You Know I Can’t Love

On the fringe of forgetting, once more you appeared, like wind, in my dream. You always return, adding another note to the memories I’ve tucked away of you. Down in the depths of my drawer are moments we never lived. Hesitations giving way to euphoria. Sorrows stemming from my expectancies.

Only in ephemeral atmospheres of dreams did you see my authenticity, my worries, my desires laid bare. Waking brings the knowing that no communication would replicate the feeling. I wanted to see your eyes hold mine, not in searching but in longing, since you understand all too well. To feel your caress, to be safely in your embrace, be held and meld with you.

But you are only in my dreams. There is no stack of dreams catalogued away in your desk of me. When you met me I was not the person I should have been. What would you think if we met now? Could I be your dream instead?

For now, I’ll write another note of you. Reminders of your fleeting, cutting appearances.

When will I forget again?

How can I love when you’ve forgotten me?

Creatively Dead Day

Couldn’t come up with many ideas today. A bit frustrating. I’d been a roll for the past couple weeks or so with working efficiently, productively, and expansively. But today I couldn’t put down any good ideas, regardless of what I tried to do stimulate my mind. Maybe I just need some days to recover, decompress, and reassess and allow my mind to loosen up some. Hopefully better content tomorrow.

Diluted

Early sunsets are my favorite part of ending daylight savings. It feels as if you get all the benefits of having late night camaraderie with your friends & peers without the drain of energy that comes along with it being so late. Maybe it’s just a leftover piece of nostalgia from having so many nighttime soccer practices when I was younger. Maybe I just hate the sunshine.

I like the overcast days, when the sun can’t fully pierce the haze of clouds. I like the muted days where no one cares to go out and the ambience is the focus. I revel in the chill that drives others to seek warmth and shelter indoors.

The chill of the wind stemming from a cold front is like no other. Whipping around my body, watering my eyes. The sharp, precise piercing of wind slicing specific lines through my sweater. What can compare?

A day where the world seems drab, slept  on, indistinguishable is the best day possible. Why would I ever want to experience the same world as others? Why would I ever want to share my experience amongst so many others? What would convince me that my sensory exploration, my sensory interpretation, my sensory understanding isn’t unique to only myself?

Optimism

Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. A saying for the pragmatists, or even the cynical. For the optimist, however, prepare for the best, realize better than the best. Assume nothing goes wrong. Better yet, assume nothing.

Merely work, think, create, and do not stop.

It is not about iterating, making better, advancing, helping, developing, augmenting, changing, revolutionizing, growing, adapting, profiting.

Discern a goal, discern a method, and make it reality.

Never qualify, never presuppose, never accept constraint. Otherwise nothing of note will be made. The structure will grow stale. Passion will stifle and purpose will wither.

Build, not so the creative flame stays bright, but to flicker into shapes as yet unseen, casting brighter blind spots and darker shadows to overcome.

Create for another to choose to create better.

Red In My Veins

There’s this light on the ceiling of my room.
It does a pretty good job of lighting my room,
even that tall, awkward spot in my closet.
I like that light.
But it’s right above my work table,
So I cast shadows on my work sometimes.
When I use my x-acto knife to cut things,
I might not tell my arm apart from the table
Or finger or toe
And then I feel a prick.
It looks like a black dot.
Then I move and the light shows a pretty red dot.
I think it looks nice.

One day I was told my insides were black
But I could make myself pretty.
So I went to work one day,
I cut a lot of paper.
The first few cuts are usually crooked and weird
But it gets easier and cleaner
And you can see cute patterns.
My paper isn’t covered in dots this time,
It looks more like streams or waterfalls.
It makes me feel alive.
And pretty.
Red is prettier than black.
I just wish it didn’t hurt so much.
But now everything is turning black.

She Can Always Be Replaced

I don’t want to let go.

You mean everything to me and if you leave I’ll have no reason to stay behind. I lost you in a fog that concealed my love and left me wandering into nothing. I left you in a place that should never have been created and means death to me. There is nothing I can say to bring you back and no map to guide myself and no reason to find you. There is nothing that can make me the person we both wished I could be. There are pages written and thrown away all because of you and your eyes that withhold every truth and every word that I ever said. There is only so much I can do and now there is nothing to do but only hope for your forgiveness. I would die just to hear the sound of your voice over the look of betrayal and perhaps even a slight sign of kindness. If I can not set your soul on fire then I think it’s done and I will go on and weep for the idea that I killed and the moment that I could never partake in.

But here I am again with the inability to tell you who I am or what I want. Instead all I know is that you can not and never will be replaced and I am sorry for every pain I caused you that you never deserved.

With all my love,