Anchors are not enough

The people who care for you the most can hoist you to such heights in an operative instance, with that collective will they can obliterate you without a second of hesitation, forethought, with ease like the turn of a page or causal flip of a coin, the erasure of illustration. People can be vastitudes of potential, like the ocean has ripples, tides, waves, sediment and capacity. A person can apply care and compassion, empathy to another; alas no person can form or deform another person to compel them open. All one can do is be still in an allowance of simplicity and silence, perched still in the midst the interval; waiting to work, be pliable with that ensuing openness, volume and capacity when it occurs.  I am able to attest to lack of understanding and construction of clarity, estimate that no level of fully practiced human being understands me, as I do not understand myself, yet I do know I cannot be someone I am not.  I often feel and think in an esoteric language that coincides with a thinking that cannot be defined, only felt. Each of us contain hefty anchors, in thought, emotional gags, the weight of the anchor, the ambiguity and ability to break the surface tension of water will be the precedent in the trails and endurance of a choice to sink or swim. We are all momentary.

Residue

Let me not be deceived. Ugh. I wish I had a seatbelt.

I don’t know what I am expecting, and I feel that I am an inflation of an exaggeration of an ego and a letdown of math -metrical proportions… except nothing is in balance and rusted -welded shut. Bleh.  Seizure to an ambivalent day.  Who am I speaking too? Who am I kidding?  Beseech me. I have absolute zero figured out.  Carpe Diem, fuck you.

 

People change, they clash, they dissolve, the refuse, transmute, they rebut. They. Ugh. I.. bleh. Bollocks it up. What is it about the truth… isn’t it supposed to bring clarity, simplicity. Raise the ordinary. Riot for more, be yourself or else you will suffer with less.. eh. I transgress..  Sigh. Batman. Requires certain finesse.

Perhaps I require the right people. And I am. Left.

Topple, stand still and stop fucking looking. Struggle and I will sink.

Yeah, that sounds about right, ‘Life’s a Beach?’

Waiting for the loathing and used to the sinking the self Am and -indulgent, vexing, per petulant creature of habit rise and befoul the interior of brain and wrack the backs of my eye sockets and darken my thoughts, knowing that you are with me, not beside me.

 

Perhaps we all have a little mad hatter residing in archives messing with our wisdom, melting the past and present traveling through the world thinking that you know time isn’t at all relative, only to find it is… to find the missing parts of people. collude or educate, on weakness, trivialities and imperfections. Fire, tests purge for strengths and beasts. A collection of transgressions. Carry it with us, what is beautiful and imperfect, whole or horrific. Collecting people, souls you could say that, minds and motions rebuild and arches what is missing in me and in them, take and give. Give and take. Buildings and bridges.  Eh, nobody is flawless, the imperfections are prefect. Bodies, restrains, vessels. Build them, break them.

bleh, Falling distilled existential crisis. You build epic cavities in your chest- Where you reside: rusted out a bucket of grey, carry through on a pen a paper longitude where the world will not find a beautiful whole, part of them denotes missing you.