Reflective Perspective.

With grace does such distraction drown the level-headed mind.  The illusion of importance sparkles in flecks of stress, like a thousand pinhole cameras pointed at an eclipse.  The grandiosity, like a floating bloated ego, squeezes its hot air into the room, and all of a sudden it's crowded.   Look how easily one simple thought can occupy a mind.  Worrying is like treading water; for all your effort, you get nowhere.  And when the threats have faded, it is all you can do to stay afloat and not sink from sheer exhaustion.  So take deep breaths.  Deflate that empty presence with action.  Reach out.  Set your goal as the horizon and do not stop until you reach it.

It comes and goes.

A barometric prison cell storms on the horizon, its dark mood dripping.  It beckons an invitation into the depths of its cool embrace as a hazy mind, murky from a poor decision happily greets the weather.  Isolation is an easier companion when there's no alternative.  Still, the sun is the best way to clear the fog, however, the mind must purge itself; focus is a practiced discipline.

First choice.

Crying out as if the ache could summon slumber.  Crashing against the blunt edge of reality, that cornerstone of perception, I bounce between two worlds.  Dancing on the line, straddling competing feelings, unsure of which direction to go.  One side makes a compelling argument that the body needs time to heal.  But the other knows that slippery trap, and makes it's own bid for clarity.

Negatives produce Positives.

Sparkles fade like fireworks in the darkness.  The residue of image burning still in the memory of my vision.  The abruptness of explosion, that intense feeling of righteous accomplishment.  The cup must be refilled as it is just a vessel and not the source.  Positivity swirls through gravity like a siphon, and in a life of least resistance, it's all about location.  Cast off the anchors, and be free to float with the current of inevitability.  Remember that one may have free choice, but it is merely an illusion.  When swimming in a river, eddies and currents may exist in differentiations, but all water flows down hill.  We all terminate along the way.  Choice resides in what we do to get there.

I like when Monday's come on Tuesday.

Filled with the feeling of accomplishment, the chalice full of bacchanalian desire.  To dream, to laugh, to experience all the joys of life.  Perhaps the coming of spring is at the root of it.  Shaking off winter's slumber from my shedding coat, the sun is up earlier each day.  Smile to greet that god of warmth, that which gives us all what we need to live as we spin throughout the frozen expanse of space.  Our existence is a perfect storm, be it constructed or happenstance, we are here, and some of us are aware enough to appreciate how delicate it truly is.  So with that I will smile more and stress less.  The minutiae of the daily grind is meaningless in the grand scheme of things.  No one will care, let alone remember if i did something exactly correct, What they will remember was how I made them feel.  As much as we want to think we're rational, "intelligent" beings, our intelligence is still so primitive.  Emotion is the reigning champion within us all.  We bow to its demands one way or another, so i will focus on feeding it positivity.  It will grow fast and strong and spread to those around me.

more like a diary today.

Each passing day draws closer to the finish, and i look at the progress I have made.  I guess it's never as good as I want it to be, but I have no one to blame but myself for being behind.  But progress is progress, and what I've done is good.  I only need to make the most of today to ensure that I do not fall further behind.  There is no more room for error, and I suppose I like that.  For whatever reason I like the constraint.  It makes me feel focused to know that any deviation will result in failure, and failure just isn't an option.  The only way out is through, so into the pressure cooker that procrastination has constructed for me.  It's time to work.

wake, breathe, be.

A crow cries out, shattering the stillness of the morning into pieces of an echo.  And while the smaller birds follow suit, their chirps are more like mist than rain.  The weekend begins tonight, accompanied by a pregnant moon.  The potentiality of the coming days and what can be accomplished within those hours will be the testimony of my ability to follow through.

out look.

Stranded on this lake, a hue persuades me to stop and reflect.  And in the mirror of the water's surface I'm able to see myself from a slightly different angle.  Of the many realizations made, the most poignant is this: the majority of things matter far far less than I think they do.  As that thought settles in my mind like a layer of silt, I look around and smile.  I may be alone in this, but at least I have myself.

Missed.

Fog, a creeping moss of moisture grows outside my window.  The clouds hang low, bellies full of crying, as they make their way across the landscape drip by drip.  There's something about this weather that makes me want to hide.  But an alarm calls me out and I'm forced to abandon my lethargic post, just as the rain begins to pour.

Prolonging suffocation.

The reality of an infinite time blows coldly through a cracked window.  It travels with the ease of knowing, deceptively thin and fleet of foot.  Enshrouded within a vast expanse like a cocoon in an abyss, infinity seems the stronger jailer, for even after metamorphosing we remain bound within its walls.  Life is good for the butterfly in the jar, so long as the lid has enough holes.  You never see it attempting to escape, only trying to fly farther away.  Luckily that breeze blows on forever, bringing the opiate of fresh air.

fear the worst

Weakened by the weight change, too much too fast, and into the suffering, that fiery world of frustration.  Perhaps the gun's been jumped, but all signs point towards the consequences of decay.  A smiling irony chiming in to ruin goals.  The only hope remaining lies in the understanding that it's for the best, whatever that means.  Burn until the great reveal.  Watch the future unfold and be happy it isn't worse.

Siren's Call.

Cloudy mind on a sunny morning, the hangover of emotions still resonates within me in a dour and regretful ache.  Patience is a powerful, yet painful defense, and lying in this uncomfortable bed of worry, I abuse myself with the flagellations of self-doubt.  Confidence is far less easy to operate when your eyes are closed.  Sleep, the only viable escape, beckons like a former lover, and a sadness wraps around me as I give in to her desire.

up'an'at'em

Wormy and unforgiving is the sloth within.  So enticing are the urges, "sleep and rest my child."  The distracted mind suffers and grows weaker through worry.  It will all get done, but there comes a time when planning for perfetion must cease and one must put ideas into practice.  It's dark in here, and cold enough to hug close a blanket of procrastination to ward off guilt.  Curling up in temporary defeat under a false sense of gain.  Progress is only progress when you move forward.  Lateral acceleration won't get you there.

breath(e)less.

Metal lungs draw heavy breath, filling with the labor of hot air.  A levee holding back a rushing sigh, as ironclad balloons strain with the rise and fall of osmotic pressure.  It's a heavy weight, but a burden one gets used to.  Shortness of breath brings out the shallow nature of proposed intention.  To eliminate that constriction is to draw in the air of new experience.

Spring on, my mind.

Two sides to everything.  The forces of light and dark swirl in a cloudy vortex; an accumulating nimbus,  condensed inside, the droplets of emotion cling to the misty walls but ultimately slip when they become too heavy.  Such is the reality of all those bound by gravity: no matter how high you get, the moment you stop  trying you will fall back to Earth.  Storms, a result of colliding pressure, complete the nutrient cycle.  The life force squeezed from vapor rains down upon the seed-sown ground as liquid inspiration.  Care of cultivation must be observed as creativity feeds all roots, including those of problems.  Weed the garden of the mind and let ideas fruit, but be patient.  Only the ripened can be consumed without the bitter taste of regret.

Broken compass.

A starlight expression wrapped in the conscience of a guilty man.  The folds of time like creases in a worn-out map.  Fraying, yet defined, the imposed latitude and longitue now a defining characteristic.  What new distraction can be found to be the next excuse?  Failure is the easiest thing to justify.

A stutter more pronouced this morning; distracted thoughts of love.  Torturous in my rest, knowing I don't even have time for rejection in my real life, and that's my reason not to try.

Sunken treasure.

Erroneous tales from the shores of the heart-wrenched islands.  An archipelago populated by wayward  beasts of people.  What sort of wreckage washes up onto the sands?  Perhaps the shards of nervousness, or the splinters of insecurity.  But these are the supplies they are afforded.  How then to build a life raft from the discards of a failed life?  All things, inlcuding time can be repurposed.  But I do not have that answer, or I would have sailed long ago.

It was cold this morning.

A phantoms chilly touch, fingernails of the wraith whose claws snatch love from hearts.  Thin and wandering mist that slips through the crevices of the mind like awkward silence.  In the face of such delusions and the oppressive hand of gravity, a strong posture opens up the spine.  A channel through which a counter heat may run.

Vicious viscosity.

Drinking desolation, that bitter, thick and caustic brew.  Pouring through pores and rotting guts like moisture inside wood.  It's a slow and fungal creep, a growth fed by darkness and the heat of incredulity.  If only there were a base to neutralize this acidity of mind.  Though the thoughts of acceptance and joy in the face of overwhelming negativity seem foolish and distant, however ideal.  The ability to smile while the world burns comes from knowing and understanding the spatial relations of the universe.  We are each our cosmic centers, and are afforded with the choice between polarities.  Like attracts like, and good things come from good thoughts. So drink deep from that angry chalice, but let digestion break it down. Then you'll see the beauty in the beast.

What else is there to see?

In a whirlwind dance of celluloid dreams, all perspective is lost, for each image rushes by so fast that their blurs turn into smoke.  And that very haze clouds visions, skews and distorts the slivers of chance which are hard enough to find, let alone find whole.   So we close our eyes, and our minds flicker with imagined scenarios, projecting hopes and idealizations against our eyelids.  We've become perceptions of ourselves, entranced by fabrication, unaware of the triviality pervading this identity.