New things to come.

I hold a ridged square block, a play piece from childhood. It’s no longer shiny and red, as its edges and corners have been chipped and worn. Integrity has been lost in the process.

There is a triangle hole.

I can no longer force this block. I grow weary. It has compromised the hole and block. Wooden bits freckle my shoes.

Like a middle train cart, you sit between a mirror and an ideal. Wouldn’t it be easier to stop chasing and be chased?

I’m stopping. My legs are tired. New things to come.

present state of mind on a monday night in november

I’m weary of pressure and melting into a tiny, metal cup. Empty Campbells. Let me settle, irritably flexing my gel. These perforated edges contain my gelish self. Drip, leek, drop, drizzle onto the floor. Here I slush around tile and absorb salty rye crumbs.

And you’re new. You’re nice and new.

You are so pretty. New. Nice. Pretty.

And something to look forward to.

An idea, which is you.

It’s not important when, just not too soon. It is very important when. Not too soon. Not soon. Stop. FUCKING STOP.

give

What does this instill? I’m peering into a camera, copying something or somebody. Soul and spite, or soulless and spiteful? I found the original far too boring. It needed noise and distortion.

He who cannot give anything away cannot feel anything either.
-Nietzsche

Tall Trees.

I flatten what I feel for security.

Plowing, pushing away clean snow. It sparkles and creates rust. The yellow, musky tracker does its job. It’s part of the whole. Watch though the window. It brings me noticeable warmth while everything congeals. There is no blizzard tonight. There is some musky carpet, queezy stomachs and wisdom that are too easily discarded.

Nobody knows what thirty-five feels like (age). My perception of thirty-five is strangely defined. As if a fifty-foot tree feels fifty feet tall. Why must we pretend? As forty-five and ninety.

My dog leaves me. She lives her own aspiration. I realize her value and wish her happiness.
One day she will not return. That is ok. I’ve allowed freedom. Potential. Understanding. Sympathy.

I’m letting go of anything I once wished to own. I’m letting go of you. Freedom blossoms as I reject all desire for power.

moment

Does creating a hierarchy of desired experience enrich or devalue life?

Does living equally in every moment erode experience into monotony?

Does regarding distinct moments as more valuable than others shorten our potential?

Or is this best lived within the grey spectrum?

Living within a hierarchy is detrimental. You loose everything while grinding towards a position, which ultimately cannot live up to your expectation. For the goal is only a single conscious moment.

I question if the opposite is even possible. Here are my questions, which are intuitively unsettling.

Can waiting for the roller coaster be as perfect as screaming through the first fall? Do we arrive in our favorite moments through societal or relational influence? Is brushing my teeth as pure as an orgasm? How about love, lust or infatuation? If I sit with somebody I love deeply, is that worth more to myself. I still have a preference. I still have a preference.

We need to learn to accept the value of our less choice moments, but still prefer to share our moments with important people in our lives. Prefer our passions. Recognize it, and we become individuals.