Dancing like Stars

An actual match. Not forced. Not altered. A match. Pure. Innocent. Unyielding.

Here we are dancing like stars, creating shapes like planets and opportunities like meteors. We are creators. Artists. Hopefuls.

The days pass and we are aligned in that it feels like years. Decades. Memories. Yesterday was a year ago. Yet only the hours remind us. We are happy. We are young.

Moments tell us we have an eternity left. These year-days. I have no more reasons to count.

I’ve found my stationary euphoria. Marked it. Captured it. Watching it grow, eyes wide and heart full.

Advertisements

Deep-seated

There are aspects to the human condition I find cycling.

We go year periods with little to no change. From there a big life moment happens. We book mark it, tab it, photograph it. From there we live with that new addition. In the same pattern since birth our life cycles, yet again. This time however, with the new addition.

Almost like a growth, you get used to this thing being in your life, surrounding you. Then another life moment happens and the thing is gone. More quietly your life finds a cycle again. Living without this thing. All in all, one day you realize that it’s like it was never really there. Cycling.

If we can always get back to where we came from, get back to our patterns, then what is the point?

I think the fear of losing something special is hiding in my midst.

Morning coffee and complaints.

I’m not a book to be read and devoured. Page turner. Chaptered. Preface. Prologue.

If I was I’d be paper back. You can see the use easily. Wear and tear.

Wouldn’t that be easier for you? That way what you interpret me to be I would then be. Making me amount to some desirous interlude. Something you escape from the reality into. I’m fictional.

If a book could somehow glare at the reader that would be happening momentarily.

Dear reader, fuck you and your insurmountable stereotypes. It is fun to imagine the world as simple as you make it. Hearts and flowers. Successes and triumphs.

Your gross naivety drives me to insanity. Sickness. Food poisoning.

What you produce in your thought bubbles is romantic and ridiculous. Temporary and incorrect. You misinterpret the information set in front of you.

It would be so nice to live in your world. A world where what you want things to mean, they mean. Truly, “the world is what you make of it.” Hearts and flowers.

Rose-colored glasses my ass; you live in a comatose state. I want to smoke what you’re smoking, oh reader. Please. For it doesn’t matter what the words say. Pages blank, you read what you want.

Because apparently, you’re imagination is greater.

Illegally Distractible

I’m addicted to something I cannot even feel.

Fifty Shades of Grey

It’s having its effects. Affects. I’m affectedly effected.

I’m transcending to a place where putting the book down is a punishment. Truly, at the base of the eroticism is a romantic wanderlust. I’m there. Seeing the surface and the unwavering under layers.

Soon it will be book 2.

To say I’m currently single would be a lie. To say my expectations have swelled is an understatement.

Late Night Palm Reading

There’s a speck on my eye. I can only see it when I look away. Away from it. Away from direct light.

I know it’s there. Hindering. Distracting. I know it’s there. Reminding me, small things matter. Small things are large things. Small things.

The night sky, I see it. Only when I look away. The galaxies. The planets. The distanced anomalies to my own one-in-a-million existence.

Small things.

Key yet so insignificant. Key yet so insurmountable.

What’s trapped in my vision can be so symbolic. Symbolic to what’s to come. Symbolic to what I have to move away from.

It’s all left up to interpretation. Even still, it’s messages hold value. However I translate.

Speck in my eye. Horoscope. Distanced galaxies. Fortune.

SuperHero

Since I could dream they were filled with the desire to be remembered. Filled with a possibility of somehow being greater.

The events that follow prove to be somewhat limiting. However, being that I’m only 24 going on 25, I can see now I have time.

Previously feeling constrained by the counting seconds, I now feel something greater, time. Time for what it is.

I am in training for the attainabilty of what I know is to come. Forcibly so.

What is life but missed opportunity? I never want to feel the sting of regret. Truer then most failings, regret is so long-lasting. In memoirs we leave them to continue forward. Forward carried in the eyes and ears of our descendants.

One day, long from now, I want the wind to whisper my name. But more so, even if I was just “that one girl,” I’d be fine. For it’s what was done and the acts that are remembered that are of significance.

Being recollected is only the small of it.

Let my war cry ring from the mountains as I am now wanting my life to be mine, shared.

We are communal and in that I want us all to have these same desires.

I do have a dream and I hope I never awaken. For sometimes the dreams are greater.

Skip to Next

I feel like I’ve been so far away lately. Distanced from my realities. Audienced in them. Cue laughter.

Hopeful the next episode will loop me into ‘previously on…’

It’s almost like being buzzed. You’re left on some worry free higher plane, looking down on those still living the real life.

I’m ready for the next season to start. Anxiously awaiting the build up to the finale. Desperately hoping for a renewal.

Morning-side.

Why do we hold on? Ever fearful of what’s to come we trudge. Calves sore, feet salted from sweat. The ground hot like the beach thick like mud. Continuously traveling uphill.

A treadmill set at incline 10, pack on back, summer sun, forgot breakfast.

At some point we tell ourselves it’s worth it. Who’s worse, us to ourselves or others to us? I knew there were liars and thieves, away from me and in the distance, but never have I felt so comparable.

But it’s worth it.

Wondering what “it” is.

Lately I’ve been practically in-able to wake up. It’s as if no matter the dream it is better than the awake. My comatose reality plays tricks, however, creating strange awareness and frustrations.

I tried to start a book and I couldn’t focus.

I need to focus.

I need coffee, for life.

 

Disjointed Applications

Adjustabilty of my minds mental process has been compromised. Juxtaposed into the previous nights thoughts. Dreams. Replays. Here I sit stunted. Wondering all those pathetic wanders. Compromised. To produce any structural comprehension…there is a screw loose. Needing a prescription for growth hormones, specific. Targeted.

I look out my window. Weather report. Jacket no jacket. Start car. Robotic. Method madness. At least these certain things I can do blindly. Memorized. Second to nature. Second to doing this since birth. Second to started my car after exiting the womb. Second to.

Band-Aid me. Neosporin. Hug me and let me cry.