Surrealism
would introduce myself and say hello, i used to write once; or hello, I used to dream, but I've forgotten what that's like now. Life defies placement. We order and contain the only things we have- the wildness, the rebellious penstrokes, escapist dreams, defiant light. The world needs to feel steady & predictable somewhere in our lives, and if the imagination is the only thing we are able to control... the poor grown-ups, who have paid the cost of stability.
symbolism is lost on me; there is not enough being to be able to interpret things.
Feeling that persistant tugging- the homeless dreams asking for pittance. I am unsure how to feed them though I respond (hello! escapism! and hello! sunlight) and the only thing to take comfort in is the little sense of wind.
These woods look like they are for disappearing into and I don't know why I haven't, except for the fear of finding the other side. Whenever you can see the other side of the hill through the trees it is harder to lose yourself in them, but there is one hill, and then another, and all of this adventure cascading below my window. I am afraid I will never come back. It is not so dreadful a thing to fear.
What has been lost? something has been buried. Such a struggle, this. The results of having those empty spots cauterized. I preferred them empty. Quiet possibility is not so dismal as abandoned reality. Never knowing, perhaps, is not so shameful. There needs to be time; i need to regather all the little flecks that drifted off and clung to other things, out of my reach. It's hard to make a definition when all of the principles have wandered off.
I want to disappear. This rationality doesn't do any good.
symbolism is lost on me; there is not enough being to be able to interpret things.
Feeling that persistant tugging- the homeless dreams asking for pittance. I am unsure how to feed them though I respond (hello! escapism! and hello! sunlight) and the only thing to take comfort in is the little sense of wind.
These woods look like they are for disappearing into and I don't know why I haven't, except for the fear of finding the other side. Whenever you can see the other side of the hill through the trees it is harder to lose yourself in them, but there is one hill, and then another, and all of this adventure cascading below my window. I am afraid I will never come back. It is not so dreadful a thing to fear.
What has been lost? something has been buried. Such a struggle, this. The results of having those empty spots cauterized. I preferred them empty. Quiet possibility is not so dismal as abandoned reality. Never knowing, perhaps, is not so shameful. There needs to be time; i need to regather all the little flecks that drifted off and clung to other things, out of my reach. It's hard to make a definition when all of the principles have wandered off.
I want to disappear. This rationality doesn't do any good.