When the quarters are the mids, and the mids crave the end.

You know that sound a teapot makes when it's pushing steam out at full force?

That is the noise that I am making inside, viewing myself as someone that is sitting on the couch, pulling hair from the head, that awful screeching at maximum blast.  It's like being a teenager, the angst and anger spewing this way and that, so pent up, so alarming, so...ARGH!

I hate this life.  I hate it.  I hate it.  Woe is me, woe is me.  My life is at a standstill, I am going nowhere, this is nothing, he is ...  They are...  The screeching continues, piercing my own ear canals.  I imagine the blood trickling out of them, staining my shirt and the couch.  NOWHERE.  STUCK.

Woe, woe, woe, dear child.  Where is the comfort, where is the feeling that things will be okay, the assurance of a mother's touch, her hug, her guiding words...

Woe, woe, poor child, poor baby.  Screech, screech.  The downward spiral is about to take hold, about to pull me under, when I realize:

I am an adult.

Damn it.  Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT.

And where do we go from there?  The child adult sits on the couch, eyes absorbing the tears that were going to spill, unclenching the fists of rage, seemingly relaxing.  Ah, relaxing...adults don't do that.  The tension has turned to something else: it has turned to some sort of sadness, embarrassment, ignominy.

Body slumped, deadness taking over.  I am an adult.

And, with that, there goes my hope.  My world.  My sense of being.

This...is ...?

The Swing

Jump right in.

Where has this all come from?

I can't.

Never say you can't.

I know I can.  But I can't.

I...

So many thoughts.


Just get back.


It's so difficult.



It's almost existentialist, but the others would just call it "crazy".
The way thoughts float about,
Perplexing your own mind,
Fucking with your every emotion,
Telling you things,
Convincing you.
Fucking crazy, fucking crazy.
Is there really an answer?
Fuck.


I'm sorry, so sorry.

There's nothing to be sorry about.

There's everything.  I know you're right, but-


They just don't end, do they?
How far will it go?
Where will it lead?
Will you even understand this tomorrow?
Remember?
What?
I'm confused.  Yet it makes sense.  Yes, it makes sense.

I'm sad.  You're not making sense.
Sometimes, you do; sometimes, you don't.

What the Hell is real?  Real?  What is Real?
Damn, here goes the existentialism again.

We've traveled so far.

I know.

Shit, I'm sorry again.

No, wait, but it helped.

Fuck.

This was one Hell of a trip.  Again.

Repeat.


Repeat.


Fuck, when will it end?

Thumbtack

I really love quiet mornings.  There's something about the serene beauty of it all.

The sun rises and shines.  Every living thing seems to greet each other.  I feel as though the flowers wake up and smile at each other, warm hellos passed through their little smiles.

I don't really have much to write on this topic.  My mind is vivid with pictorials and such, but I'd rather swim in my own imagination and let you let yours wander, too.  Wake up in the morning and see what I'm talking about.  Do not speak with others, but quietly walk around (with your mug of coffee or tea, if you wish) outside and notice things.  It's quite beautiful.  Let yourself sink into the earth and feel.  Just feel.  Imagine.

I hope you have a wonderful morning.