pain and discomfort are two effects of love. not only do they push our resilience to new levels, but they simultaneously advance our understanding of rest. interacting with the world takes strength and courage. failure requires a diligent view on success. truly, the positives cannot be fully understood without witnessing their counterparts.
i wonder if marriage is a couple too nervous to lose each other.
the frigid, biting air raises goosebumps across my skin as i attempt to stave off frozen pockets. if sleep is peaceful, why does its following act battle like a warlord hungry for gold?
what do you keep by your bedside? this stained, open wooden box to the right supports my dearest symbols. from a football to a picture frame to retrograde CDs, these objects unleash a torrent of wild memory. the attack is not violent though, for that would raise suspicions and sound alerts. instead, each monument arouses comfort and melancholy.
my past is riddled with mistakes. i’d rather have the lesson than the motion picture of a previous matter. there’s, quite frankly, exponentially more knots to untangle in this moment than in history. why would i lose that awareness for a replay?
of course, i do visit half-filled journals, dusty paperbacks, and wooden windows. i pine to understand my past like geography concepts, storing them in my brain for that one specific instance when they’re needed (probably trivia).
when i have nothing to say, i’m ashamed of the blank paper going to waste. does a prophet excitedly sit in impatience for a disciple? or do they dread the encounter when their neurons will be commanded to fire like artillery cannons? there’s, as always, a third option to act on nature by following one’s instincts. what if your cravings shot up a revolution?
listen to slow music, then break off a cue tip. why do solids appear useless while foods taste putrid? where is the root fix? i already lose it consistently when mucus flies out like a nuisance. my anger is ill-suited. my face is one for toothpicks. stab me so i’ll imbue wisdom before my soul is doomed with a sentence to cuban culture where my white-duned wisps of privilege aren’t mainstream sewage.
the focus is gone. i drown in a swamp surrounded by lifeguards who’d rather tint bronze than watch. their names are greed, apathy, and head nods arcing downward toward their chair bottom where wood pops.
my meter is off, but this is just a blog. why do i change how i walk, monitor my response, habitually avoid shops, wear hole-ridden socks, organize my team’s roster, and end the diabolical hunt for a partner to share thoughts?
in most respects, my domain is private. except for the occasional eye twitch, no one has to witness the beginnings of diamonds. the strictness with which i command guidance turns volunteering into a penance of silence. competition is partially blinded, but its visible assignments punch until i’ve abided by the objectives and served the indictment. i hate on myself, not for your sympathetic reaction to violence, but to lick blooded iron as a warrior reminded of their innate, savage impulse to dominate the island.
once i get it, i’ll sink the brightened, sunlit beach and bring down the manipulators who earned their keep with deceit.
they’ll just have to learn to swim underwater with me.
– D K T