(no subject)
perfection arrives at my best wits at the eve of my arrival... though i feel not my lingering fingertips i feel the broiling of my uncooked thoughts... these thoughts that deserve to be consumed and regurgitated by all man so that all will taste and see what has become of me. my footsteps echoed in the night -- echoed of the night's discontent and unbridled agony; unbridled retching and the newness of becoming.
becoming something new, unfurling one's wings and trying on new rings that do not belong within one's budget but within one's dream, as if one did not have the socio-economic constraints that are given us by the selfishness of the culmination of this world.
at this point is where i do not feel nor think but i merely partake in the process of movement, movement forwards, sideways, and in a spiral that does not go forward nor backward but into the deepest recesses of space. my eyes burn with the desire for rest and contentment, that the joy of closing my eyes and opening my mind to the beauty of dreaming will be the extinguisher to the flame of my fury.
maybe movement will take me somewhere where I will forget the morass and mire of my constant twisting and shifting of my mind, where i take a step forward but pivot my other foot and actually take a step backwards simultaneously. i never truly follow the gravitations and movements of the sun and the moon, and of the ultimate control the cosmos has over all life. i surpass and override that subconsciously, in the hopes that i may find a control that makes me better than human.
superhuman -- is that my true goal?
or is the beer finally getting into my brain and through my numbing, wispy cloud-like fingers and telling me stories that I want to hear... which is that everyone really likes me, and I'm a good writer, and I'm a good musician, and I have no problems at all.
becoming something new, unfurling one's wings and trying on new rings that do not belong within one's budget but within one's dream, as if one did not have the socio-economic constraints that are given us by the selfishness of the culmination of this world.
at this point is where i do not feel nor think but i merely partake in the process of movement, movement forwards, sideways, and in a spiral that does not go forward nor backward but into the deepest recesses of space. my eyes burn with the desire for rest and contentment, that the joy of closing my eyes and opening my mind to the beauty of dreaming will be the extinguisher to the flame of my fury.
maybe movement will take me somewhere where I will forget the morass and mire of my constant twisting and shifting of my mind, where i take a step forward but pivot my other foot and actually take a step backwards simultaneously. i never truly follow the gravitations and movements of the sun and the moon, and of the ultimate control the cosmos has over all life. i surpass and override that subconsciously, in the hopes that i may find a control that makes me better than human.
superhuman -- is that my true goal?
or is the beer finally getting into my brain and through my numbing, wispy cloud-like fingers and telling me stories that I want to hear... which is that everyone really likes me, and I'm a good writer, and I'm a good musician, and I have no problems at all.