taking a pleasure trip through sore memories.

I hope that the realest thing I've felt isn't in the past,
Written about 2 weeks ago.
------------
In the red cubicle: black snakes in my ears
I smoked wistful breaths
Hearing the smell of sentiments
Worn, a million times before

Neither pain, not regret
Not the burden want
of those wanton hours; sands of a distant shore
.
And so the four would shift
Ups and downs like we once did
The purpled sky and the yellowed moon
painted with those flecks of bats

I'm older now, dear
Far as far and far from here,
Do I still wish you were near?

Gotta Love Late Night Revelations

    4:03 am. I feel a lot older now, look older than I remember myself being. One of those moments where the mother looks into the eyes of her child and notices how much he has grown, except this was a moment spent in solitude.

     There was something different in the reflection, very very far from wrinkles he stood, but there was still a line present in the glass. Hahaha, and some skewed and needless relation of pseudo-poetic metaphors. It's an off night for that kind of shit. I'll rest and have better thoughts and better words to capture them, but for now there are things I want to say. A moment of realisation I'd like to mark, even if it's with something as little as a few paragraphs posted onto a seldom read blog.

     197 pageviews the stats say, most of them most likely glances, maybe some of them seeing a glint of potential, but in the end it's a tiny audience for a seldom-seen one man show. Why write this now? Why not go to bed and be that tidbit more refreshed in the morning? This small cluster of words bears no significance now, but every sliver of a sliver of a second "now" passes and it's a new moment. And eventually, things will align, I will run into place, and these words in hindsight will matter much. It will be surreal when I did this back up. When we share and look to this moment that I am stating we would look to in this very sentence.

   The departure from childhood is dawning. Youth is in my bones and will never fade, but the life and mind of the child is dissappearing I now realise. This slow wean, this shift, this change, this "decline" as I often refer to it, seems much akin to the laboured, gradual peeling of a band-aid. The protective layer enshrining my inner being, my inner child, is stripping itself away. Soon, or perhaps even now, he is wide open.

     But the cut shall scar. I'm calling it now. It shall scar, harden before any can catch what lies inside. And when I make it to the other side, I know I'll be a different beast. But I'm calling it now; I will be the same person.

    And now my forehead is heavy, my eyes are tired, there's that dull ache in the chest at the end of a night too long, a slightly strained feeling in my left forearm. The words likely make little sense, and likely offer no comparison to what you felt and realised, what you are hoping you won't forget in the morning. But this was never meant to be flash. Never meant to be a grand sign. Just a small mark, a little etching in the park bench from which you shall soon depart.
   

Untitled i

Mirror shot,
Wide hipped, narrow legged, collars downturned
downcast, burgeoning spleen
downcast snarl, standback eyes

fucking nothing to be everything
utter bullshit.
prison.
bullshit