The Choice

Life can be a constant struggle, filled with hardships and obstacles. Or it can be a grand adventure filled with challenges and intrigue. Every second of every day, it's entirely up to how you live it. It all ends in the same way. How you feel when you get there is the only one thing you have control over.

The Ghost Of Too Much.

There's not enough soil in the earth for how deep I want to be buried.
There's not enough water in the oceans for how slowly I want to sink.
There's not enough fire in the sun for how brightly I want to burn.
There aren't enough words in my head to say all the things I can't.
There's not enough blood in my body for all I need to bleed.
There aren't enough couches in the world for how long I want to sleep.
There's not enough life in me, for all I want to live.

The Perfect Moment.

Which is when the world stopped turning.
Which is when the birds fell silent.
Which is when the clouds all breathed in at the same time.
Which is when lies became truth.
Which is when pain became love.
Which is when fires became blue.
Which is when red flowers bloomed.
Which is when snow fell.
Which is when ice became water.
Which is when the universe smiled.
Which is when the sunshine and the moonlight met.
Which is when gravity gave up the ghost.
Which is when every guitar in the world strummed the same three chords over and over.
Which is when the dead rolled over and wished to live again.
Which is when the songs turned itself up.
Which is when  the aliens on other worlds looked up into the heavens and gasped.
Which is when hurricanes and storms and floods swept through us.
Which is when tears fell from willows at the beauty of it all.
Which is when riots and madness chased themselves though the streets.
Which is when millions of glasses committed suicide, throwing themselves from kitchen cupboards.
Which is when angels were filled with envy.
Which is when vampires threw back their heads and howled.
Which is when..

Skin crawled.

The Reason The Willow Weeps.

It weeps for you late at night, when sleep usually does not come easily. It weeps for the one you miss. It weeps for the dreams on the tips of your fingers. It weeps for appointments missed and it weeps for the tears in your pillow. It weeps for the silence and it weeps for the noise. It weeps for formal letters once were, language was spoken as close to your ear as possible. It weeps for betrayal, intended or not. It weeps for friends you once were. It weeps for the colours faded. It weeps for sunrise. It weeps for death in a family and it weeps when a baby is born. It weeps for the last time you touched. It weeps for words that can never be taken back. It weeps so hard and so much and so often. So you don't have to. So you can carry on. It weeps for you. When you have run out of weeping.

The place I am in.

You can not kill me here. Bring your soldiers, your death, your disease, your collapsed economy because it doesn't matter, I have nothing left to lose and you can not kill me here. Bring the tears of orphans, and the wails of a mother's loss, bring your god damn air force and Jesus on a cross, bring your hate and bitterness and long working hours, bring your empty wallets and love long since gone  but you can not kill me here. Bring your sneers, your snide remarks, your friendship that never felt, your letters never sent, cigarettes smoked to the bone and cancer killing fears but you can not kill me.

For I may fall and I may fail, but I will stand again each time and you will find no satisfaction. Because you can not kill me here.

Take your course wisely, but firmly; and having taken it, hold upon it with heroic resolution, and the Alps will sink before you.

Critical.

So yes, I laughed. I laughed at the pain and the futility and the frustration and the heartache to keep it separate from me. And while it may seem like insanity to you, it is the thing that prevents it, for me.

The Idea.

Your own ideas are the best ideas. Because only you can see them clearly enough to explain them to the world.

Use them more often.

The prisons we made for ourselves.

You should put them in a cage. The beggars and the vagrants and the ones who fight against you. The people we disagree with. The ones who look or sound different from us. The neighbours who talk about us. Let's put the whole god damn world in a cage. Until the walls enclose it all. And only we are left on the outside.

.. I fear being the completely acceptable sheep in society :/

The Midnight Sea Memorial.

Dragons, angels, gnomes, creatures beneath the Earth that make words with hammers, a shooting star that shoots back, rain falling from the ground to the sky, bars that refuse to serve dwarfs or wanderers, a foundtain that makes you young(and lonely) while those around you grow old, saplings that know everything, a sea made of tears from every lover you never loved, a silver boat with a sail made of pages from all the books that were never written.

All my dreams are beautiful. But you are the reason I return here each morning.

The Stranger of Stage.

Don't give the crowd what they want. If they knew what they wanted, they'd be on stage. Not you.

The Fear

I asked if you had seen any good horror movies lately. You said

"There arent any good horror movies anymore. In the 90's we were scared of the end of the world, so we made movies about that. In the 80's it was serial killers and psycopaths. Today, we just turn on the news."

It would be nice to have good horror movies again.

The scratches that made me.

You buy things and you keep them clean. You take care of them. Keep them in a special pocket. Away from keys and coins. Away from other things that should be kept clean and taken care of as well. Then they get scratched. And again. And again. And again. Soon, you dont care about them anymore. You dont keep them in a special pocket. You thrown them in the bag with everything else. They've surpassed their form and become nothing but function. People are like that. You keep them clean. In a special pocket. And then you scratch them. Not on purpose. Sometimes, you just drop them by accident or forget which pocket they're in. But after the first scratch, it's all downhill from there. You see past their form. They become function. Only their essence remains.

The world you can not fly in.

They've taken us from the edge of the sky (where sky is just our reflection, looking down) and brought us here, my love. I can no longer breathe and you, you and the world have begun to melt and fade.

They've taken us, my love, in their cruel nets and crude boats to their own dark sky.

They think us ugly. But we're not the ugly ones here.

The growl of a canine.

Witness my greatness! I am the ruler of parks and trees from here until the end of the street, I have howled at the moon until it was mine, I am the master of all I survey and I answer to no one.

The fact that you know nothing about me is a flagrant display of ignorance. I pity you.

Craft.

Take your time and craft the things you do. Love them. Love the process. God is in the details. And you can be an artist in everything you do.

The thought of eating.

You used to eat all the chips first, while they were still warm but then you were too full to enjoy the burger.

Then you ate the burger first but by the time you finished, the chips were cold.

Now you eat half the chips first, then the burger, then the rest of the chips.

Maybe you should stop thinking about it so much and just enjoy the meal.

The desire for destruction and creation.

You might not have a wrecking ball but you can still take down a wall, one brick at a time.

The Nature of Being.

So I sat there on the bench and got lost in the faces of people I'd know or meet because like them, my life is too busy for strangers.

I miss school.

When you read this, you go through a series of steps, all of which are personal. To you. And you alone. Your eyes see the symbols joined together to make words, the graphical representation of sounds. These sounds are then translated into meaning. They are also given voice by your observation of them. You have no choice in matter.

Try not to read this sentence.

Thousands of people may read this but each of them will read it in their own way. It is unique to them.

To you. That's why I wrote it.

Because you are unique in your voice and your own way. You are special. A unique aspet of a glimmering whole.. We are all the whole. But you alone are you. And because I speak to you and you alone, intimately, I know you as well as I know myself.

And that is why I have the faith I do in you. You will be great. You will be amazing.

You will change the world. I know you.

The Stretching.

The world weeps for itself on days like this and you stretch and stare to find the things that make it worthwhile. Atleast it's not boring. You keep telling yourself that. Perspective is nine tenths of everything.