Whales.

Fuck.

These aren't revelations, they are ruminations.  Abominations.

Again, and again,
and again.

Ask her once,
Ask her twice.

Again, and again,
and again.

Stuck.

Eventually, she'll catch up.

To us?


We'll call to her
Through the smog

Cigarettes, here
and there
and there

.Not making sense.
But, alas,
here she is.

Somewhere, here, and she's dead.

She'll come alive through the paint.

In a stroke.

But living isn't really living anymore, is it?

So, where is she?



Things were grand.  A roller coaster of emotions, she was, but she was happy.  She didn't know it.  But she was.

She had hope, back then.  I don't know where it is now.  She remembers sitting in class, nervous.  Waiting for a call that she didn't understand.  The truth was, she did understand.  But she didn't want to believe it.  So, telling herself that she didn't really know what it meant was a way for her to deny what was really going on.

The fluorescent lights outside of the classroom shed plain, pallid light in the hallway.  She snuck out there to listen to her father, his voice steady, confident.  Lies?  Or did he believe himself?  Regardless, she believed his words.  They felt safe.  They felt okay.  Her heart felt sad, but she had that hope.  Whatever the fuck that was.

"The operation went fine."

Fucking tell me what this means, I tell her.  But she's in the past, and I'm in the present.  So how the fuck will she hear me?  It doesn't matter anymore.  We're here.  She's there.  The future is dark.  Or, maybe, it is bright.

Let's practice dialectically.

I can't.  Neither can she.  She worries too much.  She was wondering if her mother would see her sister graduate.  She saw mine.  Or was that the disease?  No, no; it was her.  She saw it.


Sips, sips.  Let the liquid flow.

You know who you are, you do.  You're afraid, and I know it.  I feel it.  You're stuck.  You're so very stuck, like a small, scared animal stuck in tar.  Except time stops for you.  The world around you keeps going.  You never age.  Your body does.  People think you mature.  You do things adults do.  But, inside, you're still the same.  You're still that small, desperate child.  Well, fuck.  What do you do?  Don't be so damn afraid, child.  Even children in Neverland grow and learn.  You'll get out of this.

Let's practice.  Come alive through the paint.  This is your picture.  It's not always big.  But it's here.

Paint, bitch.  Paint.

Realizing your truths

All these dark places
We go

We're not drowning
But the liquids do douse our feathers
A lighting of a match
And the party starts
Down, down we go

We feel safe with labels.

It's a new year.  I suppose I am a little late on this.

So, we're not going to talk about resolutions.

I haven't written a bloody thing in what seems like ages.  My mind is mush, yet sparked with all sorts of raging daggers and shards of glass and things that glimmer (but not craft herpes - what you may know as "glitter".).  Artist's block?  Writer's block?  What shall we call it?  After all, we are human, and humans seem to need some sort of categorization and familiarity to function and care.  Ah, well, let's not name this, and not see what it makes you feel.

I had some dreams lately, but I cannot recall them well.  I miss having crazy dreams.  Remembering them, that is.

Let's talk about anger.

Rage.

That tickle inside you that makes you twitch and shake, feel the urge to explode your every negative emotion upon anything within a Mt St Helen's radius around you.  The fire burning in your eyes as you feel them shoot lasers into those people or things that have angered you.

He's chewing his food.  Everyone needs to chew food.  Okay, maybe not snakes.  But humans.  We need to do it.  But, gosh, does he have to do it so loudly?  Am I going crazy?  Why is this so loud to me?  WHY MUST YOU DO THIS TO ME?  Can I say something?  Should I say something?  Is that rude?  Why am I thinking so much on this?  Does everyone do this?  It didn't bother me yesterday.  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAKE IT STOP.

I don't know where I'm going with this.  I don't even know where I am going.  Well, then.  End post.