Crawling Through The Dark

Walking through the black of morning to work, I realise the city adopts a different tone. Though I've stumbled through this streets as an infant, trawled through them as an adolescent, in the thickness before dawn, they loom with a latent threat I had never recognised before.

It is as though a familiar friend has decided to wear a ruse and, in staring to recognise the flesh, I lose the friend.

Hunger Pains

Rough-souled boy, you have eaten my soul so many times I hardly noticed you had an appetite.

Thoughts Upon Waking

The problem with philosophy is that it de-mortalises being human. It breaks down, attributes meaning to, every action in life until nothing functions for pure function at all.

And, yet, philosophers are those kinds of people who build pedestals for themselves, clamber upon them in order to see just what depths there are to being human. They are the ones with the insights and exactly those who will never part with this kind of knowledge.

And, so, I will always prostitute myself to these kinds of people because having that kind of power is something I will always desire.

On Letting Go

It's a thought that has often crossed my mind: in giving up writing, have I given up my purpose?

When you make something your sole reason for breathing and then deprive yourself of that, can you be said to be living any longer? It feels as though I am basking in shadows, trying to draw light from their darkness.

There will always be those potholes in me belonging to the people I thought I was. I placed so much of me in the words I conceived that there aren't even crumbs left with which to continue with.

The Difference

There is one crucial difference between her and I in that she recognises her inability to do certain tasks, and yet does them knowing they will be bad, while I desire so badly to be good at everything, and feel the sting of disappointment every time I work outside my boundaries.

Outcast

What is there to do when the poets have disowned you, the intellectuals do not know you and the artists sneer at your attempts?

There seems very little besides blogging where even the most mundane events reach celebrity status, if you're coherent enough to manage a sentence or two.

For me, it's not even the coat-tails on the shadow of what I long for.

On Nietzsche

Do I desire to be beneath or on par with him?

What he writes resonates in an uncertain earthquake inside me. I think I would like to meet the man, if only to hear his speak. But I do not want to know about his history, his upbringing or desires. I want to forever commemorate him as I perceive him now, crystallised in his intelligence and perception.

And I do not want to make paper wings of his observations nor to decorate notepads or studies with them. It is only a superficial showcase of my own "intelligence". I would rather silently devour each word, not like nectar but maybe with a child's distaste of brocolli, the way that a denied truth should be taken.

That way I will wear his etchings on the inside and be insulated by the chance that, one day, I may understand them and peer through the mundane as he once did.

The Problem With Protégés

I both desire and abhor the intelligensia.

Their ability to see beyond the average spectrum is a talent I crave for myself. And, yet, I have to crawl through the dust to get there, loathing that it is their pedestals I have to climb to reach my goal.

The Hangover

When we first broke up, I was condemned to that state of Limbo which left me continually unwanted. After owning every one of your glances, claiming every touch you made, left to be a void was inconceivable. And, so, my loneliness escorted me to all the places where love was worn out, into all the arms where it was merely a cuss word, trying to find you.

It was in these encounters I realised the error of making you from shards of people I never cared to know. It was not that I wanted a shrine to commemorate what I had lost.

I just wanted to be someone's attention again.

River Flows In You

Somehow the darkness lapping at the window reminds me of the night you began painstakingly stitching me together after the carnage that was Mr Ex.

I'd been published for the first time and we had just come home from the celebratory party where I began wedging my foot in the door and hoping it forged a gap big enough for me to crawl through. And, somehow, his ghost made the trek back home with us.

I sat on your cramped bed and sobbed this ghost lose while you held me tightly, replacing his touch gradually with yours, then ran me a bath to purge myself of a sadness that seemed unsuited for that evening, for the smiles I should have been wearing. Deep in the depths of that water, I think I found an essence of myself that had been stranded and striking for shore since he left.

And it reached port as we sat on the edge of your windowsill, claiming a sliver of night for ourselves. Our feet cooling against the rooftiles beneath us, we watched the stars and moonlight with the same intensity as I watch the night now, watching the darkness loop a memory back, its arms bundled with the peace I felt emanating from you then.

Under Rug Swept

I used to think that this album was written for the tragedy of me and you. In the years that form a barricade between us, it becomes more and more apparent.

I remember listening to this song and thinking that this would be how it ended, this is how I'd perceive you when Time had given my aging eyes a rosed glint. The end apparent before the beginning had even graced the horizon.

I wonder how far beneath the rug you have swept us, whether the sins of ourselves are condemned to pure shadow, or whether you air them occassionally, batting off the tears that undoubtably have grown there during your negligence.

We became a secret because we thought we deserved to be unspoken. We took a greedy, ashamed take on our love and that was our condemnation in the end.