yourbluefever
It was the feeling of revelation I always thought one could get from a rewarding, though unplanned roadtrip across country. It was a feeling of desolation all the same.
I left the walkway to come into the room. I left the conversation to enter something new. I left the distance and clinging sensation of two people attached on a need basis to enter the frustrated loneliness for having not talked for so long and spent so long together. I left the comforting nothingness to find numbness in not having an identity. I left the outside to come inside and why? What is there inside that is not outside? I left something I had and something I wanted to find something lonely and dark and I am all the happier and all the angrier. I left what I needed to become happier with the anger I found inside. I left the constant silence and empty whistle of the trees for a filled ampitheatre of "Einstein on the Beach," track one. I left to leave. And I'll leave to go back to what I left.1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. It's about remembering that what you left, you needed to leave, not because there wasn't happiness allowed there, but because you weren't creating it for yourself or for anyone else and you weren't letting anyone create it for you. I left to control. We live for finding control and we live to leave.
A kid that skinny could actually win a fight and then by <> the meds made him grind his teeth in a lethargic manner that made him run into your head and it was all so perceptive, selden dope, so canny, that I still didn't want to kill him and something was sad and confused around the ballroom dealer's sister's boyfriend's text messages. Get me outta here fucken
This happens every night like a prayer. It starts in the ticklish part of my inner thighs. Then, it moves upwards along my psoas. I can feel it deep below my belly and up my spinal cord. It climbs my neck gently and into each and everyone of my cells in my skull. I don't know what it's there for yet, but I know what it does. And every night, like a prayer, the vastness of its effects take me off guard. Soon it will start again.
This happens every night like a prayer. It starts in the ticklish part of my inner thighs. Then, it moves upwards along my psoas. I can feel it deep below my belly and up my spinal cord. It climbs my neck gently and into each and everyone of my cells in my skull. I don't know what it's there for yet, but I know what it does. And every night, like a prayer, the vastness of its effects take me off guard. Soon it will start.
There was only one time that sitting at this couch didn't feel like a single wicked act. That was the time I fell out of love. It was okay to soil whatever I felt like parking my ass on for once. For once, I didn't mind showing the colour of my skin. I didn't mind showing the lack of smile on my face. That was the one single time I didn't feel so alone, because I was able to be with my self entirely. And what a wonderful feeling it was.
Ahhh, again. I come home to the apple and cinnamon spices that fill the air, the red gilded curtains, the vibrant hand woven rugs and the finely polished dark wooden furniture. Books everywhere and the radiators that you can sit on for warmth. A dog on her private rug, a stew in the crock pot, cookies in the oven and hot chocolate in the future. Yet, there's a crack in the wallpaper, and something's seeping out and it isn't concrete, but the feeling the home that was once what made this feel so welcoming. There's still cinnamon in the air, beautiful furniture, radiators and cookies, but there's not much reason for them all anymore. How do we get past this uncontrollable tension?
The buyer doesn't know anything. Have you seen him around this town? He's foolish here, but for some reason when he leaves this room and enters another he turns into a genius. I don't understand what it means for the education system today other than that teachers who are also buyers can be one man in one room and a woman in another room. Do you get it?? I finally do.
If you pick up the paper off of the porch, you'll have to bring it inside. Your neighbors will know you're a productive member of society and that you're awake already. But if you don't, you can go back into your house and go back to sleep. Or you can continue to work and get on with your day, and put on the front that you're sleeping. They'll pity you maybe, for being lazy and inadequate. Isn't that what you've always wanted, Monsieur? Leave the newspaper on the porch and greet the day tomorrow. Keep in mind what's important and go back to your room and pretend to be as lazy as the people want you to be.
There were only sixty seconds left. The passengers and their husbands were all ready and expecting what was to come of their children and their mothers. There were only forty seconds left. The conductor was on the phone with his mother, crying a sweet song. The houses were empty. And would remain this way for a few weeks after the derailment. There were ten seconds left. Derailed.
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