I’ve had a good meal. On a weekday it feels quite like a holiday I’d crave for. Time beside myself, self completed, self sufficient, and self infatuated. So I’m going to write. For the worth of two empty afternoon hours;

I have been dwelling in the discovery of a pattern in my life, if it exists, if the person that I am, can be defined by something authentic, not necessarily words but the emotional equivalent of words.

Went bare-naked-feet climbing mountains, rocks and across rivers and short of the line, across over the sunsets into the nightlife, trying to find the correction, the correlation, the content that is significant to define my nature, and my anguish, my soul, my youth.

I was in love a while back. With the possibility of eternity; and then I lost my balance. And found myself in the cured depths of irrelevant grief, lost faith and freedom and protection and truth. Eternity does not exist I believe now. Not in definition. Not when the feelings you crave, are lucidly incomplete without the presence of your own reflection.

"Saw the world spin beneath you
And scatter like ice from the spoon
I go on as you get colder
Are you someone’s prayer? "

I’ve been lied to before. I’ve been kept unaware. So I reasonably accept it as confinement. People have secrets. Always captive inside their own guilt sphere, who am I to say? I couldn’t ever completely explain myself to anyone; I hide innumerable traits and change with every sentence. Layer after layer of deception and carefully avoiding the concept of trust; I don’t even know if I’m human.

As the vanishing of stability is of no consequence to me anymore because I have finally learnt to deal with it; Drugs and self destruction have helped. Propelled the direction of thought; Now it’s ok. Now it’s all ok. Self convincing is quite a game to play sometimes. It’s a war within a war.

Yes I’m glad. I don’t belong to no one. And that a Shame, But I’m glad.

"Rain keeps crawling down the glass
Good times never seem to last "

I have a lot to say sometimes. But then I won’t say anything at all because essentially it all comes down to talking to myself. Like I’ve done from the time I can remember, the thousand lives I killed to move on and the thousand waiting minutes and hours trying to recollect when I was, where I was, and why I was. And I never get better or worse at dreaming; just get better at running away. Because here has to be gone now,
sooner or later. Right?

"You and I got something and its all and then its nothing to me. "

I’d be a self contained man/boy (depending on the weather) on a side street, completely incapable of handling his eyes, my lies, able to see through all the feeble sham, posing the quiet solid surface calm, keeping to myself, truth is a whisper, if only you knew.
So I write songs in my head. Like this one

Come down the stairs now sugar
Calm down the stares now

I want a vacant girl
I want a naked girl
Who Melts with the wine and warms my heart
And is fire enough to light my cigarette

And the fucking is senseless unless
She runs through me like a razor-blade
Plays cruel, not afraid
Throws little charm, a little recluse
And wears down her soft blues

And she knows I’m a dead man,
Up the mountain for the moon who ran
Not to find his evergreen land
Instead he was paralyzed
Consumed in ancient ivy and crazed
Trapped in sand castles, to be crushed by the waves

I’m shaken by her ground now
Idolized she touches me with her life
Slipping freezing crawling beneath
Cold skin and miracle surround
Repeating an act of precision,
Again, now, familiar derision

What a surprise?

So leave now
Before
The tides turn
And floods the garden of ever low
And the forests burn
And ashes fly in after glow

Who could walk into sacred space and live a lifetime?
Not me.
Not you.
Not us.
There is no eternity.