PROSE
Sitting on a rooftop over looking tomorrow
feet dangling over unforeseen sorrow
but from here I find contentment, you see -
and not in things that might or won't be
towering above you on my ivory obelisk
the fear of fear of vertigo is an acceptable risk
and when the mountains turn to me and look with scorn
I'll know its these rooftops where our dreams are born
the pursuit of perfection is the art we practice
painting pictures of mortality on the back of clouds
across plains of repetition, our new thoughts have tracked us
and philosophies have followed our footsteps so loud
us thinkers and writers and those yearning to learn
we sit on rooftops held up by theories and dreams
but with just one strong gust our fortunes can turn
and our lofty seat collapse, and that's all that means.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Expressionless
Ah, silly frustration. Be damned you, self fustigation. What a curse to be only able to express yourself in such round about terms for fear that saying what you think may read as ridiculous as it sounds in your head. Away with you, eternal cliches and thoughts well fleshed by everyone else.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Trifecta
These are the wakeless hours. Those between impending darkness and the even greater threat of renewed light.
Is it for better or worse to always yearn for the fruits of a tree out of reach? Better to keep striving for improvement, for what is inherently more desirable. Better, I dare say, to never be content for fear of sedation and the dread of what lies behind a wall whose bricks are regrets and mortar is the days we wasted not climbing towards that higher branch for that perfect specimen of existence. A door without a key, the contents of which drive one to their wit's end with the simple temptation of a world so different from the one we have grown to loathe, and the access to which could have been found within an experience we did not pursue or an opportunity that was left unexploited. Turn your eyes upward daily, and gaze upon the clouds and stars and dreams which are strangled quicker than they ascend towards those lofty heavens. Havens of ancient wishes and wrinkled wants, the places above us are a respite for all that we do not yet know, and thus must be explored.
Cut the bull shit and the language used so poorly to describe such plain ideas. Simply put, we spend too much of our time (that is, all of our time) in an ultimately futile attempt to figure out what we have done was what we wanted to do next. And when, after too long searching, do manage to figure out exactly what it is we want to achieve, we are so definitely wrong. Simple, and yet disheartening, it is a gift to find consolation in fleeting moments strung together to make the time for which life is remembered and appreciated. Optimism is a great thing to feign.
ATMA - Listen to good music
Is it for better or worse to always yearn for the fruits of a tree out of reach? Better to keep striving for improvement, for what is inherently more desirable. Better, I dare say, to never be content for fear of sedation and the dread of what lies behind a wall whose bricks are regrets and mortar is the days we wasted not climbing towards that higher branch for that perfect specimen of existence. A door without a key, the contents of which drive one to their wit's end with the simple temptation of a world so different from the one we have grown to loathe, and the access to which could have been found within an experience we did not pursue or an opportunity that was left unexploited. Turn your eyes upward daily, and gaze upon the clouds and stars and dreams which are strangled quicker than they ascend towards those lofty heavens. Havens of ancient wishes and wrinkled wants, the places above us are a respite for all that we do not yet know, and thus must be explored.
Cut the bull shit and the language used so poorly to describe such plain ideas. Simply put, we spend too much of our time (that is, all of our time) in an ultimately futile attempt to figure out what we have done was what we wanted to do next. And when, after too long searching, do manage to figure out exactly what it is we want to achieve, we are so definitely wrong. Simple, and yet disheartening, it is a gift to find consolation in fleeting moments strung together to make the time for which life is remembered and appreciated. Optimism is a great thing to feign.
ATMA - Listen to good music
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Accommodations
The mind is complex, and allowing it to wander untethered can do more than any planned rationale. What a journey, this impossible drive between two homes separated by everything, and two states of mind torn apart by distance and circumstance. Bless this time between worlds, for it allows the mind to become what it must, and what it must become to be hidden from itself until it is again time to inhabit this farce. Along this endless stretch of highway extend my hopes for what will be waiting when I arrive. In any direction the horizon is beyond reach, and in that silver lining creeping past mountains and clouds and plains and life lie my unattainable desires for a better world than the one I left behind, taunting in the grand and obvious existence which is never to be held. No matter how fast you run, away or towards, the distance is always distant and will always hide our dreams.
What a change, a joy, to be, and to see, when alas something has changed. But, even more to my disconcertion it is not this second or third world that has evolved into the one I wish it to be. For it is the mind that has changed. It has melded my two worlds of circumstance, and allowed it to be at rest during my endless migration. The world I left with respite remains, and yet the home I could never touch envelopes me and its warmth soothes a soul too long wandering civilization's wastelands. The mind has become something desired, and the body revives to match, and can finally be an object of pride instead of an idea too far abstract to be considered unto anything but itself. The chastity of desire to exit this mecca of mental stagnation and moral inconsequence is finally broken, and the mind and body want nothing more to be where it finally finds rest, and where it cannot remain.
What a change, a joy, to be, and to see, when alas something has changed. But, even more to my disconcertion it is not this second or third world that has evolved into the one I wish it to be. For it is the mind that has changed. It has melded my two worlds of circumstance, and allowed it to be at rest during my endless migration. The world I left with respite remains, and yet the home I could never touch envelopes me and its warmth soothes a soul too long wandering civilization's wastelands. The mind has become something desired, and the body revives to match, and can finally be an object of pride instead of an idea too far abstract to be considered unto anything but itself. The chastity of desire to exit this mecca of mental stagnation and moral inconsequence is finally broken, and the mind and body want nothing more to be where it finally finds rest, and where it cannot remain.
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