A Unifying Theory

It is so simply and wonderfully paradoxical, to wonder if everyone else imagines that no one else imagines.

It alarms me how little I find the need to express. That isn't to say I'm expressionless, but rather that no matter how many thoughts and ideas run though my head, none seem to become anything more than neurons firing just to see themselves alight. Hours I have spent staring at blank pages yearning for words to be put to them, only to leave them wanting while distractions take station. I wish I could apologize to all the wonderful words that could have been combined and phrases left unturned. Say sorry to all the sentences silenced and soliloquies unsung. But no matter how grand the ideas are, they all seem so quaint when fully fleshed. Ideas that sum up so much of the world and what goes around me that, when written down, take on a dastardly vestige. What was once a source of pride - my thoughts and notions that seemed so new - repetitive and stale, like everything that had come before, and left out too long.

But, there is solace to find in this repeated action of deciding to start anew and finding no source of inspiration by which to continue. And that is, to imagine these issue widespread. To realize that, like you, I may never come up with something wholly original. Imagine that no one else can imagine, and realize that perhaps neither can you. Turn the focus inwards. What do you know? That even having these thoughts is evidence that you are thinking. If you are thinking, then perhaps, though the odds are stacked against you, that you will think something not yet thought. Then, take what others have thought, and apply those novel concepts into your very process of creating novel concepts. Eventually, it may dawn upon you. In order to provoke new ideas, the old ones must be shuffled out of the way. Having every thought first will ensure that what follows will be of the purest sorts.

The problem is that these are even goals. The problem is that these are even problems. We search so hard for overarching metaphors or simple phrases that will explain existence. There are no lines that complex. There are no books with answers that thorough. The real answer will come when every thought is finally had. As soon as the years of accumulated couplets and compositions are carried aside, and everything new can be allowed a space to be, perhaps then it will all come together. Maybe there is no unifying theory, or way to explain why there are things to explain. All we can do is work hard to get our minds to places of unique ideas, and finally be expressed.

Resurrection

All people, to generalize, seek the same things.  Well, no, that isn't true.  All the people you know.  And the people they know.  There are certainly those whose ambitions are either far simpler or far grander than what those of us commonly are left wanting.  There are basic needs for food and water, and there are struggles for the maintenance of fear or control.  But, again, to generalize: All people seek the same things.

Symposium

It is cliche, quite so, to write on matters of the heart on this of all dates. None the less, the spirited enthusiasm of those idly running about cannot help but cast aside a wake that will lend turbulence to even the most dismayed to be among those dismayed. It should never, that is to say ever, considered to be a unique situation to which we are so ready to assign ourselves belonging. I am considerably consternated by my callous coining of caring concerns. That is to say, I find myself being sympathetic and empathetic to the lonely lots, while somehow maintaining withing my hubris that am allowed to be outside of this standard arrangement and must in someway be more deserving of the depressing waves given of by those idle wakes.

We are all alone. This is not said for dramatic effect of as a some ridiculous cry for notice, but simply for clarification for those of us who chose to and think that surrounding yourselves with and much noise and light will somehow negate that face. We are born together, and we die along. All of life is a struggle for independence from those around us while paradoxically, at least in the world I have been placed, seeking out inexplicable new connections on which to grasp in hopes of finding what was had and caste aside or lost to time. Replacement is all we seek. Familiarity the most valuable currency in minds bombarded, both with and in effort to be, new and improved at all times. We seek to get home again, and somehow chose only to find temporary respite in the arms of those who are only looking for their own. And when two of these fools mistake the selfish desires of another as fulfillment of their own, it is rewarded or preferred?

Now it is far to late. To late to hope this ridiculous writing isn't read as trite or complaining or nihilistic. To late to change minds, my own or others, that there is any other truth about whatis our primary pursuit. Depressing, maddening, and most of all lonely. For temporary respite is at least that. A break from the silent yelling, the blinding darkness, the expansive restrictions, and the touches without feeling. Another year to follow another year of accomplishments no one will see.

Emaciated

this familiar hardening of brow and thought
a resolution of resolve revolving around revolting resignation
familiar and distinct and having certain shape then not
sudden realizations of a lonely life's bitter stagnation
the recurring dreams and nightmares and realities
the same rants of a shallow void between your eyes
you sit and wonder why the brilliant watch you and flee
and will never know that once distance is attained they only cry

simplification simply surrounds, motivations driven by sights and sounds
listen you fools, but not to me, or the commercials and adverts on your TV
listen to your heart it if can still manage words
listen for the sake of the reasons for this world

love and hate, emotions far too real
to be ignored in favor of sex appeal

read and write and think for once
do more, do something, if only long enough to know
that there is a world past what you build
and these higher planes only laugh
you fools may never see
what can be brought
by true feelings
love or stronger
enjoy your dreams

Aplomb

the yelling
ever growing and enlarging
into solitude its barging
ignoring thoughts and even prayers
uncovering my hidden layers
not to anyone with eyes
or ears or mouths spewing lies
but letting my subconscious know
how wrong my life has turned out so
its getting louder now you see
soon there will be no way to breath
it suffocates with screaming laughter
impossible to imagine an after
interminably it carries on
over. into. though. a song.
drilling deeper and never slowing
i wish i know where it was going
if not stopped soon it damn will end
and there will be no where left to send
my thoughts and dreams uninterrupted
its over now, they've been corrupted
no more thinking or mental working
not a lyric will be lurking
ive lost whatever kept me living
now im just you, but unforgiving

Incongruent

the mind wanders
creativity flounders
and one cannot think beyond sounds of thunder
the sky has broadened
beyond the horizon
and i cannot see beyond imagination's vision

rhyming and flow are easily disrupted
when the internal static stops all thoughts
before developing into more than the seeds of brilliance
. it comes and goes, you know, the yelling of something not a voice
the anger of that without emotion
. try and read or write while your soul is so loudly screaming
or appreciate beauty when you heart and mind battle until
neither can bear to stand
. speaking in first person makes art trite, but on occasion my problems
become more than can be ignored and passed of unto a non existent
third party of turned shoulders and silent indifference

the heart and mind
for all of you, seem to be a binary pair
but, alas, i cannot but pit them one against the other
ultimately satisfying neither and disappointing both
tiring and numbing a life to nothing
not fearing or anticipating
living

Differential

this blank page stares degrees deeper into me
than i have bothered to look and see
at what is surrounding and abounding
the latest sleepless nights so soundly

reading too thoroughly poorly addressed texts
singing a phantom of not caring whats next
trying to stave of dreadful uncertainty
in favor of disappointment in what will come to be

such familiar dread, every time as strong
and every time returned takes equally long
emotions and mind, so intertwined
and point opposite directions until time realigns

no resolutions or solutions this time around
with all of these problems that still abound
time and patience will change my position
or maybe they wont... fuck it

Expostulation

A belief does not in fact begin its long and usually very tumultuous life as such. It should be realized by a larger group that things you believe - those issues and statements which you are most readily willing to fight for with tooth and nail - do not always start with the lunacy they eventually expire with. Those high ideals have deeper and hidden bases. When one first comes across what will later become a fundamental fact undeniable by any level of consciousness, it must be supported by a normally logical brain. This maybe a too optimistic view for those that deny that most (if any) minds are inherently or even regularly sensical, but here it must be assumed that on some level we follow rules that follow order. And when we are first presented with our future beliefs, they are but simple facts. We must adopt some facts and discard others, for contradiction would violate our fundamental logic, no matter how compatible some facts may seem, for to the mind even morals follow logic. When these new bits enter our realm of understanding, they must first be argued, and if those arguments are held true they are bound to be remembered so that our enlightenment could be spread and forced unto those that disagree. With the passage of time these reasons that our new found facts are so obviously undeniable become so evident that we can omit them in our latest convictions. With enough time, all argument becomes moot, and the fact is fact for the fact that it is such.

And here, after days or weeks or years, depending on the ferverence of the arguments and the priority the new found holder of such obvious truths places on indoctrinating his ignorantly peers, we have a belief.

Furthermore, there is the disparaging worry of what this natural progress our psyches take with what we know to what we believe has on the developing mind. Such evolving intellects have less energy to devote to logistics, but still make sense of an enormous world. So images of a higher being are presented, or even invented to simply satiate young curiosity, and are presented with facts and arguments that such a being makes sense in a shallow pool of reason so that is MUST be true. As those ideas incubate for years and as identities are developed it is ingrained and integrated, they remain. The arguments - the REASONS - that God makes sense are lost, and no longer needed, and facts are once again omitted in favor of a common belief.

Severity

Forced and repetitive imagery does no one good except for those unable to create their own ideas and places. Running water and outstretched roads surrounded by similes and metaphors that are never new and never looking to places never before seen or smelled or tasted. Instead, it is a reference to a book or poem, someone else's words being used to say your own. Plagiarism or inspiration. And worst of all, rather than be allowed to visit these physical and mental places, I am contained here, to my glass box staring back at a world moving around me. Egocentric or realistic. From my pellucid prison I see only one view, and yet this one frame of real life is simultaneously everywhere. Real people passing through my pane of perception on their way to endless possibilities. And despite all this movement that seems bent on showing itself to me, for reason I am doubtless it keeps to itself, I am still.

Man is man and animal. I have spent long hours and days studying alternate theories. Darwin has his reason, and theology has its rhyme. Oh, what eloquence those ancient books hold! What spell binding mystery they enrapture us in, only to leave us with unidentifiable guilt for even reading it well. I do not trust them with either my past or future, and Darwin does nothing to explain today. For today is only expressible through vague emotions which came from no where in our scientific past. Loneliness is a symptom of humanity, and one that is simultaneously the source of our greatest thoughts and actions as well and the worst of them. And yet, we learn so little in our times of reflection. It is only during the actions we take that we can advance, and that is only knowledge to be garnished from concentration.

With this new year, I have for the first time made a resolution. Not a specific goal to be reached, but a new philosophy to have. And that is, simply, to Strive Towards Perfection. To excel in all pursuits, that is the only goal for man, and one too easily ignored.

Strive Towards Perfection

Familiarity

Ah, how I have missed this well remembered and easily forgotten feeling. The heavy stomach and sunken heart caused by the finally returned uncertainty mattering to no other. Had it really been two years since I allowed pain into my life?

Retrograde

It is inherent in us, buried somewhere deep in our genetic code. Every person, no matter their supposed and projected disposition has a need to show themselves as significantly more than what they actually compose. It is also of utmost impertinence that one should talk about oneself as much as possible - and on the occasion where any conversation turns away from this holy topic, to become disinterested and do anything possible to bring it back to its higher beginnings.

When today began it was the beginning of the end of a very long period of time. Fortunately, time doesn't really exist, and therefore any length of it I specify can be considered a great one. In this particular case, the exaggeration is minimal, and it is safe to say that most others experiencing the snails pace of hours and minutes I had would whole heartedly agree. It had been a lengthy week for several reasons, every single one of which is in no way interesting, similar to the countless stories you think your friends listen to, but rarely do or realize that some do not speak simply to project their desired image. As the week of untraversable size finally reached some variation of fastigium, it began to depress me that the flurry of life was subsiding. Worry me, in fact, as the dizzying pace recently adopted allowed for temporary respite from the social contracts and pressures and pitfalls I was so thankful to be exempt from. So, as responsibility briefly slumbers, and expectations arise to participate in a futile game that I have found difficult to remain a spectator to, I hide. Those that I need closest seem to have faded into phone calls and IOU's, and those I need not become enclosing walls threatening suffocation before freedom, before it all just begins anew.

Deconstruction

Can you wake without regret? I sleep without fear and wake without knowing what the following day will bring, despite my trespasses into lands of prediction, parched by the burning sunlight of foreboding and anticipation for an oasis for mind and body. Walk across a deserted city, with sky scrapers of superfluous design and bootless stretching towards a heaven of no consequence and an afterlife without what life requires. Observe the places where people once collected each other, in memories and photos and evidence to themselves and others that they have what they want and want at all. And once the mental taxes have been taken and the photos have burned, we have lost all that we built, from sky scrappers to sanity, and never once did any one realize that to collect is futility, and to always be searching is the solution to an empty city.

Do you know how fortunate your touched life is? Touched by god or happenstance or good graces, and inevitably touched by the magnitude of the people bumping into you. Walk at a pace slower than life and see the joyous looks in the eyes of those that meet yours. The glimmer of hope and desire and need that the higher contact made will carry on into a more cradled and handled existence. Envelop yourself in the impossible ties among all you hold and know. Walk, I say, slower than this pestilent race to the end of contests for each other - the love of life is victory without need. Slow your maddening pace and watch, for what is seen is not all to be seen, and what is known is not.

This is not advice, it is what is. Deidcated to all reading it.

Presumptions

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.

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.

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

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.

Malleable

Sitting down and telling yourself to write rarely works as well as you would will it to. With that in mind, I have very intelligently sat down and forced myself to begin writing. It isn't going well. There is a certain level of reliability in personal change which as hard to avoid as it is to see - that is to say, you can neither see it nor avoid it until it has already taken place. Now before you jump to conclusions, do not assume this inevitable evolution is necessarily slow or gradual, but rather immaculately imperceptible because of your being you. Don't get down on yourself, a lot of us are us. The biggest issue in this slow erosion of the character you are to reveal the one you are becoming is the tendency of everyone else to keep the pieces which are invariably no longer you in their minds. Actually, that's not quite the biggest issue. The biggest issue is when you are surrounded by chips and memories of who you were and dislike the direction you are moving. For, unfortunately, self loathing accomplishes nothing. Martyrdom only moves others.

The question has always been about purpose. Obviously. Religion, philosophy, math. All attempt to answer where we came from and then, more importantly, why. This is not news. And whether or not this is a riddle with a solution or just the greatest trick that the collective mind has played on itself to keep a drive for life is really rather irrelevant. For better or worse, purpose is something we give ourselves. For better.

Soliloquy

The morning was perfect. And that is not to say ideal, which people too often mistake as being interchangeable and which could be no less, as ideals are often inadequate in actual experience. An ideal morning would have been sunny and warm, which this one was not - it was instead a perpetual grey, the kind you only get after a long night of long rain and there remain a few air borne tears, and cold enough where a jacket is needed to stave off the chill, but should remain open to avoid the heat. Within the weather were the simple surroundings of this mourning morning. Seated on an empty bench in an empty park with empty thoughts; there is no greater place of solitude where it is so easy to be found. In this perfect morning, those vacancies were to be filled.

"They're late. But, alas, it is to be expected." She wondered how long he would be forced into loneliness in a place where anyone so compelled could find him. She had not spoken with them in so long that their absence did not strike her as something new and could not cause any unease, but rather just disappointment in those well acquainted feelings still not fading. From far off, she could hear the sound of someone approaching and wondered if this streak of unfamiliarity with these people she knew but too well would soon come to an end. It was not worth the risk. She picked up her heavy frame which had been so hard to move all morning. The fear in continued seclusion when there was no reason over came the need for it to end. And it over came her.

Adjective

Alas, we put stock and hope into a coming day
and week and month and things further away
we find ourselves striving towards a better tomorrow
only to realize we've lost all that time borrowed
tried making a plan to get to a higher point of view
only to fall faster into failure, but that’s nothing new
and, as my short comings grow taller as time goes on
my problems are magnified by forces as strong

faith is amazing in its power to heal
itself, not you, for faith is just wanting what isn't real
we manage to believe in ourselves again after time
and fill balloons of hope with dreams of the devine
but that faith is deflated when needles rain
and the most recent day becomes a memory stain

sometimes i want out of this downward cycle life
to escape the back and forth mental strife
leave this world of water and never look back
go somewhere of solids, of white and black

enough of this faith in the cycle uplifting
just realize the ocean of gray through which we are drifting

Eliptical

It is beyond doubt or reason that everything we experience is cyclical. Not cyclical, infact. Eliptical. Time, as it is to be perceived rather than believed, moves is a direction that inevitablty intersects itself in a way that is in no way linear. However, there is hardly consitency in this very chaotic movement of lines, time, and - most importantly of all - timelines, and thus can hardly be equated to something as simple and beautiful as a circle.