Kilig

Note 2635
It was always the storms within you. Even when it was quiet. Cold water, hot water, shaken, stirred, wish I could have done more or fixed more or really came along a year later.

Note 2552
Maybe it’s just May, the stupid hot weather, the ringing whirl of a window unit. Why does that just permeate a scenario every time. Or hot blowing air across your face. Always stupid hot. Probably why I hate the heat.

Note 2579
Leaving backing up hearing gravel under the tires, that sound then layered comfort, falsely maybe however we translate it. It bothers me to walk away not feeling like anything was real. Spell your own story, the script under the covers was so much different, or always will be to me. But we again, write our own endings with the least amount of attrition. I breathe better on some days, but some days not.

Note 2580
I miss a lot. A lot of the time.

 

 

When I sleep I know no fear, no trouble, no bliss.

“Must I go on living here then, among the objects we both had touched, in the air she had breathed? In the name of what? In the hope of her return? I hoped for nothing. And yet I lived in expectation. Since she had gone, that was all that remained. I did not know what achievements, what mockery, even what tortures still awaited me. I knew nothing, and I persisted in the faith that the time of cruel miracles was not past.”
Stanisław Lem, Solaris 1961

Failing now.

saw all the boxes

left at my door

hearing your footsteps

like I’m not at home

where did my winter go

it left me alone

where did my winter go

she got up and run

i can’t stop watching

watching my door

i cant stop thinking

think i heard knocking

well i’m wrong

key on the kitchen sink

you cried in our room

i walked out that door that day

i was shielded from you

i can’t stop thinking

should i go or i run

if i had come back that day

my winter’d have sun

Go figure.

As we walked away.

Family is smiling hard. It’s getting lost and losing your breath. It’s being reminded the moments are spilling off of every fucking day. Family is a place in your heart, not a piece of paper to make you feel right in your head.

Family is the feeling of warm fingertips across your back. Family is not being policed at every given moment because you are forced into being controlled beyond your actions. Family is the farthest place, from being locked in a home on the street corner of guilt, when life is written different for you and me.

Family is the postcard that says I love you when the world is spinning, with no answers or end in sight.

Anything less, is just. Less.

Listen to the walls at 3am, when things are so loud in your head you begin to dissolve on the inside. Listen to the air next to you as they lay there and refuse to acknowledge you – for everything you are.

Family is when someone’s eyes, are your home.

Good luck with all that. Family and such.

All sewn up.

These last few days have literally sewn me to the floor. Maybe it’s the season, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the fear of things of big change heading my way. Depressive behavior strangles every bit of momentum out of everything I normally enjoy. You may find bits and pieces like stones in a fire but shit fuck when it rages, silently suffocating –  it wreaks havoc on the face of just trying to make it through the god damn day. I can see and feel it blackening things all around me, as I try to stay spun up so that I may be whisked away to no longer have to think, but rather just go into any kind of entropy – into the eye of any storm. And I see it withering people that I’m close to, and I just have to stare through from a distant piece of dirty glass and paint some kind of wirey smile on my face. It’s a million miles and going, it’s every speck of the shit sandwiches that I’ve had to eat. It’s looking around the corner to maybe collide into a broken down spiral of a person that actually has true warmth. But no, life hurls you venom. It’s fooling, and contorting in some vast magic scheme to make us think we are to ‘learn something’. I can plant a pile of seeds of experience and let it broadcast across your chest exactly the type of reality that is just getting up everyday. It really doesn’t matter, sometimes in decades of faces you would understand to be different – are actually just the same book, but with the new cover art. And that just fucking guts me from the inside out. The throttling, bottle neck behavior – I just can’t be around. If I was to ‘learn’ anything it’s that. It’s that ruining that wholeheartedly makes me sad. We are not JUST cut from different stone, we are often merely just CUT.

These dips in the week can go fuck themselves. I’m tired of the constricting, gasps and sight clinching of everything. Fix shit, break shit, run at shit – lets entertain so that I can set aflame the strings flying out of your mouth. 

“When we love someone, who do we love? That person, or our idea of that person? Some years before virtual reality became a byword, Tarkovsky was exploring its implications. Although other persons no doubt exist in independent physical space, our entire relationship with them exists in our minds. When we touch them, it is not the touch we experience, but our consciousness of the touch.” – R. Ebert, Solaris 1972