I am an artist, a creator, a dreamer. I wish to be more than I am and I wish that when I translate thoughts such as the previous, that my wishing would be elevated into doing. I am tired of being a walking and breathing woman; daily engagements, periods, visits to the store to stock up on survival supplies, hygiene, sex, relationships……..it makes one so old. I am tired of the jail-cell of sweet deathly smoke that plagues me and highlights my day, and I am tired of my apparent un-focused passion. I am tired that I have taken the term passion by the book. I am tired of sitting hand in hand with the things that inspire me, the art that I could have created, when in my forming lies the potential of a talents that ostracized their ideas that perhaps could surpass them all. But my ideas remain pent-up, so who will ever see their effect outside of the correspondents in my mind? And, as I wrote that last bit, I am reminded that I am tired of burrowing inside my fake-narcissism and allowing myself to believe it to be happiness……….I am tired of believing in my talent, as its mention has become a dirty thing. It is, in fact, as un-used as a pair of $3,000 shoes. Am I afraid( as I would be for the shoes)to taint it? Perhaps. I am tired of allowing my ideas of revolution to lead my life, and they are, acting as a leader such as Hitler, miscalculating their surroundings constantly and causing me to act ridiculously in most situations…yes, my actions may have had different motivations than theirs, but the framework and impact is much the same.
It is true that my fervor for metaphorical things leads to bliss-prompting infatuation, but infatuation only gives me an excuse for more bouts of un-productivity. I should be better than I am, not in my presentation of daily activities but in my overall being. I will not ripe with age as others do, for most of my passion is channeled in the advantage I have over tired-minds. I am ripe now; age will only bring me bruises and short-term pleasant taste sensations. I live as a song for the damaged, a ballad of big nothing. I, like every other human, am stuck in the idea of being alive. I, unlike every other human, feel [in my delusional state] that I have been blessed with a key to escape the gray. The only problem is I am far too lazy to render the part of me needed to apply motivation to the keys working success. And, until something [not a punch in the face from he who generously lended me his sperm] eats at my flesh until I am tortured enough to escape my identicals, I will remain here.
The days long ago when the internet seemed like a glimmer of hope for love and intimacy…..
The following has not been edited in any way:
“just surfing cause my life sucks and cant break my bond…lol well seen your the same age as eye iam..you look far better thoe well only reply if your some what interested in me and to let you know i will be a convicted pot dealer soon.”
If you don’t see a new blog tomorrow, it is because I am engulfed writing the perfect response to my dream guy.
It seemed easier then, you know, hidden away in the hills of our place
“You are my muse”, he said.
“You are my heart”, she whispered.
Hours and hours, days upon days buried under pain and the promise of betrayal, I watched him work. Longing for our worlds to intertwine beyond the canvas and the sunset.
I do not remember the past clearly but as I woke this morning my eyes opened for the first time. Antiqued shards of pain wiped away as I thought of you. ….again.
“You empower me”, he said.
“You heal me”, she whispered.
To no longer battle time….It is infinate freedom. It is infinate spirit. Mirrors form a true reflection and I catch a glimpse of hope.
Your hand brushes against mine and I remember. Your gaze locks mine and I feel. Your lips touch my mouth and I realize…you have always been my beloved.
Don’t know exactly what it is about the first warm day of the year. It makes me feel incredibly nostalgic…It makes me grateful..it makes me sad. It makes me miss my super long obnoxious red hair. It makes me miss the marster…..It makes me long for the streets of nyc…when everything was easy and all I had to worry about was what new clothes to buy, and who was playing at coney island high.
It makes my eyes well up with tears and wish I did some things differently. It makes my mind wander to the cliffs of the pacific coast hwy….to the tiffany stained glass and the views of central park….to the stages of the east village and the lights and cameras of the studios….It makes me remember a part of me that I swear has been gone far too long…It makes me want to act again, but I feel like its too late. Now I’m just too old for what they need. So I find new outlets, for there is always another way.
It always, without fail, makes me wish I was someplace else….
The dead should stay buried….and realize that what they leave behind is residue…residual effects of their presence. Strong memories should satisfy, even the trace should suffice. We grieve. We celebrate. We mourn. We decorate the graves of some and dance on others. A part of us dies with them sometimes, and eventually after enough torture,and wondering bewilderment, we move on.
And yet the ghost appears…with no care or awareness that they are no longer part of this world…that their memory is intertwined with the grieving’s present. Perhaps they are aware. All you can hope for is the true sense of acceptance and freedom from the bondage of the past…..
I went to the market this moring and they were playing BOWIE?!
This leads me to believe that one of two things happened while I slept. 1. I became older than dirt in a day’s time or 2. the rest of the planet became cool overnight.
i want astonishing conversations and interactions. i want even better silent moments. i want to seize him inside when he laughs and envelope him when he cries. i want to be the pen he fingers delicately when recording his most beautiful thoughts. i want to experience malaise when he does because i want to relate to every moment when his limbs are heavy. when he feels a void i want my every genetic to fill it, my voice, the way i blink my eyes and the exact speed of the breath that comes out of my mouth. i want to inspire him when he is at a loss for words and i always want to give him something to write about. i want him to miss me when he is away…. i want to find the atom that was closest to me before i was in this pretty skin i’m in and catch it in a butterfly net. i want us to paint the sky without paper and i don’t want to be afraid of its profundity. i want to dream of you and with you, thousands of nights on egyptian cotton that we created out of un-paved roads. i want to place you in my pocket and never change my pants. i want us to be surer than death, even. more prominent than revolutionary scriptures recently discovered from back in the “before christ” period. we will be insane when we’re silent, insane when we’re loud, and more controversial than clockwork orange. [always]
and yet i have no void that needs to be filled by lawfully adoring stares.i am content without falling for the societal voice of the way things should be….