My Memorandums.

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.