I relax as the world draws me
It’s great to absorb but the slightest bit is still too much
One facet with two eyes can endlessly reflect
But the point is lost and now I’m in my head
And every ounce of engagement just hurls me further away
Because I take too much when I try to engage
I see that I fail to engage
And if what I crave is propulsion I have to wonder
Should I go less deep or can I push back harder?
Are both sides of this binary powered by the same source?
What runs me?
I know as I stand my energy is just a reflection of the outside.
My thoughts are tributes and my excitement is a sliver
And from this excitement comes a desire to stop
Succeed my hands to express the brilliance not of ME
But the decadence of every and any thing
Maybe you don’t follow
But I never really learned to lead
‘Cause all I make is just the residue
I entertain at best but often feel unnecessary
The thought of being necessary!
To even believe in necessary
(Which requires context more specific than:
“everything in the universe, ever”
And specifics have never been my strength
Everything is a metaphor)
What is this skill? Over time, becoming more and more eloquent… perhaps saying less to mean the same thing. Or being comprehensible. Sanity meets beauty. Oh hell, I really don’t know. Eloquent is not a word to describe me.
I tried to write like I used to. I would open a notebook and scrawl for hours, crazy feelings and poorly worded perspectives that went on for miles… And when I opened the notebook and placed my pen to the paper? Nothing. I forgot how to let it out, because it wasn’t even in me. I scratched at my thoughts and tried a prompt. I asked myself to think of something stupid and moody that I wouldn’t dare write. The levy broke. My notebook is flooded.
So I fear that eloquence is something my mind has found the time to attempt. Truly, eloquence should be a beautiful translation of my thoughts, but… my thoughts were too cliche to be translated. My failed transformation into an expressive being censored the fountain of inspiration, and this self-defeating process is why I don’t need to carry a notebook with me everywhere I go anymore. Time for some healthy regression.
There are some things I have to say to identify myself. Expectations and observations that inform individuals with similar wavelengths that, “Yes. We are on the same wavelength.”
I am presently more interested in self-preservation and imagination fails to anticipate where pride stops and fear of judgement begins. This premise has kept me afloat but now my urge to dive is relentless. Unfortunately it is still no match for the buoy of not knowing how long I can hold my breath, and fears of inadequacy bob to the surface.
I have nothing more to prove (intellectually) to my speculative cohorts until they find more appropriate answers than “Good question.” I hold my contemplation next to my hedonism, and the latter always seems to triumph in the court of my ultimate rationale. I am unfazed by my own philosophical hypocrisy because I don’t believe that one can be the same person in two distinct instances. The same leniency is granted to my peers but I have no commitment to passivity; I still present argumentative contradictions as one method of interaction knowing that neither of us holds an ounce of truth, but together we can witness it weave strands between our assertions. These strands will not connect us, but our ability to see them will.
Keep looking up. You can trust someone who says you’re a big boy. Everything is complicated, and that’s a grown-up thing to say. Find something you weren’t allowed to have for reasons you didn’t understand. Enjoy this. Be miserable about it. Don’t explain yourself into contradiction, but get close. You’re a grown-up now, and you have the right to be complicated. A grown-up who reaches out for the ambiguity of childhood always returns clutching a pacifier.
I dreamed I left for Aachen. I was in the bus with a suitcase and no means of contact to anyone I knew. I was intimidated by not understanding anyone around me.
I think I’m awake. My possessions have started packing themselves. I’m surprised to find out how few of the loose ends were mine. I thought it would be a painstaking ordeal, untangling myself from such a network.
Is life, simply put, the ability to act against advice?
Maybe I will begin to add illustrations to my posts.
Any given moment of feeling is my instantaneous world. It changes quickly and varies in intensity; I lose myself and find myself and wander and run. “You,” I might say to the object of my attention, “are my world.”
The night was humid and the clouds were gravid. When the sky opened up, my world was on the patio observing heavy rain. I cannot include the instantaneous world of weather as holding significance over my future. Collectively, I see rain and snow and sun as a constant. There will always be “weather.”
Instantaneous love is something I never shy away from. I’m not disconcerted nor bashful by words that express feelings. Instantaneous love is part of my connection-collective, one feeling to be blended with friendship, rivalry, defensiveness, and all sorts of interactions.
And now… every instant feels like a strand connecting moments of my past and future. I am refining memories by reliving them in slow motion, from different angles, in colour. Even memories from before my new fuel source have been revisited with glorious new contexts and sweet relief. I feel fondness for the outstretching branches of past and future as they carry me through perspective. My world has changed and has been equalized. Interactions, expression, the weather—these are steamrolled into one delicious wave. I surf on my inability to separate or control these thoughts, it is a sea of stars and universality. My world has been simplified and my intentions are clear.
I think I’ve gotten stupid.
I try to avoid songs that bring me down as of recent. If I hear one starting I can run to the iPod and skip it… unless my hands are full. As soon as more than 15 seconds of a song I really like starts playing I either listen to the rest of it or have it stuck in my head all day. High and Dry came on while I was cooking. That was rough. And I liked it.
The whole “emotional stability” thing made it impossible to feel as down as I did today while listening to that song via rediscovered unsteadiness. Now that I’m (once again) capable of intense melancholy, it’s comparable to a strong cup of coffee or bitter, bitter chocolate. I know such robust potency is fleeting, so I savour—rather than endure—it.
It reminds me of the times when I romanticized gloom in my teen years, and expressed it occasionally with how I dressed and the company I kept. Even so, I was excitable and always broke character, over an opportunity to preserve the role. I’m still excitable and don’t see my current feelings as mere theatrics. Instead, I feel as much as I can stand before ejecting the rest into my artistic pursuits.
I left work and it was dark. I feel camaraderie with nightfall (having spent so long being nocturnal). Also, long shifts leave us jaded. I enjoy the idea of working myself to exhaustion, having a tea, and then working some more. Job satisfaction is easy enough with some psychological shortcuts and then I can’t think about much else. This is such bullshit.
I work to exhaustion because I want the money. Psychological shortcuts are still useful and I do find satisfaction in the tasks I perform, but I enjoy my work environment, employers, coworkers, etc… And by the end of the day, I’ve gotten some relief from my exhausted “heart” jumping on a trampoline, trying to glimpse over a fence. That fence is the Atlantic Ocean. Let me
qualify quantify “some relief.”
ƒ = available cognition
FP = distraction factor
t = hours after starting work
FP = ( 2.2 t + 60 ) %
t1 = 0
FPinitial = 60%
t2 = 9.0
FPfinal = 80%
ƒ = -0.056 t + 1
t1 = 0
ƒinitial = 1.0
t2 = 9.0
ƒfinal = 0.5
( ƒinitial × FPinitial ) − ( ƒfinal × FPfinal ) = relief
relief = 20%
So feeling slightly relieved, I stopped in a blues bar on the way home and enjoyed the music. I didn’t get charged cover and was almost asked to join onstage for a jam or two. When I informed the bassist that I was inexperienced with a Hammond B3, he understandably withdrew the invitation. This was a relief, considering the caliber of musician I was dealing with: the played-music-more-than-twice-as-long-as-I’ve-been-alive caliber. I was too starstruck (let alone unfamiliar with the instrument) to think about playing.
Whoops. I was going to continue, but it seems ƒ is approaching zero.
There’s a special kind of pleasure that comes out of keeping track of your budget to the last penny, perhaps each calorie consumed on a diet, maybe a schedule booked to the minute. Meticulous self-discipline can make playtime more fun because in the back of your mind you know you’ve got it all under control.
The distinction between how I feel now and how I felt before is incredible. For one, the control in so many aspects of my life is thrilling. As a contrast, the emotional intensity and helplessness of my non-clockwork state is at record peaks. Helpless, yes. And yes, I’m okay with it. The severity would scare me if my logistical life were suffering. Now I can just enjoy the intoxication. I don’t even care where it goes, which is a noticeable change from the destination-focused poetry of my teen years.
Reciprocity has been confirmed, so my mood has improved drastically. I’m overwhelmed with the glory of mutual lunacy. A bit on edge still.
This “on edge” would have me slightly more aware of how many people I pass every day. I share my life with the city and I don’t believe there is an easy way to hide. Not that I want to right now, but I toy with the concept of sitting in the middle of a grassy field. Where, on a whim, might I find that level of recluse? I imagine the newfound self-control provides some consolation, otherwise I don’t suppose where the pleasure comes from. Freedom, maybe. More specifically, the freedom to live and love without fear of over-investing myself in swooning momentum.