DarkPoet
Ex-Bluelighter
It's at times like this I remember why I bought a hat, something to keep the brains in place as the walls close in around and apply strange pressures to the head.
Looking about me I remember that all is well and that whatever happened before no longer exists, except in the darkened mouldering corners of this cavernous mind I've been dragging behind me since the birth-insertion into this life-world of my choosing.
I came here with such purpose but purpose is only a beginning whereas the real story lies in the struggle forward and the conflicts and sparks that arise from such ludicrous activities.
Life without end was and is the promise and the gift, surely we should not taint that with requests for proof and constant affirmation, surely if these are received they should also be as gifts.
Much goes over my head it is true, I don't get all the jokes and I miss some of the opportunities but all of the feeling, all of that pure carrier wave emotion goes straight to my heart making it fit to burst, the pressure building, interfering with my sense and senses causing me to question the origins of my fear.
The answer inevitably comes in the form of prose or art or music, just stepping out the front door, smoking a cigarette often can be enough fuel to super charge my idle mind for hours, even days, so vacuous am I that I spontaneously suck the very lifeforce from the world.
An empty headed poet, maker of words and images scribing my emotional/thought damage into the rock of life, just trying to make sense of it all just like every other, just like we're supposed to;
we are all god;
we are all trying to understand ourselves and each other;
we are all god trying to find his hat and not lose his brain.
Looking about me I remember that all is well and that whatever happened before no longer exists, except in the darkened mouldering corners of this cavernous mind I've been dragging behind me since the birth-insertion into this life-world of my choosing.
I came here with such purpose but purpose is only a beginning whereas the real story lies in the struggle forward and the conflicts and sparks that arise from such ludicrous activities.
Life without end was and is the promise and the gift, surely we should not taint that with requests for proof and constant affirmation, surely if these are received they should also be as gifts.
Much goes over my head it is true, I don't get all the jokes and I miss some of the opportunities but all of the feeling, all of that pure carrier wave emotion goes straight to my heart making it fit to burst, the pressure building, interfering with my sense and senses causing me to question the origins of my fear.
The answer inevitably comes in the form of prose or art or music, just stepping out the front door, smoking a cigarette often can be enough fuel to super charge my idle mind for hours, even days, so vacuous am I that I spontaneously suck the very lifeforce from the world.
An empty headed poet, maker of words and images scribing my emotional/thought damage into the rock of life, just trying to make sense of it all just like every other, just like we're supposed to;
we are all god;
we are all trying to understand ourselves and each other;
we are all god trying to find his hat and not lose his brain.
.x
