nov. 8th

it was a thursday. then, a saturday. today, it is sunday. at first there was just land, then a little bit of sea, and now, epic fucking oceans. time's warped dance, and a mind that still remembers. has it really been two whole years? has that much time passed me by? holy shit. i can't tell.

the road to heaven.

pretending;

in my small space, seems like almost everything now.

deleting;

in my panicked state, the right expressions now.

leaving;

in my own faith, what is no longer mortal perfection.

***

what a fool to have thought that happiness has been largely achieved. the pursuit is never ending. the pursuit is my thrill. this very pursuit will too likely be, the ridiculous end of me.

lessons unlearnt.

what makes this different. what makes this special. what makes this a flaw in the dream. what mutation of patience is required. what degree of strength is needed. what calls for understanding and acceptance. what makes this ambition of faulty design. what a favorite mistake. what tender rare opportunities. what stolen broken pieces in the darkness. what mad thoughts and desire. what pain when left behind alone and afraid. what uncertainties. what deep-seated insecurities. what overwhelming conclusions. what horrible premature realities. what takes me away. what leads me into the future to leave me behind. what red red red eyes. what a monstrous deception. what a weak-willed familiar stranger. what a thing to drown in. what a fantastical notion of possibility. what a distressing method to cope with accumulating truths. what life is this. what life is this. what mockery. what sick mockery. what are you. what sort of me.

diminuendo.

i traded a poem for a song.

i read the secret words,

of the old poet,

newly discovered.

two paths in life that run parallel,

never crossing.

even near the water's teeth,

near the edge of our earth,

never an opportune moment.

never.

a large space left unwritten now.

a loss, exquisitely painful.

please,

please find your bliss,

in your love and your poetry.

find a new clearing;

the sun will find you, and crown you,

and reignite your cold fire.

because i see you every day,

and you disappear.

find her.

write her.

steal her heart.

do anything, do all.

i want to see your forlorn beauty again,

and you, too, want it back again,

and you want to smell her hair again,

and she wants to wake up to you again.

i want us to feel the love,

to be caught in the bright lights.

ultimately, trading old heartbreaks and passions

for our one chance to smile again,

and fall back in joy.

laugh at the terrible things

that we have destroyed.

seize and freeze, catharsis.

i listen to havoc sing. i happen to enjoy it. i listen to havoc sing. must there be a reason for listening, one that explains to you, what you long to hear? i have my reason, that reason being, i have no reason at all. or maybe i do, maybe it is still one of those despairingly shady things not yet unveiled. i listen to havoc sing, and i sway to it, i put my arms around it, i clench my jaw and my fists in front of it, and i beat its hard heart with my vulnerable bones. the music is low and eerie; my shoes dark and flat, like the earth. i listen to havoc sing, i happen to frustrate it. lonely words, and a lonely rhythm, only for me; the blank looks from pavement people anger it, i vainly try to pacify it. lilting and sad, i listen to havoc sing. i have a fuzzy reason, weak arguments, dreamy thrones. i pound the wooden floor with black feet, wrap loose skin in human wounds; at night i think frantically of you. i listen to havoc sing. i happen to enjoy it. i listen to havoc sing. i am my own reason, step by step, frame and walls. let me lean in, court the havoc, reduce the agitation, drop the fears. i listen to havoc sing. i listen to the universe, confusion; i put myself in a pocket of your trust. touch me, and learn, and teach, and hold, share, shake, twirl, choose, and love, and make me whole, old, in the new. i listen to havoc sing, in search of you. hello, i am this person. you are too beautiful, too effortless,

but perhaps, this is a very real story, with very real men.

i listen to havoc sing. i am in love with it. i listen to its thunder; i hear, wishful, your applause.

i need a little saving, that was what i said, and what i sincerely meant. the need remains the same, but in a different context now. i am only willing and able to arrange some of my circumstances, not all of them. i do not expect myself to comprehend this mess immediately, but in time, i hope a decipherable pattern emerges. guessing games and mazes are no fun when there are no exits in their design. i rock back and forth a lot; blame me for being rather newly, most hopelessly, in love with life. i am smitten. i am crawling towards contentment. hurray, and an armful of carpe diem.

as fast as i had picked you up, i put you back down again. instant gratification has always been my weakness, and i don't plan to let it remain as such. i rushed into you, dove straight into your pages. i thought that i had found something worth staying around for, and so i hoped, i gambled. but i don't want this anymore. i don't want anything of the sort anymore. i don't mind not wanting anything else anymore. i had forgotten how to be happy, when i have been happy all along. i'm staying where i am, no matter what i might think come tomorrow morning.

i need a little saving.