The weak end.

Washed clean by rain and a feeling of accomplishment.  The diligence of focused hours has steeled and calmed my nerves.  It's amazing what a little progress will do to change your outlook on life.  I've learned much this month, most importantly that nothing is difficult to do if you like it.  The trick is getting oneself to enjoy doing difficult things.  A life of absolute freedom and independence is more constricting than most people realize.  Without guidance and direction, the mind spins aimlessly, attempting all directions at once.  But the addition of structure and goals provides a framework within which creativity can thrive.  Bones support muscle, and muscle moves bones.  Together Everyone Achieves More.  While there is no I in TEAM, you can still spell ME.

A littered nation.

The unfair sea fares seemingly far from sea foam.  Such ship's shapes shifts, surely shimmering towards the shore.  But behold, behind their backs the hindered be holding holes of hope.

Ever Outward.

No time for moss in this ever-rolling landscape of repetition.  The hawks on the horizon watch patiently for moments of weakness, ready to dive at a moments notice to seal the fate of the unsuspecting.  A myopic view is a death sentence in a jungle of opportunity.  Patterns, while comfortable, become traps, mazes of familiarity and acquiescence.  So often we forget that we are hurtling through space as relativity confuses minds and placates us with a sense of stability.  But it is important to understand that we're rotating and revolving around an ever-expanding light within a universe whose boundaries are only limitless because it pushes them constantly.  Therefore we too can push ourselves well beyond that sense of comfort.  No matter how fast we run or how hard we strive we will never reach our limit; we are beings of infinite potential.

Giving up Ghosts.

Running, screaming for the hills, this avoidance plague like fog inside my mind.  The thought of trying too hard encircles me within a circumference of doubt.  Such a pain is this remembrance, that not so long ago inspiration dripped its sweet honey from my eyes, and coated everything I saw in amber shades.  So sweet and misleading.  Such is the confidence of youth, not knowing any better and not caring, for failure grows deadlier with age.  An abyss inside one's past, threatens to consume you if you spend too long looking back.  Material burdens are the distractions, the falsifiers of emotion.  Their mundane and bloated perspective gives credence to the undeserving.  Let nothing distract you from the joy in your life. Eliminate the walls and the fears that lie to "keep you safe," despite the fact that there is no danger at all.  No good or bad, just life.  To be lived and be enjoyed, all else be damned.

The geology of time.

The porcelain of time erodes so constantly, blasted by the unforgiving sand. The impending sense that it is running out, contrary to the belief that we have nothing but time. Stuck in the taffy pull of forward progression, we do not move through space, rather space moves around us, stretching thinner everyday to infinity. The paradox of dividing by half, never can nothing be reached. And yet we fill our minds with stress and the idea that there is not enough time. For every speck that drifts into the past, two more replace it in the future. Within the perpetual motion of a fourth dimensional hydra, there is no other way. It is that exponential blossom, that golden ratio that ensures that life goes on. 1+1=2+1=3+2=5. The future is a spiral growing outward to the boundaries of all that's possible. There is always more to come.

Let Dogs Lie

Pins and needles of a half-truth inspire a generation into sloth.  Desire without the willingness to work, as bygone days go by and still the goliath of the unmotivated cannot be stirred.  That giant, only moved by extreme want, sleeps peacefully, uncaring and unaware.  It is his mind that must be changed, prodded and coaxed.  Only then can one truly see how silly it all really is.

Life like chocolate.

I keep it locked inside a box, a paragon of perfect intention.  A prized possession that I never let another person see for fear that it will become hurt or damaged, or somehow lose its value by taking it out of the packaging.  But the realization's slowly coming to me that even with the air holes I have punched in the top, my little pet is suffocating, withering due to a lack of exposure.  A gift I wrapped so long ago in the hopes that I would find someone who would appreciate it properly has now become outdated and atrophied.  The heart, like any other muscle, must exercise to maintain its strength.  Perhaps the same is true for love.

Nice weather we're having.

Another successful cycle of the circadian dream, skies still dripping orange as they fade into blue.  The unstoppable turn, the indicator of passing time again brings morning breezes to tempt an additional bout of sleep.  For it is the freedom that it provides, so enticing in the divorce from reality and the gravity that holds so tightly to traveling feet.  Perpetual emotion.  Always a past that pushes and a future that pulls.  Suspended in the present, there is no other choice but to relax and enjoy the ride.

Optimal Option.

Sparkle of a dragon's wing, a teardrop in the sky.  The flickering and dying of a once illuminated bastion sputters, less like waves than the dreams that serve as inspiration, and the words churn out.  The clotted milk from an over-worked organ sticks to the walls in splashes light, wet with liquid reflections.  Such a prism, refractory and dividing, splits light from truth; a rainbow with a pot of gold.  So steps are taken and plans are made to traverse the backbone of this demon, for treasures are worthless without risk.

Flash in the pan.

The wildness that arrives, so elusive in its quest for mortal zest, rushes past me like a broken beam of light.  Basking in the radiance that it leaves behind, I'm charged again, and wonder what had drained me before.  A token of abject misery bounces and rolls down the stairwell and comes to rest at my feet.  But like a mower out of gas, I pull and pull the cord, and all it does is sputter.

Shards of potential.

Choking on the fragment of a fantasy, I awake to an undeserved expectation  That moment where you wonder if what you felt was real.  It was piece of feeling, a shard of she.  A comfort in that familiar yet new collection of giddy hopes.  And as we sat, our minds entwined, I realized how much I missed a constant contact.  Starved for touch and blind to the outreach of help's caress.  Independence is a crutch, and self-sufficiency is scar tissue made by old wounds.  A heart not hard, just calloused - worn down, worn out.  The covering armor, stitched tight by a collection of sighs, must be removed if I'm to be released from the pressure of expectations.

Much of love is longing.  I just don't know her name yet.

Reconstruction.

Chatter of the slack-jawed skeleton, rattling in the closet. Only does its thin weakness come out under cover of night. A palette of color with which to paint the empty bones; blood red muscle and blue veins. It comes to life through a series of lies, suggestions of the truth. As it grows in strength, I remember the warmth of confidence - such a fleeting feeling as of late, but its passionate heat is welcomed back with open arms. It's amazing how one can live without a backbone for so long. As the decorations finalize, thoughts turn to the parade. An internal carnival where this new structure is displayed.

Throw beads and rice, and i'll drop candy from a smile.

Sedimental sentiment

The fountains of Damascus, spilling forth a trail of unknown sweetness, splash against the crystal and enter the air as mist.  All around the density of wonder grows, heavy at first, but darker still until there is nothing but the gleam of moonlight.  The wet shine covers the rocks like reflective silver moss, and I come before the pool to look for myself.  It is not until I stare into the waters that I see myself in the disturbed and undulating surface.  It used to be so clear to me, who I was and what I was meant to be.  For so long, I used to stare at my reflection, enamored with my perception of self.  But that image has long since been distorted.  The waters have become muddied and unsure and I can only see the shadow of myself anymore.  Should I wait around that it will settle, and I'm reminded of who I used to be, or do I strike out into the unknown and find out who I am now?

waste

I have writer's block.  One of the worst I've ever encountered.  It's giving me panic attacks.  I'm trying to write through it, but nothing's working.  I don't want to not write anything today, so this will have to do.  I realize this is not a reflective journal, so I won't detail what's going on with me.

Man, and I really wanted something cool to write on 1.11.11.

Quick, sand!

The sand sifts through like a waterfall.  Droplets of erosion tumble across the expanse that is my mind.  The astral plane, the place I go to hide from all the non-sense of this earth.  And despite my need for escape, I cannot help but hold on to the familiarity of this terrestrial world.  The granulated seconds tick as they slip through the narrow passage of the hourglass' neck.  I could stare at it forever, or sleep.  Hypnotized by the siren's call I wander off the beaten path to beat my past.  Perhaps it can't be lost, but I welcome the distraction.

Searching for the vein, the throbbing pulse of creativity, I probe but cannot find it.  I leave myself discouraged and sore from the pinpricks of false starts.  There is sadly no time to heal.  We have deadlines and expectations to meet, though the only thing I have to show for my effort is a handful of failure and an idea or two.  May a tidal wave of inspiration hit me; such a disaster would prove a blessing.  Wash away the debris, clean house, and push me with a force far greater than myself.

The octogenarian child and the pain of aging.

Rotting joints trumpet the curtain call of youth.  The needles of contraction ache within the weakened muscle.  It's as if the smallest cog has broken in the deepest part of the machine, grinding all the gears to a halt.  The overwhelming feeling distracts my mind and I must confess this has been anything but uninterrupted.

Who are you working for?

Driving through the town I see beggars, celebrities, friends, and animals.  Buildings painted sideways and free men working like slaves.  The dollar is the engine within this race car.  Working for such a trivial and meaningless boss, giving up our lives for numbers on a page.   A child plays on a bicycle, or laughs at bubbles as they float, filled with a pure and righteous glee.  This is not something we should grow past, rather something we should aspire to.  The innocence we leave behind in exchange for worldly knowledge is ultimately what we end up searching for by the end.  Realizing what fools we've been to waste the opportunity of existence on such unhappy endeavors.  "The goal of life is bliss," says the billboard, and yet everyone who sees it has an opinion on why it's wrong, or why it just won't work for them.  We get so used to the niceties of life that we begin to confuse comfort with happiness.  A starving man can find comfort in bread and water, and a pile of hay on which to sleep, but that does not change his living like an animal.  And so I wonder at what choices I may have.  Lying in my comfortable bed, thinking about the extravagant meals I'll soon eat, I cannot help but see no difference between that other man and me.  Growing accustomed is just that.  Finding joy in all things is something else.

Awaking to a migraine.

A vice squeezes my mind, a result of too much stress and not enough sleep. And as the screws turn, the choice between sleep and waking feels more like life and death. Writing pains me; my open eyes against the brighness of the screen are outmatched. Would that I could pause the day and become well before waking. I apologize to myself and to the world but it's becoming more apparent that I'm unuseable this morning.

Good morning, I feel fine.

Organic tissue fills the scene with a moment's clarity. The observations of the many stand stoically, like a testament to all who came before, yet never understood. And in the corner of that climate, the rich and small belief huddles against the wall of disposition. What flavors could be found among them, what undue praise could be undone? It's a vain assumption to think that anything that's been done before can automatically be done again. Life is not so easy. And with that I descend again into the open mouth of strange encounters. My mind steeled against the imperative, ready, willing, and stable. The road on which I tread may not be the one less traveled, yet it takes me to a place I've never been. It is that new and ultimately free expression that allows me to once again expand my horizon. And arriving at that thought I can see in the distance the colors of sunrise. Those yellows and oranges split by the prism of a low-arching sun. The shades are bright, yet their intensity leaves much to desired. The rays are young, both in hours and in years. Soon the days will grow longer, and their shine will grow accustomed to the schedule of the day. I too will keep my eyes trained upon this progression.

Liquid candy crystals. Shatter, jump and play. The darkened clouds keep moisture, hiding it away.

Reluctantly the steps are taken towards a new frame of mind.   One devoid of the poison of weakness.  There's a trepidation about the unfamiliar, so we continue to stew in unhealthy ways.

Purple floats a dance, airy and morose.  A color both vibrant and sad.  It is the color of shadow and bruises. And like a musical note, this feeling hangs in the crisp air, surrounded by the echo of impossibility.  Still it comes, slowly at first, but eventually finding rhythm within that chaotic cascade.  And the shadow, like all things cyclical, gives way to the impression of oneself.  Whatever the predisposition, that sun will rise again.

And so, despite a soggy morning, I wake.  Open and uncross my eyes.  Square my shoulders and scream into the abyss that I am ready for a change.

Warming up.

It's colder than I thought it'd be.  The temperature of discomfort sneaks through the spaces of my clothing and shivers my skin.  On the horizon, the fat and lazy sun slowly makes its ascent into the heavens.  Even it doesn't seem to want to get out of bed.  A cloudy north looms, and I suppose that these weak rays may be the only light I see today.  Glad I got up early.  And with sleep still tugging at my eyelids, I struggle to keep focus on something that requires letting go.  If only my fingers could type the dreams inside my head.  But they've all dried up for now, I have the jolting siren of an alarm to thank for their rapid departure.  So here I am, stuck.  Spinning my wheels and still hoping to impress.

It is the first.

Awaking to the unclouded sky, washed clean by wind and sun and late night revelry.  A dawn I didn't see, but now experience the light of.  What wonders will this new beginning bring?  The slate so fresh and unadulterated beckons me to strike out upon it and make the first markings of the year.  And so with pen in hand, my chalk, my tool, my mind is dusted off to engage in a tradition long abandoned: the morning ritual of stretching conscious thought.  Verbal gymnastics in the form of prose, even getting the narrative started is a challenge in itself.  So many bad habits to break, so many things that must be let go of in order to let the flow come through.  And so with that said, I'll dive into the deep end and pray that closing my eyes doesn't cause me to forget how to swim.

Deep beneath the current of the undertow, far removed from the conscious mind, lies a stillness.  A place within which I am free from the judgements of myself.  Even as I think, the echoing voice of doubt calls to me and reverberates inside my mind a deafening disillusionment.  I cannot seem to hear anything but.  And so I try to relax, to sink beneath the waves, and let the pull of that retracting force take me away. Perhaps it's for the better that the muscles have atrophied.  I cannot swim I've found, and so I flounder.  Desperately trying to remain afloat and looking like a fool.  I must accept death.  I must accept that failure is part of the process of life.  I cannot fear the ebb and flow.  It is in that acceptance where I will find my peace, where I will realize that you don't need to know how to swim if you can breathe underwater.