Spilling.

Hang on, help is on the way.

Untitled #7

There's a girl who passes me in the hallway every day. She nods at me. I nod back. We continue on with our business.

Fleeting human contact.

She seems to know me, and every time she nods, I wrack my brain, but I can't seem to remember. Oh God, who is she?

I can't seem to keep everything straight. I don't know whom I've decided to like or to hate.
And I'm just waiting for the day when someone will slap me or shake me and tell me that it's not real. That it's understandable to forget.

But it never happens. The day never comes. I forget which habits I was supposed to break or to show.

The girl seems to like me, but I don't know. I can't relate to her. I'd like to get to know her, but Jesus, all the time it takes.
And maybe that one day will come when she'll slap me and say "Hey fucker, who are you?"

And I won't know the answer.
So until then, I'll just smile and nod and pretend like I know.

Orchestration.

There are days, and then there are days like today. When it seems like everything is symbolic of my life and my entire existence, for better or for worse, and it makes me smile. Or frown. For better or for worse? I do not know. I don't think I ever will.

Walking, head bent, with my mind filled with thoughts to the brink. But managing. Somehow managing. And the wind blows, for the longest time. Watching the wind blow the leaves in little dances around my feet. Watching the world, in the cold, shivery way that it has, come alive. Watching as the trees sway, back and forth, like some kind of giant metronome. Watching as what I thought might stay, goes. Watching, watching watching, as my life happens.

Watching, doing, or making? And I wonder. My ideas are running around. I feel as though I could write pages and pages and pages of stories and plots and adventure. In my head. Onto the pages they would go, and make a masterpiece.

And I've been thinking. All throughout the night I thought, and drew mental images. Of people I know and people I don't. My head is full of strangers I've created whom I'm sure have interesting stories to tell if only they I would tell them. And people that would tell stories if only I could bring them to life. They are everywhichwhere. One of my biggest disappointments is that nobody will ever be able to see the things in my head as I do. I can never hope to create the art and the ideas I see and do them justice and make you understand that I think in colors, big and bold and loud and everything is Exciting. And you just want to stay because it it breathtaking.

I don't think I'm living up to my potential. Instead, I've found little potentials and I've been chasing them into the deep dark corners where they live and sometimes I forget to turn around and see where I've been going. Perhaps I am lost, but I am having an awfully big adventure. Shall I find my way back? What will I find? What if we could meet ourselves in the past and see how we'd changed? But perhaps that is for another day. Another day that isn't so blisteringly cold. So terrible and demanding. So fucking cruel.

Untitled #7.

I took a walk tonight.

It was frigid; probably the coldest it's been all winter. Up the in sky, the moon shone like a pale bone. A sort of humanity left in the inky black.
I smiled at the moon. As if I knew her.

I found a quiet stretch of grass at the park my house and laid down, despite the residue from the earlier cloudburst. I began my quiet mental ascension to twilight. To a place where religion hasn't taken root- of course, my concentration breaks. I look up again. The clouds are stains upon the sliver of humanity.

She begins crying for things that she sees others do without crying.

The stains try to cover for themselves by scattering away from the tears.
The clouds crack open and drip. The grass is stained with the moon's lachrymose.

And off in the distance, I spot a dark, yawning chasm.

Invocation.

The clouds burst into pieces, small sharp shards of shrapnel piercing the air. The sun cascades in through the window and shuns away from the sky. It darkens outside. The temperature drops. Ice crystals form on frosted window panes. Breath vapors cling to the air, visibly shaking in fear.

The swing that I'm sitting on begins to shake as well. A rumbling begins to shake the very earth itself. I draw an aegis of courage from somewhere deep in the depths of my soul and try to face what is bound to come.

The ground splits open. A yawning chasm opens. Blinding darkness spews forth, enveloping the sun. The rainbows are covered with dark, heavy tones. A prismatic spray of darkness issues forth from the gash and begins to send runners towards the swingset. I inhale the frozen air. My aegis is insubstantial, founded upon myth and legend, and crumbles like dust. The tendrils begin to creep up the poles.
Where is the light? Is it sobbing somewhere, surrounded by shadows?

The rainbows have become tainted with brilliant shades of black. The chasm has fixed its signs on the earth. The darkness has left this place in ruin.
Black clouds pool on the edges of the chasm as the slash of a mouth overflows with chromatic ink.

And so it was there, sleeping dormant deep inside of me.
It lay there, bubbling silently from the gash, shrouding the entire city.
They retreated back into the netherworld. Gone, but not entirely gone. The sun isn't quite as bright as it used to be. Those rainbows aren't as prismatic as they should be.

And that playground has never been the same.

Untitled #6

And the broken man sat down at a table and hung his head in his hands.
His silence is stained with lachrymose. The sun, to him, is a stranger.

He goes to his familiar room. The room filled with books, and he tears out the pages, word by word.
The moon, to him, is a stranger.

It's almost like forgetting the name of your favourite book. Your favourite song.
It used to be so easy, but now you can't remember.

And the man at the table next to an open window feels the chill from the icy moon. She, to him, is a stranger. But like the name of your favourite book.

And the broken man shuts the window. He goes back into the familiar room and puts the shattered books back into their places.

And the broken man became reacquainted with the moon.

November.

Rushing and racing and spinning in circles in life's fast forward motion.

And as we clung to hope, we fell to our knees. A thousand ancient spiders bit and scratched our legs. It seeped into our minds. It poisoned all our thoughts.

And now we move so fast that we forget our purpose. Racing and colliding so chaotic.
Spinning so fast that I'm frightened I might disappear in the blur of the

burning that caught on our legs that snatched us together while we weren't looking.
It sparks into emerald green spirals that twist on forever inside of your eyes.
And we began to laugh up a storm and melted away the speed, but as we cried, we tried to find the words that would

help with the decay of our hope. Upon the soft, spongy moss, we lay our heads and our hearts down. We smelled the earth and cried until we laughed and laughed until we cried.
And then we took our tears and mixed it with the burns that covered our legs.

And a soft November rain began to float down. The spiders curled.

Slow me down, November rain. Sweet rain.

And the burned legs did not move quickly. They did not twist or run in circles.

We are the king's third son, and we cannot sleep. The words that we searched for were not home inside their tombs.

The sweet November rain gave hope to our legs, praying that disease would leave us.

We are the king's first son, and we drove our hearse straight through the rain.