without someone else

when the neon glows, the vision snows with an aura of orange. construction is a process outside of brick and mortar, and inside of us.

there are split seconds of unrecognition. it may be redness of the eyes, stubble, or paleness, but all challenge familiarity. no matter how long i stare into the mirror, the image i embody is not what i see.

sad music plays. my mind lifts to outer space then drops and causes an earthquake. i’ll destroy a whole town of people expecting a kneel and a bow. it’s not a question of my independence. it’s the inflection in every direction i take.

who am i to complain? how is my life terrible if i stay in a bedroom with mattresses vertically laid? life is a joke and it’s in my domain. i feed a humor covered in stains, imperfections, and bloody band-aids. metaphors aren’t just for play.

look at the future. i envision our politics settled by euchre. they killed a few and we slaughtered boots. it’s all even in levels of doom. humanity parodies its potential. release your boundaries and save them from bounties of poverty, disease, impregnance, and buckets.

these are the divides inside of my soul. four broken pieces that don’t make a whole. i go to mountains to roam, forfeiting oxygen and red blood-celled totes.

a cosmic phenomenon occurred this morning. whether it be the heavy snacking resurrected last night, a fitful slumber on the couch, or forgetting to brush my teeth, i awoke to a familiar state of contempt for exploration. writing a blog sounded wasteful. listening to music felt extra. creating music was pointless. even exercise became slavery instead of liberation. in a word, i was bored.

i diligently attempt to distance myself from such an abomination. this lack of appreciation for the immediate surroundings goes against the mindful philosophy i train in (forever and always a novice). the world is teeming with possibility, placing ill circumstances and complaints firmly within the invisible bounds of our imagination. usually, caffeine and supplemental pebbles shine bright; i ingest their chemicals and reap their offerings. however, in dramatic fashion, they did not show up because i shut down their theatre.

somehow, amidst a wasteful perspective, reading Walden came to mind. thanks to Thoreau, its allure was heavy enough to gravitate me to its beautifully notated pages inscribed by my sister. as fleshy digits grazed its physical existence, curiosity returned like an underground insurgent. a hypothesis formed — will reading clear the clutter immobilizing my crippled interaction with the environment? i sipped a mug of mushroom-infused coffee (not the drug, since that combination is probably also marked dangerous by the government, like the cocktail banned in the original Four Loko), immersed myself in a world other than my own, and waited for the results.

i now realize, through a descriptive recounting of these hours, that the fix didn’t originate solely from Thoreau, his novel, or the language set in ink. while they all contributed, i propose the remedy to be a spirited removal of the ego. i put everything on the formidable to-do list aside, all for the musings of a dead philosopher. i confidently predict i’d gain further commitment to an actionable day if the producer was less well-known, and more hated.

if you look inward long enough, you’ll find nothing. a well is dry when the straw greedily defies environmental physics. i am no one without someone else.

– D K T


life ends. why pretend

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