There are two main instigators of change, one stemming from overanalysis, one manifested by an inability to fully grasp the gestalt of something. The first is specialization - when an individual cannot handle the entirety of a topic, he or she will then transfer all their resources and knowledge into one specific aspect of that topic. When this specialization occurs, questions that are not considered by the generalists will be raised and answered by the specialist. It's a classic quality over quantity scenario.

The other is when an individual becomes too familiar with his or her analysis of a topic. This results in fetishism, or forced change. As this person is already wholly cognizant of his or her metaphorical landscape, they change it. Usually this change is forceful and initially quite awkward. It takes many experiments that one's mind must toy with, one by one, before a conclusion can be reached, and only then is growth to be had.

That elusive thread that is wound about these two shortcuts to change is specialization through choice, not by force. When mankind can handle both the macro and the micro, the gestalt and the details, the massive and the minute, then can mankind achieve a more perfect intellectual stance.

Water poured down over his head, hands, and feet. It filled his lungs with joy, his mind with clarity. He threw back his head, the water sealing him in the cavern. His coffin. There would be no escape for him. He would not need escape, simply rest. Still, how can he rest without relieving himself of life.

Run my good friend, run until your lungs burst, until your head explodes, until your legs disintegrate. All that waits for you in the cave is life. Forever.

What greater curse?

Loneliness is my strength.

Not really, it seems to me that I am simply being strong within my loneliness. Who knows why - I sure don't. Here is a poem with which to whittle away the hours . . .


Carved into stone are the faces of the dead,

Molds cast in iron with casts set in lead,

Noses and lips, teeth of cobblestone,

Ears that are loud, and eyes that have grown,

Wider when I have expressed my desire,

To purchase your body in water and fire,

To flee from the land of emotional mire,

Where I can't even feel my own ire.

I'm a diehard, hardcore, crazy-go-lucky, rip your arms off kinda guy.

So it's no wonder I'm obnoxious.

Mmm, I do believe I smell overcooked intellectualism.

Delicious.

Culminating into masses
A thousand crowded sickly classes,
All for one until one falls,
Always then do leaders crawl

Feed righteous fear and insurrection
Tartly brushed by sweet affection,
Taste the love inside their hate,
It satisfies but does not sate,
Its moans and cries do not abate,
Not by choice, for it was fate.

Read inside the empty fear,
Always putrid are my tears

Cry alone or with your love,
You're still crying.

I'll tell you that I'm just tired - but I'm not.

I'm really just fed up with all the trash that I've been exposed to. Every evening it's like sorting through all the garbage I've picked up throughout the day, attempting to pick out what I intend to keep. Every morning I suffer from the same dilemma: do I keep an open mind and an objective spirit, or do I spend my time blocking out the foolishness that surrounds me? In the end all I have is hope.

Poetry.

Music.

Not people though . . . definitely not people . . .

Quicksand!

Cluttered foray into the mind,
Slicing away at the vines of design,
Shifting our weight on the diluted sand,
The one bit of safety is your enemy's hand.

Clasped to his digits like so many suckers,
You sip his canteen as your parched lips pucker,
Imbibe that sweet juice of which angels have told,
Of your destruction who could have foretold?

Ragnarokian bliss will embrace you soon,
As the sun gives way in imminent swoon,
And Pan orchestrates but one last tune,
A song to remind us of the old buffoon.

His mind is resigned,
Entangled with twine,
Extracted so fine,
From frost-cut pine.

For simplicity's sake I'll try not to digress,
And stick to the madman wearing a dress,
He smokes on his pipe, he tries on a wig,
The dress is too small and the pipe is too big.

If only there were an excellent opiate,
That he could be endowed before he were to suffocate,
Then in word and in deed,
He would fall to his knees,
And confess all his love and his hate.

There are times when I am overcome with the overwhelming desire to be overshadowed. I feel this sudden intense need for someone close by me for me to rely on in a physical way. Under normal circumstances I am aloof and reserved, and this is my natural state. I am under no illusions about how I normally am, nor do I wish to change that. It is not despite this but because of it that I am so perturbed by these strange mood swings that do so afflict me. It is a strange desire indeed, that which demands a roaring fire, a cup of tea, and someone to throw my arm around as we gaze across the soft carpet into the laughing flames. Perhaps it is a disillusionment - perhaps my cynical nature is the gauze in which I wrap my inner child. I am disinclined to hold with this argument.

Now that I think about it, when was the last time I felt or gave physical affection any stronger than a handshake? It's downright boggling - the few times that I have been the receiver of those awkward hugs given by higgly-giggly extroverts with their easy sociality and their innate need to burst the space bubbles set up around those of us who tend towards the other extreme I have not allowed myself to feel that closeness. If anything I create more internal social tension at that precise moment simply to help distance myself from the person who has cumbersomely entangled me with their bawdy appendages. This may be why I tend to hold such a low regard for these people - they have forced me to distance them emotionally because they refused to be distanced physically.

This is not to say I do not appreciate or desire physical affection. I enjoy a casual hug between close friends, and, although it may seem hilarious to you, I even find myself allowing a friend to walk very close to me - five or six inches at least. The reason it is so distressing for me to be shown this affection by new relations is just that - they are indeed new relations. I feel attacked and bombarded when these zealous socialites force themselves on me. Indeed, it feels akin to emotional rape.

Do I connect palpable attachment too much to emotional security? Certainly not, indeed I would asseverate that my community as a whole is in denial about the issue of casual affection. And yes, it is an issue. It is an issue that two people who love one another can be tortured simply being in the other's presence, while two others can hate themselves, and compensate with affection from their opponent. Self control I believe is key, but other factors may come into play.

In the end I can only be full of joy that I have friends who believe these things as well, and hope that I will gain more like them.

Fanciful delights,
Popsicles in moonlit nights,
Icebergs floating down the stream,
Of soda pop and gasoline,
And here I stand to stop the tide,
Of things that are good,
And things that are bad,
Things that are trash,
That destroy all your hopes,
Your dreams catalyzed,
By poison-tipped knives.

I love you, now go.

Before you hurt yourself.

Don't Sit On The Table!

Dotted by the tables,
Of society and fame,
Baubles not yet mangled,
By the riches not yet claimed.

Set the table's places,
Forks and spoons and butter knives,
Wipe the surface clean of poison,
So as not to take their lives.

Oh what pure innocence,
Does build its frail supports,
A web of estranged fragments,
Shows what presidents purport.

Peace is a fabled beast,
An ogre, nymph, or fairy,
But in this case it is at least,
An iridescent cherry.

Aqua Vitae

Aqua is Vitae

Incredible salve of healing water. A slow balm, covering and consuming the bodies of the living and of the dead. Working its magic. A quintessential quaff, in what way is the dove above the rest of us? All must come to ground and partake in the drink we take for granted.

Life runs through our veins, a vertical vehicle impairing our deathliness. Liquid serenity, worth naught but a penny, it cleanses us. Makes us full. Filled.

Delicious.

How and why do we wake up from sleeping? What is our intention? Why are we so foolish? If we slip into the sultry stasis of sleep to produce and preserve our energies, why are we so quick to dismiss it as unnecessary? Even the gods of old mythos slept, recovering from the strain of maintaining the human world. Now it is in our own power to change the world, and yet we do not take full advantage of our rest. Work only creates more work, that is the way of things. Then again, relaxation promotes relaxation. It is a vicious cycle of laziness and zeal, and we would be wise to stay away from those things. Truly the only way to promote order is to behave in a balanced manner, correctly measuring the time spent in leisure and in busyness.

I love her.
Yes, there, I said it.

It's so hard for me sometimes. To admit it that is. That I love her.

Especially to her.

Some guys can just throw that phrase around like an empty beer can. Not me.

I'm not like that.

Not that I think I'm better than them. Just different. Different in a good way. Different like that book you've been reading lately, the one with the great protagonist. Different like root beer and a root beer float.

Some girls'll take it like that too. The phrase I mean. They eat that stuff up. I guess they thrive on insincerity. I dunno, seems kinda' strange to me. But then, I've always had trouble saying it.

I really don't know what's changed. I've always been this way I guess. Never could make up my mind, really couldn't make concrete decisions. Just a butterfly on the wind, buttering my way through flying. Or trying. And crying.

Whoops, got a little sidetracked there. So yea. I love her, I really do.

Now the next step: telling her.

"I love you."

Inevitably the best way to die is quickly.

Invariably the worst way to die is alone.

Inconceivably most people don't want to die.

Involuntarily people do.

It is my input that an immeasurable amount of insipid morons want institutionalized murder for inmates.

Intangible is my fear,
Incorrigible is my hate,
Inside are my tears,
Imprisoned behind the gate.

Is your mother there dear?
There's a call on line one for her.

"Hello, mom?"

"This isn't your mother dear."

"Mom, are you there?"

"This is the doctor."

"Hello? You're breaking up."

"I'm afraid there's been a terrible accident . . ."

On and on the water spills,
Judgment, fury, from a pail,
On and on it showers down,
Raining grief upon the crown,

Raining grief upon the crown . . .

What is your trouble?
To whom do I confess?
Does your heart bubble,
With acidic stress?

Does it flow like a melody sweet,
Like friends you meet,
Like friends you greet,
Like friends who's heads will roll at your feet,
Like friends you meet,
Like friends you greet.

Unwashed hands are your greatest sin,
An adulterous mouth I can live with,
If only for the barest sip,
Before I drown,
Before I care,
I pray the Lord,
My soul to spare.

Drown and swim, swim and drown,
Turn that grin into a frown,
Swim and drown, drown and swim,
Slowly heaven's light glows dim,
When I drown,
And when I swim.

I had a post all typed up about how I write better when I'm depressed, but it was terrible.

How ironic.

Eyes are watching you right now.

Lips are tasting you while the alien tongue cements you in place.

You cannot run, you cannot hide.

I can see your house from here.

And it smells great.

A triad is a symphony,
A duet is a harmony,
But a solo is all you can be,
When you live without me.

Don't forget . . .

Don't ever forget . . .

I wish that I had the conviction that would permit me to write extensively on a subject. Perhaps I do, perhaps it is clouded by misconceptions, false perceptions, and incongruencies. Perhaps somewhere, deep within my psyche, lies the passion to preserve, the stature to stand tall, and the will to write. Yet I must continue with my verbose, but almost fully meaningless jargon. True, meaning can be applied, extrapolated, stimulated, injected, and otherwise forced onto a paragraph, but where is the true meaning? Where is the heart, that red-blooded organ that forces the writer's extensive emotions onto the paper, squeezed like frosting onto a bittersweet pastry? Certainly my writing is soulful, for what author does not impart, whether intentionally or otherwise, an abstract spirit, a noncorporeal meaning to the words that litter his or her manuscript like so many razor-sharp can lids.

Like those lids, cluttered ideas and thoughts are both detrimental and positive, a pollution of the reader's brain waves. They cut, but they cut everyone and everything they come in contact with. The concepts imparted can be used any way the critic might desire - but in the end they do only damage.

Contrariwise, when writing is full of vigor and life it is like a scalpel or a sword. The bold writer wields her weapon of choice with full knowledge of the consequences of her actions. She may dissect or dismember, demonstrating her prowess. She prowls, she is a hunter. Unfortunately, I am not her. As a confused writer, my scalpel is blunt. Desperately my patient acts as my lawyer, impressing on the jury that I intend only good, that I attempted to purify and improve his body and mind. Heedlessly they would see only the facts. Data.

"You killed a man!" they scream, and knobby fingers point as the bars slide shut over my face. But even in prison they cannot take my scalpel from me. I can hone it on the iron clad door of hardship, sharpening it on the stone walls of my cell. There I wait for the guard to bring me food. His intentions are irrelevant, for his death shall be swift and sweet. No more delicate measurements, no more fumbled attempts at improvement. A lobotomy requires no experience to enact.

I am free to roam the streets again, with a sharpened wit and a chaotic mind. Beware.

Momentum in life -

Momentum of - life

Momentum - is life

Deep, deep inside,
Fierce anger resides,
Wherein dost it lie?
Beneath the frozen mountain.

Cocaine desires,
Matched only by fire,
Where lives the masked man?
Atop the frozen mountain.

Sweet innocence,
Lacking in cognizance,
Where does she travel?
Through the frozen mountain.

Trouble is only a moment away,
Night falls and the moon holds sway,
Where is resistance futile?
About the frozen mountain.

All around,
Wolves are howling,
The child cowering,
The man's face scowling.

One could suppose,
Appoint or interject,
But in reality she dies,
That is what I suspect.

Some would call it cynicism,
Some would call it realism,
Where is this schism?
It is the frozen mountain.

Brush so fine,
Altruistic design,
Will be mine.

Fine!
Design me an airplane!
Mine will be much better . . .

Feel my touch,
Like a crutch,
You use it to feel your way.

See my skin,
Lit from within,
You use it to see your way.

But if you had more sense than I,
You'd know exactly why I cry,
And why my heart it breaks so fine,
Into pieces that defy design.

Hear my voice,
You have no choice,
But to find me on your way.

Smell my fear,
Inside here,
You cannot hide today.

But if you had any sense at all,
You'd know exactly why I fall,
And why my heart it hardly breaks,
Because of all the scars you make.

This is for all the times I died,
And wanted simply to melt in your arms,
And this is for all the times I cried,
When you never went deeper than your charm.

And no longer,
Do I search for you,
No longer do I hunger.

And you my friend,
Will never taste,
My innocence again.

In a vain quest for recognition . . .

Is she really on fire?

Or is it an illusion . . .

An illusion spawned by the wind,

Or the sunlight,

Or my tears.

I view the world through saltwater lenses,
My life is an infinite stream of cadenzas,
Some are improvised,
Some are fights for my life,
But life is only an illusion, right?

Like her.

Like her fire . . .

What kind of dastardly hero would destroy the things she loves? What kind of demented autistic author would mangle your mind in a vain attempt to twist it conceptually? Can I truly categorize myself as sane while I allow such insanities to continue? I am a fraud, intellectually and realistically. I sit on my copiously overweight pompous rear while I spin tales of dread and disaster, all while intentionally misconstruing your perspective on the universe. Everyone has an agenda and mine is.



There see? I have done it again.


Sincerely,
- Myself

P.S. Beauty comes through repetition, imitation, and the employment of derivativeness.

I open my arms,


Welcome myself.

Hug myself.

Caress my sadly unfondled inner child, who's only wish was to be seen.

My only wish.


I throw my arms wide and leap from the banister.

There is nothing here for me now.

I'll drown myself in the sea of dissonance.

That beautiful aether drink . . .


Splat!

I am gone.

I had forgotten how water reacts when approached at a high velocity.


I had forgotten how life reacts when approached at a high velocity.


I had forgotten how people react when approached by me.

When I approach.




When I approach . . .