The Swing

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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?

Nothing out of something

What we do to ourselves

The pain we cause

The sense that we do not make

The life that you live

I am not inspired, just hurting.

Cyclomania

Sometimes, it is difficult to remember what one was thinking just a few moments ago.

Sometimes, this happens often.

There is difficulty present.

Trappings in a body, but not really trapped.  Floating, wandering, brooding, existing.

Insanity?  Unstable?



I seriously cannot remember what I wanted to write.  I do not remember what I was thinking.  I do not understand.  I do not know what is going on.

Blinking

Don't blink.

You don't want to miss anything.

"Go with the flow."

"Roll with the punches."

"Follow passion, but be careful."

The griddle isn't hot enough

Her hands are shaking, but this is nothing.  She has become accustomed to the feeling; she does not notice it.

Youth fades in the eyes.  Hers hold a tainted innocence that's been worn away by what others may consider "growing up too quickly".

Walking along the street, she stares out in front of her, unaware.  In her mind, she is breezing by the shops and cars like a milkweed puff in the wind.  The dog that barks from across the street is nothing but muffled sound.  She is in a muted television.

Autumn air is crisp.  It bites the cheeks pink and raises collars to keep the neck warm.

Those who know nothing of her smile as she walks past, seeing nothing more than a pretty girl in stride down the street.  Those who have courted her see a skeleton, a body, that carries beauty and pain as if it were a trifling matter.  A mess of sorts, they pity her; they want to save her.



A sea rocks the small boat at sea.  Waves splash and tease, caressing and thrashing, licking and bruising.  Uncertainty in life, mixings like pancake batter.

Connecting the dots

My knuckles aren't as bruised as her heart.  I rub them, feeling the freshly ripped skin burn as the top layer comes off under the pressure of my thumb.

I was raised well, in a "good" family.  God taught me what was right and wrong, my father taught me how to be a man, and my mother taught me how to treat a lady with proper respect.  Yet, here I am.  The way fate has twisted its crooked fingers around me is beyond my comprehension.

I don't know how to walk away without feeling bad.  But I know how to recover well and find my next victim.

Brent once told me that women are like fish.

"Wet, slippery little bitches, man.  But there are so many, and we can take whatever we want and toss 'em back."  He took a drag on his cigarette, eyes closed, tilting his head back as the nicotine rushed through his veins.  He passed me the cigarette and I took a puff.

"Yeah, s'pose so."

"And you got so many, man, that it doesn't matter what you do with them.  Another one will pop up, pussy wet, ready to suck your dick, and-"

"Yeah, yeah, man.  I get it."  Sometimes I hated when Brent was so crude.

I suppose that's just it, then.  I'm a hunter, and I must be merciless with my prey.  I do what I want, I make them believe I'm worth keeping around...and then it's over.

I can't blame anyone but myself.  Sure, Christina went and fucked someone else when we were sixteen and we were in love.  Marissa only made out with me when she was drunk and didn't tell me she had a boyfriend.  Justine was a mess, a total mess...  But, no.  I still, somehow, broke them all.  And, though I felt bad at the time, I no longer feel remorse.  They're fish.  They're pawns.  They're my entertainment, my toys, my play things.

So, cheers, my ladies.  I'll drink to you.

This existence is but a fact and nothing more

The elation fades when realization makes its appearance, melting away what once existed, despite its adulterated existence.

She'll turn to the pages, hoping for something that could have been said.  But there is not comfort between the lines.  The black and white only makes gray.

Washing up like a sea tide, rinsing and leaving foamy residue.

She cannot turn away.

She wishes to run away.