(no subject)
insert:
real life?
this is it. a bajangled chaotic sphere of tightly woven energy. revolving. touching me, outside of me, and taunting me. I am the silent muse. knowing all and saying little i exsist in a place of solitude.
in my mind and body, soul, heart...all is in a state of quite repose. I have desperatly clawed my way through the crowded, clouded thoughts, that envelope me, and have secured a place within myself. free of others idea's and perceptions. a place for myself, and the simplicity of just that.
constantly fighting off the well worn path of my own destruction, and i cant help but observe the ever changing tides in myself. a million of waves, echoing my own insanity, designed to keep me together with my "self".
i feel as if this, and the other parts, are sewn together in some kind of odd unshapely mass. held delicatly together with a sheer thread from some unknown origin. woven from a mess of primordial soup.
so apparent. and so ambiguous. this time is a fleeting grasping unreality, to which i feel run aground.
still the endeavor persists, and I, a tiny bulb of new possibilities am entangled in it.
the great sighing, and finding is at hand.
real life?
this is it. a bajangled chaotic sphere of tightly woven energy. revolving. touching me, outside of me, and taunting me. I am the silent muse. knowing all and saying little i exsist in a place of solitude.
in my mind and body, soul, heart...all is in a state of quite repose. I have desperatly clawed my way through the crowded, clouded thoughts, that envelope me, and have secured a place within myself. free of others idea's and perceptions. a place for myself, and the simplicity of just that.
constantly fighting off the well worn path of my own destruction, and i cant help but observe the ever changing tides in myself. a million of waves, echoing my own insanity, designed to keep me together with my "self".
i feel as if this, and the other parts, are sewn together in some kind of odd unshapely mass. held delicatly together with a sheer thread from some unknown origin. woven from a mess of primordial soup.
so apparent. and so ambiguous. this time is a fleeting grasping unreality, to which i feel run aground.
still the endeavor persists, and I, a tiny bulb of new possibilities am entangled in it.
the great sighing, and finding is at hand.