frus frus frus frustrated

A p r i l  2 5 , 2 0 1 6

Isn't to merit to want? It's nothing to do with who is deserving or what so-called talents can accomplish. THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ANYTHING. Why can't things be as they are. It would be so nice to just sit somewhere with a breeze and sew threads on white cotton. No walls, just light. And the only conflict playing would be the thimble against the thumb.

fool and fall

M a r c h  1 5 ,  2 0 1 6
CHORIC SONG

I

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Then petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies;
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

II

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
"There is no joy but calm!"
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?


- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

post

F e b r u a r y  2 3 , 2 0 1 6

Happiness. They look upon it with disdain. The excitement in your eyes reflects a worry in theirs. A worry that you might take what you feel and run away. From responsibilities and such. What else is new. They like when you're worried, tired and sad. But you should never show them sadness. Respond politely, accordingly, willingly bowing to their will. They like to burden themselves with the creation of their own burdensome selves. It's a happy medium of tyranny and creative outlet-ivity wouldn't you say? I hate them. I hate them all. 

The woman in yellow

F e b r u a r y  1 5 , 2 0 1 6

There's a yellow little old lady. I seldom see her. But when I do, she's dressed in yellow from head to toe. From the ground up, yellow toes encased in yellow shoes wrapped in yellow laces. Feet kept warm in yellow socks trimmed with yellow lace. Pants of the most brilliant yellow skimmed with yellow stitching. A sweater of soft yellow under a raincoat made of yellow. Hands are adorned with yellow polish which glimmer in the company of her yellow bag. She tops it off with a hat in tones of darling yellow. And her light hair glows of a feverish yellow under all the yellowness of her presence.

case

J a n u a r y  2 9 , 2 0 1 6

Sometimes I just want to stay on the bus and have it ride on forever. With no thought to cloud my mind and no temper to weather my senses. It can pass by like that, life it will. If you let it. No stops, no breath. A continuous journey, a flat line. 

It's not living, it's livid. A dividend, of windows, of rain dues. of windy voices. A vision of a division, a derision, an oblivion. It's not vivacious, volcanic, voluptuous or voluntary. Let it not wind you up, serve it plate, and tie it round. Escape the space of solitary sanity, of sobriety in sober as sober. As stoic as stoic. Salivating on solutions on suction and sucking and skulking. Sulk. sulking. Cages caged in caves of causality. A constant constantly on the cusp of concentration convulsively concrete. Craving crust and crossing cost. tempers tidal, time ticks total. type is touching. chins are moving. Mossy mousy mouth

only time will tell

D e c e m b e r  3 0 , 2 0 1 5

How do you go home when your home is a person, and that person isn't there anymore? It's funny but I think that's why I walk so fast. I'm not weightless because I'm lighthearted. It's because I'm hollow. All I want is some peace and quiet. To be alone, for a long while. Where I can play the piano like I used to, and think only of the fingers and the wrists. I think I know where to go, but it's so cold outside and I'm afraid. I want to be alone but I don't want to be alone by myself. There are things I want to do, that I need to do. But all the energy is wasting away inside my mind. The time that is spent dreaming up a rose is wasted when I should have been watering it.

it's been a while

D e c e m b e r  1 0 , 2 0 1 5

It's not that I haven't been writing. Just not technically. I've been writing in my mind. I just haven't gotten round to typing it out. That's the thing with writing. If I don't write my thoughts out instantly, they become irrelevant and this space becomes deserted. There's a lot I've been meaning to say. But I'm just too tired to say anything. I think it means I'm getting old. Which is something I really didn't want to have to do. Please, say it ain't so...

Keeping up with myself

N o v e m b e r  0 4 , 2 0 1 5

It's always been difficult for me to keep up with any creative project with any sense of regularity. I'm always changing my mind and generating new ideas. It's hard to keep up with. And whenever a new idea pops up, the old ones just don't seem relevant anymore and I just don't feel like pursuing them anymore. Not that I thought they were bad ideas. On the contrary, some of them I thought were genius (emphasis on the "I"). No, it's just that when a thought is of the past, it's already over and done with in my mind. I can't create things for show. I've tried to do that, and it doesn't work with me. This is why it takes so much time for me to develop any project. This is why I can never finish any project. Since everything is so closely personal to me, no project can ever be finished because I essentially become the project. And I'm always a work in progress. There's nothing wrong with doing things for yourself. I never questioned that. It's just hard to separate what I'm trying to do with who I am. I guess I don't have to, but everything I do just ends up being depressing...

Some thoughts on writing for now

O c t o b e r  0 9 , 2 0 1 5

I feel as though the more I read the less I write. It sounds funny when it's said that way but it's true. The more I read, the more I realize how much work and thought is put into every piece of literature. And how my writing pales in comparison. I mean, what an understatement. Actually, I'll rephrase my initial sentence. The more I read, the less I like what I write. And I'm not trying to compare either. I'm not even trying to emulate what I'm reading. There's just this emptiness I can't fulfill, as if every word across the page is digging a hole into the ground. And the deeper it gets, the less clearly I can see ahead. That's all I can say for now.

Spaced out

S e p t e m b e r  1 8 , 2 0 1 5

L O V E L I N E S S   C O M E S   I N   T H E   S H A P E   O F   Y O U R   S M I L E
__________________________________________________

Granted it's wishful thinking that
One can go through life feeling
Open and content with being
Devoid of mishaps and challenges but
Nature always ends up taking over and
In time we become old and broken and
Gifted with tricks of the trade. But friendship
Hails from peculiarity and grows amongst
The times that are trying.

Please take note that the
Remainder of this message is
Unaware of the worth and value of
Names. They are always being
Carelessly thrown about at
Every instance or reason.
Such a fate is inescapable. But
Some magics are worth fighting for.