Monday, April 11, 2011


"It's a luscious mix of words and tricks
That let us bet when we know we should fold
On rocks i dreamt of where we'd stepped
And of the whole mess of roads we're now on."


It smells like honeysuckles outside, so fragrant it burns.

Honeysuckles smell like too many things. They smell like one of the only things I remember from my childhood, how I used to run around barefoot picking them off of bushes and licking the beads of nectar off the stems until I got a stomach ache. It was something I had forgotten about until today.
I don't remember too much about my childhood. I only really remember the bad things.
I'm not sure why.

There is hardly anything more ephemeral than a memory that is associated with smell, as if something flips a switch on for a few milliseconds and then flips it back off, leaving you to grasp at some vaporous thing of the past, trying to pull it into a more tangible form. Sometimes you succeed.
But sometimes you don't. And you're left standing there, wishing more than anything that you could only remember what it was that you almost remembered.
It's a terrible feeling, not unlike waking up in the morning knowing that you had a vivid dream but not being able to recall what it was.


My thoughts are my walls. Tall, unintentionally constructed, engulfing, isolating.
I have an inability to reconcile them with reality, with the world of surface interaction and duty. But what else is there to do? Sacrifice them in order to better connect with that surface world in which I'm forced to play my role in? I cannot do that. I could never do that.

So I have to live two lives.
One in my head, the other in my corporeal form in the physical world. I keep them separate. I spend equal amounts of time in both. They must not touch or collide or coincide in any way. I would not know what to do if they did.

We've been reading copious amounts of literature in class that involve characters whose illusory worlds collapse into reality. They never really end up right. One is usually sacrificed for the other.
Sometimes, I am not so sure that I really am reading about other people.


I talk a lot about why I write. It's important to me.

It's my liberation. I don't often talk that much. I think it's because talking waters down my thoughts. It waters down the power of emotions, it waters down the meanings of my words. There are too many things that are lost in translation when mind waves go to sound waves.

The world is filled with diluted thoughts, some that are half-formed, some that are just not conveyed as they should be. I don't want to be a contributor of these. We humans are capable of so much that we will never do.

Writing is my tunnel between reality and surreality. It's the only way I know how to reconcile the two worlds I'm a part of — the one in my head and the one of my body.
Often, I don't know which one I'm in. And then I become a walking whirlpool of terrible things, anger and bitterness and violent emotions. But mostly of confusion.

That's when I write. Because when I do, it no longer matters where I am.

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