you are always told to write from the heart, but that is a a tip that is easy to let slip. most often, i feel shrouded by the sheer possibility of failing at the action of writing, that i instead decide it is just easier to not begin a project or piece, and slowly, the days slip by and the deadlines pass, and i avoid the class, professor, and everyone's eye contact when i do attend.

in this way, anxiety controls me sometimes. i let it. i want it curbed and controlled again. is it a word which is brought to life by those cloudy day thoughts. can i just send this self-professed "anxiety" if such a wicked thing even exists off to somewhere wonderful--perhaps in a balloon, or on the back of a white winged bird. can i let it land in an old oak? or atop a mountain peak? can it belong between the blades of dewy grasses? in a garden or greenhouse full of peonies, tulips, and lilacs?

can it beautify itself if i choose such futures for it? can i make an anxiety a positive thing? direct it toward a telos, or greater purpose in life... if it is truth on these pages, then it can be truth in the word, if i just tell myself not to be anxious. not to agree that there is such thing as anxiety. to just genuinely care and be stubborn about myself procrastination. create a system, a controlled, monitored system and absolutely stick to it because if i don't--i know that there would be awful, terrible repercussions, like falling back off track. going into the hole again, that dark pit of doom. impending fears. anxiety, be gone. become thinner, and thinner until you no longer exist. take all the time you need to back your heavy bags that have made my bones ache, my brain meet sad fates. end it. it shall be gone.

dont be patient with it. there is no time to waste. you can't have me. you can't have me.

Wouldn't you like to know why...

The heart is a vindictive son of a gun.

Savannah (always summer)

A city that speaks of summer; always. A winter mist, masks itself in the shape of a cumuli creeps itself on the outer radius of Savannah; hiding the erotics, alcoholics, and lost wanderers akin.

When you wake up--the eyes are not open quite wide enough yet/ you see slant. The world imbalanced, disproportionate, unparalleled and uncontrolled. Drink strong coffee, fry an egg, read the news, and for the finale write to life the mundane.

Profound words, hidden in the library. Can you find them? 

death to impertinence and listlessness of life.
revive my salaciousness, over-indulgence and fervor for life.

"But it's too late, I know that it's too late."

Sometimes the hybrid of my minds (the mad and the sane) reach an interlude. The mad one wants to have you, and the sane one says every variation of "NO". 

The Bike Ride

When I left my house, the air was stale—silenced and waiting; for the thunder and rain and the flowers wanted wetness and life and eventually they would continue to bloom and lead mature adult-like lives. The flowers wanted responsibility; they lusted for the air to become stale because they knew what was coming, wetness, the flowers asked for sips of philitre. The Calibrachoa that were potted and perched in the branch-arms of an old oak asked for wetness. The lilies in the cracked soil cackled and threatened to wilt away if they did not get their water. The peonies pleaded for philitre, drops of life, thunderstorms, and a resonant nightmare for the easily stirred. Awaken the earthworms and all variants of summer soils.

The place I live, I have come to realize after the extent of my travels is rather small. You can have the entire city gridded out and constructed like a map intrinsic within the brain. I left the house on my forest green glider-bike at half passed eight on any old night, crossed the train tracks on Kingsway and continued to glide my way throughout the river neighbourhood. It does not take long to see a familiar face, so we stop and hop off our bikes, greeting each other with hesitant yet kindred gestures.  We part ways, I glide towards the river, along the winding road and decide of my own volition to take a wide right, startling a speeding silver vehicle in the near distance pace, for perhaps if she were a bullet, she would be shedding shrapnel and I would see white powder dusting out of the exhaust engine instead. She slowed her pace while I increased mine, continuing the neighborhood glide-about.  On Cordova Street I began to dawdle, as did a toddler and mother on the sidewalk parallel to me, the young girl appearing to be gliding for the first time, on her pink and purple training wheeled bike. She lets out a bellowing “Screeeee” of painfully endearing elation. Her mother has caramel curls, and the small girl has curls of cocoa.  They laugh together, and I glide off towards my home, my backyard, and back into the secluded state of restlessness and anxiety of possessing my future. 

Writing is the art for the madmen, the psychopaths, neurotics, hypochondriacs, perfectionists, drinkers, smokers, lovers, the beloved, the nature obsessed, the cynics, the perceptive, and the truth-speakers and seekers.


~

this is "hurt"

Do you remember that I love you? What is painful is the absence I feel without you. It is all around me, everywhere. When lying on my bed, I think of us all those months ago laying next to each other. We made plans, talked about our feelings and thoughts. We thought we knew love, each other, and more painfully we thought we knew ourselves. My body aches from wanting you back in my arms. Thoughts place themselves so securely in my mind, thoughts about you—of course, familiarizing themselves with you. When my love grew for you, you and your dark features and soft and illuminated sand-dune skin, I never knew that there was a darkness within you, darker than your chocolate eyes or your coal coloured hair.

Film stills: The Great Gatsby 1974

Being and becoming.

There is no way that I will say that I know truly “What I want”, in almost any respect. I want to pursue happiness: in all sense of the meaning.  Happiness can be temporal (until the craving is fed). And it can be “long-lasting”, and as to what that may mean—I am unsure. Things I wanted last year, of both the standard of myself and out of people have changed—I think for the better, but regardless: my temporalities have altered and become either nonexistent or they are securing an existence within me.  Slowly, perhaps, “I” am becoming “Myself”.

The greater longevity a feeling, event, or presence something or someone has in their life: the more substantial the other becomes, is that not true?

I won’t pretend to understand myself in this moment, or what we were in the past, but what I am highly aware of is the significant presence that you once had within my life. I will not materially list off the most relevant parts of “us” and the strongest/ weakest points we endured: because that is like having wanderlust but suppressing those thoughts limiting yourself to tours of the dark. 

It is true that don’t know who I was or what we were, be it a love or a loss. But what I can comprehend is the sheer mass I feel in my heart/ soul/ and on my mind.

What can you do. What will I do?

1,2,3,4

Sometimes I just want to know where you are. Am I off the map--of your heart? 

N+O

Why were we told of our perfection? We knew of our wondrousness. Why wasn't a love like that worth fighting for? We knew too much. Are these questions forever, unanswered? One can only hope the answer is more than two letters, more than N+O.

pretend

Commit, like Françoise, to those two precious hours per day. Perhaps in the morning (the celestial hour)...to the writing of Flora. That seemingly never-ending-never-beginning "novel"idea of a novel.

Listen to the voices of my head, the questions I ask and demand, the sound of anguish, gall repugnance, rain against the house, take it all in, soaking my soul, pouring out of my eyes--down my eyelashes. I won't cry. I will pretend not to miss.

and the complications you could do without

when I kissed you on the mouth

-sufjan

"They penetrate into the recesses of nature, and show how she works in her hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens: they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows."

-M.Shelley

Get out of my mind

I like all of your eccentricities 

we only crossed paths

Not quite know whether I'll recover--it seems quite far off, perhaps in another life (like everything else was).  It wasn't forgettable, unnamable: just uncontrollable and finite. You were the sun & I the moon-and although we danced for love and other celestial occasions, we would forever be doing a dance across the sky-apart from one another, rarely eclipsing (agreeing), and not so often would we pass through each other's paths and find that fervent harmoniousness that we both deserve. 

We only crossed paths at dawn and dusk & that was not enough.