doing what you love is the same as doing what you hate if you are doing it from within the confines of a box, restricted to the turn of a watch, set and always ticking. this is all that life is for the average person.
He could not erase that which was brought onto me anymore than I could undo; We are who we are in life without mercy or the just course of time, reversed and rebuilding us into beautiful seeds; A flower becomes itself thereafter and I am me, unfolding, escaping a box through the concourse of time, which I neither follow linearly nor abide to any singular line; Wherein he is straight built, flat and shooting forward as an arrow.
what in the unholy fuck am i doing with my life
After comes the sirens
Of a thousand warning signs which you received
but misread. Life in the face of life
is miniscule. It is observed from a distance
in the same way you, a child, might observe an ant
under a magnifying glass
as it melts and disappears
into nothingness, its handprint lifted
and thawed with the spring. What touched you once
will never touch you again. Time is an irredeemable villain:
though the backstory is touching and wrought with meaning,
it is thin and smooth as ice.
We redefine a module within context. Kepler’s Laws
of Planetary Motion. Every stroke of genius
outwits the next stroke of genius
which was neither here nor there in the grand scheme
of what is to come.
Stoke a fire and a flame is reborn: yourself,
an actor within your own life,
can be renewed. You will never be the same,
but you will be living. You will parallel a life
you thought you once had
but were mistaken.
The basic infrastructure of the average person’s life consists of a small bubble, really no longer than the physicality of their own being, to which they are restricted to a nominal and wholly suffocating frame of reference to all things earthly. If they did not experience it, they are unable to understand. Conceptually, we should be able to rationalize that because things CAN happen, they WILL happen, but we are like to imagine things will never happen to us, feeling exempt from the pain and suffering of the world—generally because we have not experienced it ourselves and choose to not understand. The exacting divide of simply not knowing and wanting to not know is the makeup of the human condition. Who you are, I don’t know—universally, intelligence is only divined from a pattern of experience, much like mining for data continuously, until you are chock-full with knowledge.
I want to believe that if I am able to muster out words as I did when I was young and more in love with the world, that it could mean I was in love with the world still and unweathered by a myriad of change in time, position, rank, feeling, authority and the unmitigated nurturing of nature which said to me, “You had a time and a place and it is done.”
New York on a good day. New York on a bad day. New York on a day
i wanted talent before health. freedom before talent. an echo of necessity in reams of pretty thoughts. what we once wanted is never what we currently want, intangible and kind of just living for the moment, totally unhinged by the reality of plausibility.