I have observed on Facebook that many of my friends are becoming comfortable in their adult lives; they might have a steady job and a steady group of friends. This is beyond just that astounding bubble of people who got married and had kids right away — you know who I’m talking about. But rather, this is the bachelors becoming Adult Bachelors, the partiers becoming professional partiers, the couples settling down.
I have a steady group of friends and a place I want to be; it isn’t here. I find myself alienated when I tell people this, they say “gee, I’ll miss you,” and act like the interim no longer matters since I’m not in it for the long run. People have commitment issues, even to friendships, while they’re in this twentysomething phase of life that runs extra committal. Who’s to say you couldn’t come along, if they wanted to?
You are, you who is decided.
You have decided what and where your life is.
In this economy it seems absurd to make a choice and settle down, you don’t have that much security… unless you do. I have friends with steady jobs they can’t leave now, and they’ve never lived away from their parents.
I don’t know; making friends is hard, isn’t it?
But so is settling for less, right?
I need time after
the dust has settled on the bedsheets since you
left; I need time to sit in silence feel
air conditioning on my shoulders, cool sweat on limbs
tear trails; I need time to taste the salt and
wash the sheets and feel air ventilate the room where you
slept beside me, hips jutted out, I clung to the edge of the
bed and slept unsoundly , rushing out every morning
weary and you slept the whole bed taking all my time
I need time after to sleep, sprawled and peaceful
dustless and new and my own, I need time now
to wash away the stains and time now to
chart the path on the map for tomorrow
She echoes in my mind
but all i want is everything
lips eyes and shadows
memories and buildings
shapes, contours, contrasts
but all I want is everything
when she turned on me and
she returned to me and
ghosts and color and want
but all I want is everything and
she echoes in my mind
fading figure, who is she?
she is everything
i don’t mind
One of the epiphanies I’ve experienced over these last 12 months is that deep down, whoever I am and whatever I choose to do… will be of no negative consequence to someone. Someone, somewhere out there, simply does not care what I’ve been up to. I can write a million blogs, be a journalist, a stripper, and travel the world — and to someone that won’t matter a bit. Other things might matter, like my ability to contiguously attend a job or my ability to commit to a homework assignment. Maybe my taxes will matter to them as opposed to my pretty face. Either way, for every aspect of my being, there is an apathy to match it.
I am not religious in the slightest. I’m okay with that. To some people, that really matters, for better or worse. I’m not a deist — I don’t believe we’re being neglected by a god. I just don’t believe. Just as much as my atheism might matter to you, to plenty of other people it doesn’t.
But yet I find myself questioning the nature of existence itself; and what if instead of being apathetic, existence (a mass perception) is just extremely forgiving. The whole of your existence is like ID photos, no one looks their best, so no one judges you based upon them.
What if we’re all just secretly very forgiving of each other and no one dares to admit it?
I don’t know.
You feel like a lifetime ago
like cobwebs between my fingers
like the brittleness of yellow paper
like the chill of a ghost
I am a harbor of resentment
seething in fogged memories
whiting out the good parts
chilled by your relics
Your ship sunk today, down
down to the pit of my stomach
Ghost ship, never really sailed far, but it
carried your casket away
Kisses like phantoms dwell on my
fingertips, never lifting, ice numbed
Kisses, like forgiveness, only bitterly given over
wounds and scraped knees
Bleeding out the past and
Dressing the wounds in gauze,
I watch the bandage stains brown and your
Scars fade through history
I just opened up a file called “loss” to see what I had written.
It was empty.
There’s a great gaping hole where a god incarnate used to be.
The emptiness stirs my head, heart, and cunt. An all consuming ache attaining apotheosis.
I knelt before the false god and offered up your heart. My platitudes filled the void your heart could not. Your heart was not shaped like a god, merely a boy.
I have examined the void and destroyed my platitudes. You are absolved of my worship. The idol of you was perfect. No one was listening to my prayers.
illuminate my clear
distending form; your heat
oasis blowing dragonfire
data, myth, and story –
I am only listening to
your hot words conspiring
prespiring slowly dripping
learning breathing and
extending into other shapes.
I soon solidify from liquid
into vase, empty container for
blossoms, sub rosa artifacts of
You teach me how to think and
how to read the sigils secretly
now lost to time and history;
i am translucent, fragile, empty,
believing in this mystery.
[inspired by Mindsforge. for other collaborations, see 1]
your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
Some of those tips for writers suggest you stop procrastinating and just get everything out of the way so you can write in peace.
There’s always, always more to worry about. I can’t escape the pressure of my own life.
The advice is bullshit.
Write your getaway car.