us, there's a poet within all of us, there's a lover within all of us. we simple minded humans dichotomize the identities within our individual selves, to be accurate in our classification we would need to recognize the reality that accompanies any pursuit of accurately identifying the multiude of selves withint our bones and skin...for it would truly be an idiot's mission to set out to finally catch up with infinity.Hesse saw two voices, two beings in himself; the wolf and the sad lonely man, only to realize what a fool he was for assuming his insides could be so simply dichotomized, a wolf, and a man; mere words to label, feeble attempts to conceptualize the conflicting people we are from moment to moment, that lead to inward battles that seemingly will never cease so long as we're still striving starvers.

I ask myself why I can love her some mornings, some nights, and why her aches and pains can mean nothing to me when I hold her tightly while she screams; all the different ways her presence has felt to me.... some days I am hollow and empty, and on these days the achievements that amaze me when I am intellectual seem like impossible feats. I ask myself why I can't bring myself to love her in the morning; I ask myself why I can't bring myself to speak to her on the phone in the same loving tone that she's grown accustomed to..at least on days when my heart has her say, days when her voice is louder than any of the other savages' screams within me. Freud saw that there were three motivational forces within us, three beings; the animal, the conformist, and the manager. Schopenhauer saw that there was only one true thing within us; the will, that which desires, that which desires not; the voice of need, the yearning, the bunring desire to hold or to avoid...to him then, it was pretty simple, there are stimulus, there are situations, and the will knows what it wants, it either says yes or no to cetain things...i want, or I don't want.....you feel it in the morning when you force yourself to wake from sleep and are grumpy...that's the will's way of saying, 'dammit man let me sleep!'....But the smarter we get, the more rational and moral we become, the less connected we become with our true voice, our true yearning....we become interpreter's of a foreign language, relying on emotion and feeling mostly to signify what path the truth within us really has in mind.So then, what can I learn from these men in my current plight?...well, absolutely nothing. i am dealing with my own real life. If I am to understand...which is a meaningless, tragic pursuit anyway (understanding that is), that never fails to leave one in a state of isolation; understanding is loneliness. Loving with the heart is happiness...but happiness gets boring, and you start to wonder what it is that your brain has been ignoring in pursuit of simpler pleasures, more bodily pleasures.

I begin to dissect the urges within me when she tells me she just wants me to believe that I belong, when she tells me that she just wants to be able to stay close to me. I being to listen closely to the voices arguing inside the walls, streteched out skin over a framework of bones., I press my ear to the wall and listen to the urges in an attempt to decipher the various aching animals and intellectuals trapped within my soul. I then begin to label the beings as they appear to me in an attempt to paint the picture of the civil war constantly occurring within me; a thousand individual's crammed into a one bedroom apartment located in the center of my chest.

Anyone who's ever cared enough to think about why they feel, or what it is that they feel and ultimately believe in will know the difficulty of attempting to hear what the voices are saying when their constantly talking over top of one another and interupting eachother.I shall call my body's meanest little ugly cell dweller, the Ego, for I know the sound of his angry voice which rings with entitlement as it echoes of these little walls. His biggest foe is my heart.... the war is always occuring between him and her, the two of them like one time lovers who had too many children before they had the means to provide for all of them. Now they just argue in their little crowded apartment, despising their existence with each new day which destroys all hope for resolution upon the very moment they wake from sleep into their little hell of conflicting ideals. Oh my female heart; female, stereotypically only, for the way she is so eager to love and to hold, to give everything away to and to nurture all that feels pure. The ego refuses to overlook that which she would gladly turn a blind eye to if it meant she could just bring a child to laughter, or hold onto the one she loved for as long as she wanted to. The civil war within; leaves me breathless and speechless,.....
My attempts to articulate to her the suffering of this struggle could never suffice to bring about clarity. I just want to run and hide from her, walk over the bridge and let her watch me die, then my heart says no no no, she will cry. To think, that the ego, so proud, so hurt and wounded from his wife doesn't even see, would be willing to burn down the very building he calls his home. And what can she do to calm him down? And what can she do to make this ending happy for him?...She can do nothing. He can do nothing. The state of things shall remain. Things are the way they are, thus, he is left to dwell in his own little hell for as long as she continues to tell him she loves him, for as long as he continues to wish that he could believe her. Me and her that is, not the talk between my tiny voices.
What makes it so hard, so impossibile for me to feel like I can have you? even as I type it out... the ego within me wishes to write, 'it is a foolish question to even ask since it is blatantly clear that her heart is never anything you could fully possess';... despite her insistence on the devoted nature of her love for me. The ego within me refuses to believe, all the while my heart, she tugs on the ego's sleeve from pant from her knees, too weak and wobbly with loneliness to stand she pleads for him to allow her to escape this hell that they'll surely share with one another until the day the body they both reside within will die. 'Please' she pleads, 'I swear this one means every word she speaks', he says 'no, regardless of the beauty she can sometimes speak, I refuse to let my baby bleed, not for someone who has already given her life away to another man.' He is such a proud man the ego, an alcoholic who loves his own story too much to let it be taken over by a picture he has laughed at others for painting themselves into. He insists on not allowing me to be a fool like we have thought those others to be... he tells me to look at the road I'm on with honest rational eyes, to cover my ears the next time I'm within range of her passional loving cries,...he tells me , 'close your eyes when she lets you inside her house and tries to trap you in her gaze until the moments leading up have unified the both of you. The proud ego and the lonely heart have a friend; the perceiver who sees...yesterday he saw the source of the shadow that's been sheathing this body in a sorrow since he met her, since the heart decided to love her; there on the grass, a real life body carting around the one they'll forever share with one another. The baby that ties her closer to another man, so the ego within me will apparantly always believe; He will never allow me to forgive her fully for her ties to another man, for even the heart's most persuasive arguments can only temporarilly sway the jury within my ego, for the contradictions that such a life she argues for ensure the impossibility of ever silencing the members given their rudimentary principles, their rules of integrity so to speak....... freedom, pride, desire, rationality, independence above all else. The jury within my ego, they always ultimately return with the same verdict....return to your slow burning in solitude; grow a beard as testament to the lack of feelings you hold for social fires...as testament to your lack of suitability for any normal role within this city you see when you roam these streets....one day you will die, but at least the fire of loneliness and lovelessness will have hung inside right until the bitter end....My heart cries, 'but what about her?'...can she not come with us, she is a true friend....' The ego pounds down with his wooden hammer, and sternly sentences my heart to die, on a day undetermined in the not to distant future....'It is with me and only me that you will ever find yourself in company!....She will trick you foolish heart....she will destroy our house and home; our family name will go down in shame....a sulky stepfather who'll swear to love another's child in order to remain close to the one that you claim to love! YOU foolish heart have grown so accustomed to need her in every way, to long for her ears to hear the words we say, without her we no longer see the purpose in anything!...oh what a fool you have tried to make of me!...Of this home we share!!... Loving and longing for her body with such an infantile dependency!....look what she has made of this place we share.....A step father?...is that not where this road will lead?....an unappreciated sucker who protects other treasures and swears he will shine another man's shoes...and for what?....all because of your love....should we place your love above everything else?....FOOLISH HEART....I sentence you to death.'

(no subject)
[Sep. 11th, 200804:56 pm]
This morning I woke with a revitalized sense of independence. Maybe all it really requires is a few sips of the drink to allow my brain to think in the way I need it to; in the way it did before all my thoughts in some way or another had a way of relating to you. Perhaps that isn't entirely true, but as of late, I am not myself when I am not inside of your warmth. A few moments of thoughtlessness drift on by in the sweet cold wind of a September night, a few seconds of laughter, a drink in hand and I am more mine than I have been all summer long. These eyes of mine shall perceive as they always have, and no it isn't empty when you're living more than anything, for colouring in the pencil outlines within your head; I was a fool to assume that life is more meaningful,or perhaps just more respectably normal when I'm living for the bones and skin within your bed. I am a fool. I am a fool. But, I must remind myself of this in order to remember how to be smart. I need to be stupid in so many ways in order to actually believe that there is any value in the inclinations I feel towards articulating reality. Lately, it has occurred to me that there are simply too many ways for articulating, too many approaches to conceptualizing the subtleties that few other than me will ever really care enough about to see. I am not pretentious, well yes I am, but only in that I know for a few years of my life I left behind this thing I call me in search of the stars. Even if I never really made it that far, I at least tried to systematize to some degree- I thought of more than ways of fucking the girl with the tight ass or what was on the next test in a business class. I stopped pushing the limits of my reality when the paint began to peel, there was nothing left to feel when all i could see was the dry wall behind it all. This morning I recalled what I read about Nietzsche, and realized how far I had strayed from a life I thought I might someday wish to aspire to, but even as I attempt to articulate what it was I felt this morning as I walked towards the bus stop I become incapable. I am more mindless and wordless than I can recall being in the last four years. For the longest time I was sure that I was destined for burning madness; for a a lonely life of Logos, but what is required to feel genius, I no longer hold onto. I am no longer fully alone. I am no longer at loss for love. I am no longer full of so much anxiety-the academic acheivements that once fueled my fire have simply began to bore me. I am not afraid of failure in the same empowering away; I am really not much afraid of all that much psychological these days, but let's not get ahead of ourselves, (make sure to knock on this wooden desk) . And, who am I kidding, everything is psychological. Within the way my mind perceives, there is nothing to any of it, there are no real bars or burlesque bedrooms behind the walls of this western movie town. Sop then, how will I choose to make it all meaningful again? I've been able to avoid my dwelling upon the idea that there is nothing, if we ultimately only live to forget, to die alone in some old folks home without even the slightest vestigial trace of the girl's face whom we first kissed, or the the way the summer truly felt when we were twenty three, the burning bright firy light that once sheathed over our entire reality. What, without memory, will any of the present mean to me? We're already shadows is how it all at times can appear to me....perhaps it still does, but lately I do not think in this manner. I simply try to open my eyes towards the present moment outstretched in front of me, and oh difficult such a simple task can be when you've led your mind into a world of words and conceptions, and systematizations of existence. Today, we walk to the river, sit on some rocks hidden from the rest of the world by tall green weeds, the sun is shining, I take my shirt off half jokingly but feel the sun baring down upon me and feel as if I am on a fishing trip, or in a cottage town, resting by a stream not too far from the beach. I say very little and she makes what looks like a flower to me out of rocks. I think her so much more Buddhist than I could ever be as she holds onto my head with her hands, pressing her cheekbone into mine as we've come to do. I tell her I think she is...and she tells me that I am not Buddhist at all; sometimes I wish she just wouldn't speak; sometimes I am certain she will disagree for the sake without even knowing what side it is she claims to take. But..for now, I shall simply remain in awe of her way of living in the present tense.

you would think that I would have much to say upon this morning, an uneventful evening of drugs, a cab ride home in which I insisted upon asking about the cabby;s assurance upon god, a distance from the one that I have not been familiar with for quite some time. But what am I?. Lately I am most simply described as an afraid head ache, the pain so bad that I can not bring myself to move forward, yet I dare to, do things I know my brain will not be okay with, and for what I am not sure. whatever it is that I am, I know it will feel empty if I continue to avoid your phone calls, these green walls, and these late night talks of tunes, we're all just waiting to be found by someone who understands truly what it is that we see in anything, someone who simply appreciates who we are without demanding us to be any one thing. But, we are nothing, we are always changing, and thus, we are fools to think we could ever stay in love. Tonight, this morning, I am stoned, more alone, more alive, I suppose, what have I been thinkin, my condition worsening as of late, if only I could put my finger on this illness perhaps my inward anxiety might alleviate, but I have not been myself fully since that night I got too drunk to climb into my bed, what a fool I am, but I am absolutely certain that there is something hurtin' in my head.

to engage in deception...to engage in it; sounds sorty of funny doesn't it. the act of deceiving. when is one involved in such an act? How much of the day is spent engaged in a sort of deception. If you look at each step you take in your day, and ask yourself along the way....am I engaged in deception? You probably are. When alone, when with the one you love, the selection of words, the way you move your feet when you're walking down the street...are we not always involved; engaged in deception? I have nothing further to say on that, or maybe I do, though I'd rather not call into question the integrity underlying our self-constructions, or the lack there-of. I try to abolish the lies that I read in my words when my voice is untrue to me, that thing I most easily recognize with the trait of invisibility. There is a will within, one who, for me, mostly just dry heaves at the fowl taste of life when i am living as something other than me, the will within, keeps me in bed for longer when I have no right to feel stronger, my will within, when I am colourless, uses the grey to from the clouds to paint my skin. The lack of integrity, as a lack of cohesiveness within our inward conceptions and rudimentary principles should be cause for concern...personal integrity as inward cohesiveness. No-one cares to know who they are, to bring structure or moral order to their inner workings. They merely care to show the entire world who they are at every chance they get...here I am, look at me, in this picture, at this angle.....it's like handing over a scrap book of scribbled notes to a publisher and saying, 'here's a well thought out novel. I have the utmost confidence in what lies in the confines of those bindings..though i really don't know what any of it is supposed to say..I know that it's damn cool...why?...because it's mine for god's sake...and I'm fucking great!...'Presuming we should we even be thoughtful enough, or sensitive enough in the first place to ever even consider what it is that we hold onto most dearly in our core; we would realize that even if we do think about a lot of things, the lack of necessary permanence to our self determined rules and principles should they even exist, renders us all essentially full of shit- but, the way I see it, it's better to know your full of shit, to try to make all of that fits within as true as possible, or at least know that you're not even trying, to be honest about it then to carry on as if you're entitled to everything out there in the world. Ethical egoism can kiss my ass. To self-create anew into each new moment is somewhat beautiful I suppose; like a piece of art, we walk onward and be as we wish to be whenever we wish to be anything... but for the most part, i find this form of self-deception and manipulation of public perception to be quite ugly and transparent. The expression on her face; the willingness to conform painted all over that guy's face. Listening to that guy's voice on the level of the semiotic, prior to words, the connotations that come with such a cocky volume, rythm and manner of pronouncing....To have integrity in this day and age is to be weak, to be a minority, to be left behind, to not be listened to in the crowded room...to not be heard in the debate. To have integrity is to have your heart ache as it palpatates with rage while listening to everyone talk so loud, their only concern is making sure that their voice be heard, regardless of their lack of consideration behind their cliche words. When every sentence in every story you ever tell, starts with "I did this..."...or "then I said that"...The finite temporary thoughts that paint the picture of how we wish to percieve ourselves at any given moment. The way we ultimately come to believe in our own self-deceptions...it is detrimental to us all, for most lies will be discovered, uncovered and all that has been built upon such a fallacious foundation will come crumbling down...the cool guy made clown upon having the dinner cloth yanked out, sending all the food and wine onto baby's borrowed clothes. I am scatterbrained. None of anything I will say today, or have said in the last few months of days will make any sense really. I am searching for something I used to have built into my system...I stuck my finger down my throat over and over and over again until I had puked all of everything about me i couldn't no longer bare to be had been heaved up. It's easier to be one of them.Today the leaves are pretty, and I care for nothing other than that which I say, I am selfless and un-selfish in a way I haven't not been in a long time. I am not even jealous or angry about the news that has just been delivered to me. I am simply me, empty and okay, looking around at all the pretty colours, annoyed by the stories i am forced to over hear at the bus stop, in this computer lab..I am happy today, because I am aware of the gift of this rarity- when everything that means nothing, means nothing to me.

an old photograph

One comes to value the writings they created when engaged in a relationship upon losing touch with that person and period of time. How many times have you heard someone speak in surprise of the joy of reading old journals."At the time I thought it was shit. But I wrote a lot when I was with her." I see few exceptions to this sort of utterance should anybody fancy themselves an artist of any kind. I am no exception to this observation, I percieve more mystery and intrigue in that me than I was ever able to percieve while she was still with me then. Like a photograph taken in summer and seen again, but for the first time some months later during the winter-only then can the picture be appreciated for all that it represents- for the window of life and time which it captures.

3 am, another uneventful ending to another uneventful evening; they're all uneventful these days. The fact that I'm disappearing in so many ways doesn't so much bother me; what does bother me is that I'm not bothered at all by this voluntary vanishing, by the fact that I don't care to paticipate in the plays i used to love to act as a part of, or show my face in the places that have infused my cheeks with colour and life, or the fact that I'm so willing to give up on so many people I've been before to grasp what at times, feels like nothing more than a sober awareness of the lack of divide in a succession of snow days. None of it has really bothered me though, not even my need to watch the one thing I wish to never think of; the clock of course, yet there it sits so high still always visible to my eye; a place it used to laugh down at me from, but it seems to know there's little use in laughing at someone who isn't listening; perched on a ledge too tall for me to ever climb upto so to pop the batteries from out the back, I see it standing there, and it sees me sitting quietly down here, and I do not think of my powerlessness with melancholy anymore, I merely say, 'okay'. This reflection upon our relationship, the clock and mine at a state of peace, from this dynamic emerges a slight sense worry within me, I don't feel inclined in any one direction as of late though, but I imagine this state of calm might begin to affect me very soon; as the river freezes and the waters take new shape, for, the synthesis to sober rationalism and static living while standing submerged in this river who's flowing never ceases has always been a need....to scream..to swerve...to something...oh how odd it is to wish for that same dialectical result to find me again, and shake me from my comfortable winter sleep, to wish for that same skinny shadow to creep into my room and unwrap me from underneath my blanket of scholarly smarts and take me by the hand and lead me out into the snow only to smack me in the face and say, 'Look man, you`re no longer a boy. And, soon you will have to leave this place! So do something!' Only to disappear and leave me shaking in my booties in the middle of somewhere strange before I can ask him what it is I am to do. So, if I read him correctly, then I too find my meaning in the paradox, that I am only fulfilled when aware that I am perpetually unfulfilled; my comfort in discomfort., deliverance in my knowledge of my confinement. I go digging through the desk drawer thats stuffed with old essays, tests, scribblings on scraps of paper from the days when I was living to lose my mind, so many old journals. I open to a page of a blue journal to immediately recognize that it was the journal I took with me to Greece; I begin to read, only to read the whole thing through, a painful adventure I embark upon while re-living all of those nights of inward yearning in that dry heat, where I wore a mask of cerititude to hide a burning need to feed some invisible fire; to feed that unintelligble flux that has always demanded new of me, its servant, to fetch new pretty things to burn. I masked my charred soul with the face of someone who knew that life was meant to be spent living rather than slowly dying... of that I could be sure. The entire trip is there, written on the pages for me to relive. There I am, a mad boy torn between utter depression and soul; elliot smith and stevie wonder. The embodied dichotomy of a confused kid, and the historical-psychological synthesis was the passional torment that was me at the age of 23... oh how it all comes flooding back to me. And then, that frightful feeling washes over me, and once again I become a baby left unattended to in a bath of running water. What a frightening feeling it is when one can`t make a sound when there aren`t any ears around, for how I can I train these baby legs of mine all on my own to stand up straight and escape..I can not, so I must learn how to breathe under water. This is what I have seemingly done as of late, become one of the ones who solemnly swears to swim in a sad state of acceptance. But like I said, it`s only sad when one still wishes to be saved. And that wish, was what I always recognized as essential to me. I would`ve been left there to drown, left lying at the bottom of the Aegean sea had I not taken the time to write out these summaries, these letters of salvation to an unknown future me. The thought of forgetting is what awakens me, what has always awakened me from my sleep on a shiver; for, in those moments when one wakes from a dream where they have just been killed, for a few fleeting seconds they possess the feeling of what it means to die; our human hearts will always find this feeling horrifying. And in those frightful moments, I scramble to turn on the lamp on the bedside table, find a pen and paper if only to remind myself to remember, for if I do not, then every previous version of me has already died; if so, then so too have I, this version who writes down these words, still horrified by the blackness that consumed me in the last moments I spent lost inside my mind. For down in the blackness at the bottom would be my fate, had I not chosen to dive into the sea on a rescue mission in search for the treasure chest which entombed me. But, with sober eyes I have passed over the idea time and time again lately, that death puts an end to all memory, so one musn`t waste their lives holding onto the past, but I see little value in seizing the present before me if this is so, for surrounded in snow I now stand, and when the showers of spring come, if I am not prepared, I will lose grip of everything I have held this winter, forced to change my clothes all over again, and step into the shoes of an older man. So what will all of this have meant to even me then. I seek a longevity for me that extends beyond this fleeting second. The question comes to mind: just what is essential and unchanged within me that I can wrap my fingers around and carry with me until I die? Some part of my soul that will always be safely tucked inside.... I conclude that there is perhaps nothing to me other than the continuity of cosciousness, the perpetual succesion of presents `I` ride on, while the wind blows in my face and continually hammers away at its shape, and smacks everything I grab along the way out of my hands...parts of me but possessions snagged along the way, leaves I pull from the branches I pass to be blown from my fingers and left on the street behind me, never to be revisited, for the tracks I leave line a one way street. Lost fragments I will all be, unless I find a pen at the time of inspiration, scratch down my thoughts and tuck them safely under the seat to always carry within me. Reading the voice of that boy, just more than a year ago, I know that he and me have very little in common, sadly. But, like old friends we are re-united. I never repeat the word 'fire' to myself anymore, the word was everything to me then, it was what gave me all of my strength, what made me so weak when I was without it, 'fire', as simple as it sounds, was intuitively everything, the word on its own bared striking power that I used to know how to embody; it was the rudimentary principle in my core philosophy, and from the word I built a world. A gateway into a new reality. Without the fire I was dead, completely complacent in the present tense. The word was a way of seizing everything, the gateway escape from insecurity and monotony; burn burn burn boy i would tell myself, for fire is the only true thing and there's no question about it. Stick your face in the flames and let them scorch your skin.... this was the only way to live. I think that me would look at me as dead, but luckily back then I was mindful enough to stuff myself into a time capsule for this me to later on read, for his existence poses so many daunting questions upon me.Both in what our differences mean about life, and for what everything he stood for poses towards what I stand for. He would ask me, 'just why the hell did you go and put out that fire?....ahh I knew you always just wanted it easy...like every other adult who willingly sticks his heart in the ice box....just to make it easier...' To him I say, 'yeah it is easier, and im doing things you never could've done...the World isn't so hard to piece together when you're at peace with more than just prettiness on the suface.' Then i begin to think, i`m not at peace, I still can't stop looking at the clock and wishing it would slow down; regardelss of how easy previously difficult endevaours have become, the clock`s hands still swing with such devastating devotion. When every moment is spent soberly rational and aware I may be okay in a more calm way, but the itch to make it stop has never stopped asking me to scratch. When I exist in a continuum of sober moments there is only constancy to the passing, I wake from sleep, do some things, then lie in bed and wait for sleep to overtake my body with closed eyes. I miss the fire, I've missed it for a while....but I fear the fire, for fire burns! It really does hurt. It really does make everything harder....but that's what I recognized as me for the longest time.... The impossible need within every place holder I`ve pretended to be; but today i ask, what was that burning if nothing more than an outright `no` towards everything and an excruciating need for `yes`. Hence why I deliberate tonight and wonder what it was, or is about me that has always been, and will always be mine. I can think of no specific thing other than continuity of consciousness, and that paradoxical need... but even here I wonder if I can claim a continuity of consciousness, for such a claim of proof would only amount to an approximation as all windows to the past are frames filled with frosted glass, I know this, for how can I claim continuity, when just over a year ago, I was a very different me?...can I really claim that the stream beneath me has a consistency I have always been able to recognize as the same just by the way it feels when it rushes against my skin?...but then.... MY skin....have I not always said, mine, or I'm, or I, or me!!??.....would this change anything?.....no, just because I've been conscious, just because we share memories, that doesn't mean that all of the ones who have lived in this body, in this life, have anything to do with the present version of me....maybe they do, but only as forces in my historical dialectical development... I must then think, that that need is me and is what has always been me. I am that baby who can`t save himself from the bath tub filling with water; that is me. I`ve merely negotiated the problem in different ways, all of which have ultimately failed. `In his failure man finds his triumph` In impossible need, I find myself.

This is the passion that so obviously prevented me from achieving any form of clarity in my thinking last year, this is the element of me that identified with Nietzsche’s suffering, though he maybe never recognized it as such. I am burning on the inside, all ideas impossible to hold onto, for every thought is broken by the presence of you in my heart. The door crashes open and in marches your ghost....I won’t, no I can’t do it yet, I can’t turn you into an idea, it only makes things harder anyways.....fuck this shit.
This is the passion that prevents me from caring about anything at all other than that which I have tried to let go of...that which I have removed from my life. Whether or not the anxiety is alcohol induced or merely the result of a sober acknowledgment of the love I stand to lose in letting go of you...there it screams from my chest. But we are already lost to one another, we both know this...i’ve given you the answer by giving you the problem as clearly as possible, nothing left now but the crying...all we lose is the present tense-this consoles me very little, for a present that is void of the possibility of your loving presence is quite different than one with you; though alone a lot of the time-with you in mind I am not lonely. You letting go of me....now I am lonely and alone. I acknowledge you now passionally...it hurts. The passion that prevents life from taking place, while colouring reality with its only believable shade; sheathing city streets in the grey beneath an infinitely filled sky of storm clouds, filled with tears longing for release-but I refuse to grant myself the luxury of letting go- I don’t deserve the easiness that awaits upon forgetting you-for I could do it so easily, and this human ability sickens me-I hold you at the forefront from here on out, I owe that to you-love is hell, hell is love. A million storm clouds filled with tears, obstructing the illuminating power of a sun that awaits her chance to act in the blue above-all shall remain blurred and obscured in the drizzle of this passional fog that I refuse to fight through out of respect for you.

the illumination of feeling

....the importance of how we experience ourselves in this dreamlike existence and what our perception of ourselves means: -For the passing of time. Who we mean to this movie will determine how many frames pass per second; the frames will always be passing; but we can slow them down to appreciate each frame with enhanced scrutiny. How? IIs it worth a damn? Well, If I am not even an actor at all in the movie of my life, then the time blows right on by in weeks like leaves scraping down the street. Feeling like you think every one else ought to feel upon doing the boring things they do is no way to overlook this highway. Life is already gone if we are logical. How lonely it is to lose yourself in logic. I place myself back in my seat after remembering what its like to live emotionallly, and then i begin to see; in the way that I see when I am present in this reeling and not merely counting frames to know when the movie will necessarilly end. Unkowingly, the shadow of logic crept over my winter and sheathed all of the passional shades with an emotionless gray; making sense of everything turns life into a lucid dream where nothing means anything but symbols in an equation without end. I have never seen in symbols explicitly nor that comprehensively-but representations....patterns, how meaningless the world looks through the eyes of a mathematician, of this i am sure. I say meaningless because to me, there is more meaning in the feeling-the art that fills my heart speaks to a part of me i deem more important than the part that reason fills. I lose my friends when i leave the world behind-one does not enjoy the intricacies of living in a village when viewing down from a mountain. The director of a movie gets less out of watching his work than an emotional onlooker; he who sees the storyline as unfolding with necessity, or the camera work with a science perceives the reason rather than possessing the feeling. It is in those finite possessions of fulfilling feelings that the infinite is grasped. We lose the infinite when we lost ourselves in logic.Who I am in this experience of existence is so drastically different from week to week; today i am filled with emotions and feelings that conquer me-I recognize my reflection in the window of the shuttle bus; that's the me that lives in hell and thinks only of the impossible need for love; that's the one the girls wanted me to be back then; girls attracted only to the indifference to pretty things that attaches itself to someone who feels like they're suffering-but what is that makes me burn? I can name a million things-but the logician within me longs for that unity which can tie it all together...always looking for unity; there's got to be a core source for this burning within me; all I have are the fragments, the ways that the things i see play themselves out in reality. There is anxiety before mental understanding though-my body knew returning to this city would do to me before my head could begin to articulate-so i assert today, its the lack of understanding amongst all of us that leaves me feeling so isolated, so anxious. Living alone in our heads we will always be-this thought saddens me. I resent the world for not understanding me. I resent my friends for misunderstaning me-I resent them for doing things that I would never do- I resent the impossibility for pure reciprocal empathy in a world that understands love as unity. I sit and listen to what she says and wonder if its always been a projection of myself onto her; if it will always be this way since my head is a place i can never escape; maybe she used to say other things; maybe i always knew it was hopeless-that the recognition of a closeness between us was always nothing more than a trick that tapped into emotion to sell itself to us; we were always strangers technically and lovers only aesthetically.I am a card player who can only hold so many cards in his hands at one time though i keep the deck in my breast pocket. I am always tucked in that pocket in my completeness, but i can never be conscious of it all though; i can never keep the face of every card in the forefront of my mind all at the same time. A hand filled with hearts and captained by the suicide king suddenly shows me the error of my ways. The world of feeling illuminated all over again with the strike of a match. The meaning embodied again intuitively. I understand the importance of all; sensitivity reborn into the flickering light of a dancing flame. And then, I love her.These notes no longer Bm, D, Bm, G, G/E, Bm-They are the moments of a soul trapped in time; a life of perpetual becoming and melodies unfolding. Moving onward i see the ugly other thats been living in my body for the last six months, the hand of offsuit nothings thats been determining my moves.How suddenly the world of feeling reopens her arms to me. She tells me I belong to her, and I believe her with love that rings true with her every resonating tone, every twinly of an eye. The harmony shows itself to me again and time slows to a crawl-the bus ride lasts as long as I've longed for it to all year. Time tells me that I am again. But..this morning it occurred to me that were all strangers to one another-intersubjectivity an impossibilty in the way that would satisfy me-I feel this logical conclusion; there is little that i can do.