Molecular Sea

*Today’s word play brought to you by home made affogato-induced palpitations, James McMurtry on loop, during a 15 minute break from productivity

Inside my biological makeup of lucidities
And freeflowing what’s the matter
Amassed chubbiness and cheekiness
Spills of Bene-tinted blush
Some blood I hoped you’d never see bleed
Circulating chapters of conceptual nonsense in digestion
Matters of the heart I’d like to leave be
Stored particles which had been left to me
Along naturally lit spaces that map out
Thread counts of comforters and morning blues
Of arbitrary interim homes to miss
There are currents of caffeine and imbalanced chemicals
That tug and thwart me against my untamed wind
To the many opposites of a tumultuous sea
Like up and down; east and west
Right and wrong; pride and want
All and/or what seems like nothing
Fight or flight to flee
Right brain and leftist sympathies
Intellect sans a segment of my soul pinned to a thread
Convention and Alice-type-too-muchiness
This tropical garden; a distant snowcapped moutain
Outward and inward; to you and more of me
I’ve laid out some glass jars to catch some rainwater
That just might mend me staggering into second place peace

molecularsea

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From behind the typewriter

So much of my dislike and disappointment towards my own previous blog posts are mostly because of the scattered-ness and negativity of it all. It started to seem like an Aidee Ever Downwards spiral, actually. I have my reasons behind each and every post but I’m not proud of it all the time. I wondered if I was just always sad or something in real life. I then realized I only do a majority of my writing on the blog when I’m really really sad. I’ve had a habit for years to only do a whole lot of writing when I’m down in the dumps like an angsty teenager awake past 2am. Although we all hear a lot about how the best artists are always depressed and cuckoo. I have to admit that negative emotions seem like a powerful fuel to make, write, and create, but my lack of creating when I’m happy is out of both fear and carelessness.

I can reason by saying, I don’t write when I’m living out my happiest moments simply because I’m busy living them out. But really, I don’t write about the happier bits of my life because I feel like jotting them down at the end of the day just might jinx em. I have long feared admitting simple joys because that might just spoil all the goodness in it. In fact I just let moments happen to me, let them pass like any normal individual, and look back fondly in silence without realizing they’re really ever gone.

It might have been my task to gruelingly capture the gone-ness in my life. I did this to both hold on and let go. And it might continue to be so, but I would like to add a new task to even more challengingly capture the nowness of my life. For years I’ve dreamed of writing bits of a Murakami-like novel in my head because I seemed to fulfill every formula of his lead characters: sad, regretful, never really getting over anything, and absolutely flawed, usually above 40. I’m not yet above 40 though. I thought I had a fair amount of experiences that would vouch for a gripping novel filled with prose about nature, city life, and a love you’ll never get over. That certainly made up for the crappy experiences themselves.

Sadness had therefore become power. I would collect the broken pieces of everything I’ve ever broken and gotten broken for a rainy day at home. I would type away to make magic out of magic that’s gone by. I can resurrect the gone-ness in front a blank screen. I can turn the goodbyes I lived through into a fictional hello and fiction gives you the power to add a little twist and maybe decide to give everything alternative endings or no endings at all.

But I’ve realized I’m only ever so sad about all that’s ever gone away because they for the time being made me so happy. Otherwise, I typically wouldn’t care. I have only been in so much pain because I have known so much joy too. The only difference on paper or rather on this blog, is that I didn’t try just as hard to capture happiness while it encompassed me.

I promise to tell some happier light-hearted stories too. I’ve given it some thought and figured since I’ve gone through worse, it might not be such a bad thing to write about little joys too. It’s just as tough to be truthful about the good and the bad equally. But what’s the truth if it’s not a lot of it or all of it at least? I will strive to create from a balance of my many truths.

typewriter

sprouting from behind the typewriter

Cold showers

Summer began
with the heat of ending conversations,
from the fiction of your push and my pull,
and the way some of those words burnt me,
and it hurt.

Summer began
with lasting cold shoulders,
the only kind of cold that ever bothered me,
and how I sit under each cold shower,
waiting for artificial rainwater
to take me away.

tub

was gonna use a real photo I had but it’s in my laptop

[2:06]

Reading less than 140 word-poems on Twitter by people who are just as silent and loud about their thoughts and feelings. Anonymously honest. I feel a little less alone as people string up the words I will never find and I am subtweeting in my mind. 

Mutual respect

Texting an old friend whose problems I don’t know of, just as he doesn’t know any of mine. Details are vaguely discussed, dropping a few rants and feelings here and there. It’s enough that we know it’s difficult to talk about but always think of. It’s something to sort of hide. We both need a time machine. At least we both feel just as hopeless and pathetic. And we neither badger each other to actually talk about it nor force each other to feel better about the future. Because we know, only people like us know, that nothing changes it and nothing truly helps. This is the kind of silence shared and respected by the unmoved.

Hit me up if you wanna vaguely express the struggle of a loss you can’t get past. I promise this won’t be yet another distraction. I promise you won’t even feel better. I do promise however that I won’t judge you for feeling the way you really do.

Reality o’clock

I go to bed with the thought in my mind, giving me an unfitting sense of comfort and hope. I dream the unlikely, the impossible, mistakenly thinking it’s all real. I wake up to find that it’s not. No calls, wrong messages, daunting reality. I wake up to find that everyday it’s gone. 

XXII: Miserable & Magical

*Taylor was right it IS miserable & magical oh yeaaah… 

Birthdays are a strange thing. An ordinary day in the calendar is marked by people you haven’t heard from in ages that go out of their way to type one sentence to remind you, you’re a little special for just for a day or they just remember you a little more than usual. And greater loved ones hug you and attempt to spoil you without a cake because they know you don’t like (most) cake anyway. I like it when people know me well enough not to give me cake. It’s different this year though. It’s different every year.

As I turn a year older, the Universe gifts me with a sadness I can’t shake off. It’s with me even as I tie my growing short hair into a pony tail after making an effort to put on some blush and dress up to look my age. It’s with me as I stared into my notes about the first philosophers then stared at my ceiling.

The Universe has gifted me with a certain sadness. I don’t mean this with sarcasm or bitterness but it’s a bittersweet becoming. I am learning the most valuable lesson of finiteness and space more and more. Things can change so much within a (leap) year, and while some things stay the same, there are also some spaces, even if I’ve tried to fill up with others, that will never be the same. Some spaces will remain empty. I will however never say that such spaces are all just lessons to me now. I am still learning not to take those dear to me for granted. While some spaces are room for the many comings and goings, others have made room and this cannot change. What has been dear to me will stay like that to me. Just to me.

Maybe this is why man has since the beginning of time been so fascinated with learning about the outside world. Where everything looks like a sprinkle of dust, inconceivable and unreachable. It’s all larger than us and time, so far away. As similar systems of galaxies are also working within us, outer space must have been something we’ve all known one way or another. It’s quite familiar perhaps and certainly beautiful. I hope to know it all again within my time. I am filled with so much of space.