My Memorandums.

Welcome Home.
21/12/2008, 11:49 pm
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But what’s the point if you don’t have a pretty face?  You changed your story around for me, and here I stand, ahead of your two green feet, yellow shoelaces, purple t-shirt, and cannot explain a word to you.  I will not.  It is my will, not my wall.  Away from you I fall as I try to stand again, on my own two toes, as they twinkle beneath the stars which will never cease to glow, luckily for the unstable minds of the world which lean on an unstable concrete ground, threatening and ready to give in at any time.  And we all walk around believing we know it all, when not a speck of truth any of us are able to tell, because those who talk know not how to hear or listen, and those who hear or listen know not how to talk.  So, the world turns around because it does not know how else to burn or live.  Those who inhabit its once sacred grounds have turned it into a heap of dust and 1 metre tree stumps, without any small four-petaled red flowers growing anymore.  And as my eyelids burn waiting for me to finally give in and cover my iris from the golden hairs on my chest, I yearn for a world which I know not of, which can never exist, in which I turn right and you turn left and we come down the same path but don’t scream or even breathe a bitter breath.  The dirty plates need to be taken into the sink, and the sugar bag needs to be closed up before phone calls are made to life partners, same sex or opposite, noticing them of the sleeping hours of each person as well as the additional free gossip on the side, of which no man I have ever known has been interested in.  And women talk and talk and talk and talk.  And when an important word or sentence comes out of the mouth of anybody I know or can see or hear please let me know.  Because the only truth I ever came across, I sensed.

Leave me alone, she said.

Hurry up, and come home, he said.

My real home is any land on which I am alone, she said.

He extracted a confused expression, shrugged his shoulders and turned his ankles to the four walled brick house he unfortunately and foolishly called home.

I love you, she said.

His back was already turned. He is but a foolish toad who cannot speak a word of the wordless language.

She left him with an I love you, and the sight of his back made her hurt more than the stinging tears she knew were on their way.


Whisper, don’t talk.
21/12/2008, 12:30 am
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Knowing you should not act out in any way which will cause harm to your being does not stop the process.  Backspace.  Backspace.  Backspace.   I’ve told people enough about me, given away enough, written long enough for everybody to read and then relate to.  The veins on my hands and the wrinkles at the middle of my fingers are only what I see now, aside from the varying nature of light and shade.  I feel tears which have slid from the top of my throat to the bottom; swallowed tears.  A chest which has on it too much pressure, and a mouth which does not want to open to breathe comfortably.  Reminded of Princess Diana who had everything and wanted to kill herself, I part my lips to take a deep breath.  A crying woman printed by my feet on a foggy window became my best friend, until she faded.  The first woman that was able to bring the tears out from my eyes was this foggy woman.  A tear dropped only when she disappeared.  In times of sadness, noise is unwanted and heavily unappreciated.  In times of sadness, quiet and stillness are very much needed.  Whisper, don’t talk.

Only the Night.
18/12/2008, 12:33 pm
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When will be the last of times Gregory will walk a straight line without a bare slant of ungrateful feet.  The blissful air of night-times will never return or visit his sensitive nose after his inept fingertips choose to sign the only light sheet of snow-white paper which naturally promise to spend their mortal life looking after the wellness of his heart after every other bleeding, burned heart has become tired of the pain concomitant and inseparable from the feelings brought on by monotonously continuous thoughts of love.  Some decisions only come to breathe with the absence of the maker, and the presence of the past.

One unforgettable and melancholic night, as Gregory’s ungrateful feet dribble against the dried up marks of water left on the standing side of sidewalks, his droopy brown eyes are taken by surprise at the accidental glance of the ruthless though loving ocean, the only spectacle which has ever let him feel at home, peacefully.  The loud absence of noise cannot nearly overpower the belligerently calm sense of air which dances through the lightness of the wind as waves crash down on the shore.  Drawn to its eternal power, Gregory is lead to a home long forgotten, yeat dearly missed.

12/12/2008, 2:13 pm
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Alfred Lord Tennyson first said ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’.

What does this mean? How can one live a comparatively banal life, which undoubtedly would seem lacking, if not empty, after the loss of an emotion which tightly kept together every string of a heart stronger than ever before?   Every day would seem so meaningless, noticeably and painfully void of meaning.  It must be the Hercules’ of our world which would not fall, or stay in an abyss of despair.  Maybe time is responsible for releasing us from our own made prisons.  Though, I believe that more probably we are responsible, each individual.  With this thought and belief, I do nothing but sit in a body with an aching heart.

I hope everybody finds and obtains peace in their souls and their spirits.

The Incessant and Destructive Workings of the Mind.
11/12/2008, 12:48 pm
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I live in a state of silent suffering, though a state which is not constant, which comes and goes as I want it to.  After a long time without peace, for any time without peace is too long, I have felt its presence.  Yet, like I wrote, it is a state which does not stay with me.  The confrontation of one’s very own thoughts out of one’s own will has never been easy, as said by those who are now long gone and have left behind their legacies through art, change, sympathy.  A human being is filled with contradictions.  I have no doubt in my mind that the majority of those who preach are forced to look their own hypocritical thoughts in the eye from time to time.  A book I am currently reading states that this is because one is not living in the moment, rather, is allowing their mind to use and control their being.

I read on somebody’s post that Khalil Gibran wrote ‘You speak because you are not at ease with your thoughts’.  It is for this very reason that I am writing.  After spending too much time looking for that quote online (unable to find it), I do not really know where else to go.  I hope for peace, and will try to embody it.  To take it a moment by a moment, that is all I know I can do.

Just to add.  The reason I have titled my post as ‘The Incessant and Destructive Workings of the Mind’ is a result of a realisation I have thankfully discovered very recently.  If you listen to your mind, to your thoughts, silently and truly listen, you will find the majority of its behaviour to be destructive to your spirit, to your self.  Also, we live in a time where everybody uses their mind so much so that their minds have begun using them.  It is not an easy habit to break free of, though if there were to be even a slight chance for inner peace, it is crucial for the self to partake in the gauntlet.  Once power has reached into the bones of a person or the tangled lines of a mind, I assure you, this power is a force that every dead fiber will try to hold on to.

Much love to everyone.


Let your emotions Be.
08/12/2008, 7:28 am
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Let them flow from inside of you.

Let every speck pop from your skin, fizzle from your tongue

and slide out of your tomato coloured lips.

Let them travel to another’s world, and be free,

let go.

Start over.

I don’t know exactly where I’m headed.  Every day, every mood swing, every impression, every goddamn influence.  Who to be?  A question that continues to sit at my shoulder and incessantly bite my neck in small snippets.  What to write?  But, in order to have an answer to that question, I need to know who I am, who I want to be.  I honestly don’t feel like doing much at the moment, just letting the wind carry me in whatever direction it wishes.  I suppose that is a philosophy in itself; to not do much, to let life be, to let yourself be taken. Sure, there is always a point in time where you stop and want to take control, rather, feel like you should take control, and, once again, fool yourself in believing you actually have so much control.  Eventually though, I myself return to this state, a state in which I don’t do much, completely contradictory of all my childhood dreams.  To be honest, as of late I simply feel like listening to people, that is all.  If you have something to say, a story to share, a humerous moment, an interesting quote/excerpt/novel/poem/prose, a love story, a broken heart, a definition of any word, If you’ve dyed your hair an unusual colour, or experienced an erotic moment, let me know.  I’d love to hear about it.

Red Winged Dragons.
06/12/2008, 7:42 pm
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I think we’re all much more lonely than we know, than we’d like to think.  In believing this, I still don’t feel any less lonely.  When I’m at my best, I feel alone.  When I feel tired, my loneliness resurfaces.  Music fills the space.

My mind wonders to half boys/half dragons with wings that fly only from a cave to the sky.  That is only their destination, their path.  My mind drifts to red coloured beetles on the skins of angels up above, angels oblivious to the beauty on their very own skin whilst they try to show everybody else the way, the light, while they try to open up the world for everybody else.  I think of the beating of drums in the dirt-covered hands of a small smiling girl in the midst of poverty and the innocent eyes which look up at a dirty man whose nails have not been cleaned since his mother passed at the fragile age of twenty-three, he only four, almost five.  And the tears that have shed from every lonely heart who made it to the stage, in the spotlight, ahead of thousands of flashing cameras are right in front of my eyes.  Inescapable.  I can’t run away, forget them.  I feel the warmth of each drop, the flood which sits cosily, though, at the same time, uncomfortably, anxious to go somewhere, to do something, anything but remain in its current position: stagnant.  The smile of Marilyn photographed, and now on the walls of a hundred million teenage girls who love her curvaceous, voluptuous, sexy body yet continue to desire only a body without fat for themselves on a daily, if not hourly basis.  This smile, this smile cannot overshadow the yearning of her eyes, calling out for somebody to care, to see her.  And I see Sedgwick, a woman portrayed as glamorous.  These people, they were all lonely.  It couldn’t matter.  The fact is inevitable.  Loneliness is in all of us.  Music fills the space.  Tears release the tension.  Yet, nothing can make it ever go away.  It’s a part of who we are.  Lonely.  Alone.  Many unwilling to let go of their strong, passionate desire to be loved, to be loved in every way possible, to be cared for, to matter to another individual, to another breathing being.  It’s not something I’m trying to change.  It’s just something I want to say.  And the words which are released from your mouth make your heart ache, because you realise that even sound is too unbearable to take, you realise that sound cannot help.

A secret from me to you.  Even if you receive that undying love, loneliness will not leave you.