all those years i spent not being who i am
in the outland of an imaginary country
spending all my money on a wasted dream
a world away, but easily probed by memory
when the bottom dropped out, one slip
deep drowning in the depths of that night
to learn to feel again shrouded in pain
to learn how magic is everday, one lesson
when things begin to work again, it is magic
I realize that I am interested in this phenomenon, or that, contrary to Einstein. For this is what the world is truly made of. If I think on it, I can see a big picture, but this is merely an organization principle (of which none truly sufficiently covers all of everything), which will be replaced by a better one when the one I’m using becomes unprofitable. We focus on this thing, or that, as they come along, for this is the way of life. This rule, too, is insufficient to explain all that occurs. I might say, let us spend our times on useful things, like setting people free of personal prisons. This is a fruitful phenomenon. That kind of thing is why people write poetry. The little things, all around us, are how we fall in love. And suddenly all of them are singing.
i walked to the end of myself and stood at the edge
the dawn in the horizon was dirty with bristling light
deep below was doubt in rivers that coursed nowhere
all the bridges had been burned by those who left me
the wind refused to be silent but escaped any meaning
i remember when it was night everywhere i wandered
death mentioned to me that we were not so different
we both hold things so close to us time itself will stop
I am incredibly boring. I thought maybe to fill up a paragraph with the sentence, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” but I already did it on my Facebook profile, and so I’ve already amused myself in that manner. Let us say that not much has changed since I last updated, working working working, no chixx0rs, and that the work is really coming along. Right now, I hope to get the prototype in functioning fashion by Christmastime. Wish me luck. I’ve also been thinking a lot about the ex-girlfriend, still. She has become something of a ghost in my consciousness. And what else? I’m on my sixth reading of the entire Bible. Really, am I snooze inducer or what?
I have heard stories about people who have seen the Horror. I had a dream once, myself where I thought I glimpsed it, ran from it — through the Dark Wood, I like to say. The H. P. Lovecraft variety: it seems to strike a chord somewhere; it makes me think there is something to these myths. Something perhaps primal in their expression. The unnamed darkness that we all fear, somewhere too deep in us for we even to be aware of in the common parlance. This is not exactly wherein the madness lies, gladly to say, for in madness there is just as much brightness as is there unspeakable dark. We imagine that it sleeps — for mayhap just the suspicion of it is the only reality of it we will ever truly know. Never to fathom just how deep the Horror that lurks, outside of perception.
there is that hero side of you
wrapped up in the chance you didn’t take
awaiting the death of evil
instead of doing what you can for justice
if it comes down to the wire
will you choose what is easy or what is right?
the quantum of our belief
will collapse to one, when light resolves us