I'm going to live in a world where the oceans are flying inside my mind, where waterfalls are flowing down my back, where I'm bleeding forth river after river of magic. There, I'm going to sleep inside the wings of my lover, drink from the land of glittery shadows, and dream with my eyes wide open. I am never going to look back on the footprints I leave on the puddles, rather form new ones eons ahead in time. I will not take breaths that will promise me death, rather I will take breaths that have already and will continue to promise me life in whatever setting possible. I will not cover my heart with my hand. Instead, I will open my palm to capture the raindrops from the oceanic skies. And when I think, when I spread my veins to grasp even the most complex of beings, I will hold on to the branch wholeheartedly, only letting go when my heart compels me to. I will not listen to everyone around me, but I will take into account the thoughts of everyone within me. In the end of it all, I will not just love, I will not just hate, I will not just be happy, sad, frustrated, angry. In the end of it all, when I have finally felt it all and, consequently, felt nothing at all, I will not just be living. In the end of it all, I will be alive. I will be alive.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
A collection of thoughts mimics every choice. A fleeting moment, a simple chance. There is only one line that streams across the mind. I never wanted this. I never wanted this. I never. Wanted. This. But it happened. And it is happening. And it will happen. The thoughts only reverberate through the most emotional of beings. Or so it is known. Never is one able to achieve his or her purpose--at least not fully. And so it is known. Life is only a fleeting reminder of the choices made in the past, every ill-begotten day of the present, every deep anticipation of the future. All a simple lie, caught inside the folds of the world's only truth-sayers. The mind believes this not, only varying its patterns so as to think away from these perceptions. However, what shall occur has happened, and what will happen is replaying scene by scene, stroke by stroke, deep inside these simple...minds.
It’s like a dead end you’ve come to. A wall, with the fingerprints of the dead, with the screams still etched on each brick. And you touch the fissures, wishing you could feel it, wishing you could rub against the hot, hot surface. Wishing you could be caressed by each anguished cry…and you feel it, you feel it inside your mouth. When you want it so deep, so inside yourself, so absolutely into your soul, you feel like nothing will let you go. And you reach toward it, reach to touch it and to wrench every desire out of it, until nothing else is dripping but her filthy blood, a white spread on a vermilion tablecloth. And you touch, and you suck it in, and you taste it within the farthest reaches of your mind, and you think, you cannot think, you cannot form a coherent thought so as to wonder what is happening to you. This taste, this strength, this hate, this deep, deep hatred that is taking over everything in your body. You’ve yearned for it, you’ve wanted it, and now, now when you have it, you feel like running from it, but you do not for your feet just walk towards it, and your soul is carved into it and you stay. You stay and you bleed and you feel what it can, and only it can, give to you. And you revel in it. You absolutely bask in it, in what it makes you feel, in the different types of hatred it shows you, in all the ways it breaks you over and over again. And you cannot stop anything with it anymore, you cannot stop it, you do not want to stop it, and it will not stop; it will only take over, delve into you so deep, so utterly within you, that it merges, and you merge with it, and it becomes one inside of you and you become nothing inside of it..