Writing by the lights of Heaven;
10/16/05 "So, where'd you go?"
I'm sitting on the edge of a bathtub in a house that I've never been to. This is the only room in the house that light is shining brightly.
The bulbs are flickering.
I found solitude on the roof of an old barn.
The moon was full tonight.
I've now moved to a rickety front porch and put another chemical into my body.
Inside the house the vibes are growing a bit alarming as you crash from the doorways going from one room to the next.
...
...
"...Talk to me."
It is definite that I do not want this night to end. Another reoccurance of the "Peter Pan complex."
I'm finding it easier to get lost in each room that I pass through and I haven't the slightest idea where this pen is leading my hand as it scribbles furiously.
A simple cry for attention.
"I know you," screams randomly from my right. I'm bewildered at this point.
My eyes are being barbarously stolen away by stabbing lights and provacative looks.
In a dark crawl space, nearly naked, with two other people; this isn't something that I'll soon forget.
Their kissing ensues, and I keep going.
The table top's flowing in its own cadence under the dull yellow light of this dungeon, and for a moment, I forget where I am.
Tomorrow's not going to be a pretty day.
When everything's this s l o w and washed out, the best thing to do is...
-Sometime in the A.M.
10/16/05 "A day in the Park;" (Random insertions.)
With caution tape wrapped around my chest:
My eyes are nothing more than black, purple, bruised, holes that are sunk in to my face.
The brilliance of the flower behind my ear is the only thing breathing life into our surroundings.
My skin is palid.
I stare hard at my reflection in the mirror, not completely understanding what I'm looking at. I understand the exhaustion that is peering back out at me. I need not sympathize with such reckoning.
"Oh come on now, Silly Boy, think of something charming!"
I spoke too soon.
"Something clever!"
This is nothing more than a prolonged mental vaccuum.
"Something Brilliant."
This isn't a moment of clarity.
The crushing realization that tonight's over has long since passed.
This is entirely devoid of thought.
The bells from the temple echoe with shame through my window.
I locked myself in and buried my face in the pillow, thinking, "What an ugly day it is, indeed."
Staring at my reflection yet again, I now recognize the emotion that had been growing in my tired and silent brown eyes.
It was remorse. Distant and deep.
Night had quickly evaporated and I watched the transformation as it wore off and things were perishing by the second.
My stomach is firmly lodged somewhere between my chest and throat.
10/22/05
The trees are bent over with exhaustion all along the sidewalks and roadways.
A little more of their clothing falling off by the day, decorating the split concrete.
There're a variety of noises invading me from all sides, but I sit in a wooden chair with my concentration neck deep in the sounds lingering out of the speakers.
My heart's beating out of my chest, and I'm mouthing the words.
You gave me shooting stars, I'll give you the skies.
This really isn't anything important.
These walls will never be thick enough.
Someone's desperately trying to make conversation with me and I couldn't care less.
People say stupid things with their every breath, and when they don't talk, their radios fill the gap with copied voices of people singing the same songs over and over and over.
I'm not any different.
This is a reoccurring nightmare.
Crudely painted on beauty lies in the bed with her face engrossed in her hands.
She sighs.
This is a rocky descent from a broken life of shit.
A completely self-inflicted fall from grace.
Hellish noises ring in my ears and all I want to do is to sleep.
It looks cold outside and everything seems to shine and glimmer in that dull sort of way.
Heavy eyes hoarsely screech for rest, but a trembling body defiantly stands its ground.
Clouds of smoke hang in the air as I lie in bed, shallowly inhaling air.
Words are exhausting.
5:36 A.M.
10/22/05 "This too will pass;"
No more struggle. Please no more struggle.
I'll take you home, I swear I will. To our home.
My body is stripped bare, rotting in the sun, deteriorating at an alarming rate.
My jaw is trembling ever so slightly.
My eyes seem to writhe in their sockets.
Looks good.
Feels good.
Sounds good.
Looks good.
Feels good, too.
Beauty is all around, if you look hard enough.
Concentrate, that's right.
Squint your eyes if it helps. Distort the images.
With pupils this big, it's a pure impossibility to miss much.
Though it's completely obscure, I can't avoid noticing even in quick glances.
I'm trite.
-Clinton Hate
I turned 20 somewhere in that mess. Congrats if you made it to the end.
I'm sitting on the edge of a bathtub in a house that I've never been to. This is the only room in the house that light is shining brightly.
The bulbs are flickering.
I found solitude on the roof of an old barn.
The moon was full tonight.
I've now moved to a rickety front porch and put another chemical into my body.
Inside the house the vibes are growing a bit alarming as you crash from the doorways going from one room to the next.
...
...
"...Talk to me."
It is definite that I do not want this night to end. Another reoccurance of the "Peter Pan complex."
I'm finding it easier to get lost in each room that I pass through and I haven't the slightest idea where this pen is leading my hand as it scribbles furiously.
A simple cry for attention.
"I know you," screams randomly from my right. I'm bewildered at this point.
My eyes are being barbarously stolen away by stabbing lights and provacative looks.
In a dark crawl space, nearly naked, with two other people; this isn't something that I'll soon forget.
Their kissing ensues, and I keep going.
The table top's flowing in its own cadence under the dull yellow light of this dungeon, and for a moment, I forget where I am.
Tomorrow's not going to be a pretty day.
When everything's this s l o w and washed out, the best thing to do is...
-Sometime in the A.M.
10/16/05 "A day in the Park;" (Random insertions.)
With caution tape wrapped around my chest:
My eyes are nothing more than black, purple, bruised, holes that are sunk in to my face.
The brilliance of the flower behind my ear is the only thing breathing life into our surroundings.
My skin is palid.
I stare hard at my reflection in the mirror, not completely understanding what I'm looking at. I understand the exhaustion that is peering back out at me. I need not sympathize with such reckoning.
"Oh come on now, Silly Boy, think of something charming!"
I spoke too soon.
"Something clever!"
This is nothing more than a prolonged mental vaccuum.
"Something Brilliant."
This isn't a moment of clarity.
The crushing realization that tonight's over has long since passed.
This is entirely devoid of thought.
The bells from the temple echoe with shame through my window.
I locked myself in and buried my face in the pillow, thinking, "What an ugly day it is, indeed."
Staring at my reflection yet again, I now recognize the emotion that had been growing in my tired and silent brown eyes.
It was remorse. Distant and deep.
Night had quickly evaporated and I watched the transformation as it wore off and things were perishing by the second.
My stomach is firmly lodged somewhere between my chest and throat.
10/22/05
The trees are bent over with exhaustion all along the sidewalks and roadways.
A little more of their clothing falling off by the day, decorating the split concrete.
There're a variety of noises invading me from all sides, but I sit in a wooden chair with my concentration neck deep in the sounds lingering out of the speakers.
My heart's beating out of my chest, and I'm mouthing the words.
You gave me shooting stars, I'll give you the skies.
This really isn't anything important.
These walls will never be thick enough.
Someone's desperately trying to make conversation with me and I couldn't care less.
People say stupid things with their every breath, and when they don't talk, their radios fill the gap with copied voices of people singing the same songs over and over and over.
I'm not any different.
This is a reoccurring nightmare.
Crudely painted on beauty lies in the bed with her face engrossed in her hands.
She sighs.
This is a rocky descent from a broken life of shit.
A completely self-inflicted fall from grace.
Hellish noises ring in my ears and all I want to do is to sleep.
It looks cold outside and everything seems to shine and glimmer in that dull sort of way.
Heavy eyes hoarsely screech for rest, but a trembling body defiantly stands its ground.
Clouds of smoke hang in the air as I lie in bed, shallowly inhaling air.
Words are exhausting.
5:36 A.M.
10/22/05 "This too will pass;"
No more struggle. Please no more struggle.
I'll take you home, I swear I will. To our home.
My body is stripped bare, rotting in the sun, deteriorating at an alarming rate.
My jaw is trembling ever so slightly.
My eyes seem to writhe in their sockets.
Looks good.
Feels good.
Sounds good.
Looks good.
Feels good, too.
Beauty is all around, if you look hard enough.
Concentrate, that's right.
Squint your eyes if it helps. Distort the images.
With pupils this big, it's a pure impossibility to miss much.
Though it's completely obscure, I can't avoid noticing even in quick glances.
I'm trite.
-Clinton Hate
I turned 20 somewhere in that mess. Congrats if you made it to the end.