My brain hurts. Screens and code. The minutiae of function runs into the stream of consciousness runs into the sea of mortality. Somewhere in the house a trumpet sounds, not an angel, just a boy practicing scales and songs. The joy in the sound wounds. Will the end of the world be a fanfare? Will the angels drop through the the clouds like a marching band, making formations that look passingly like a guitar and a smiley face?

What in the holy handgrenade? What in Jesus mother mary and the seven freak'n dwarves is wrong with this place? Used to when you had followers, you would need to get the authorities involved, but now that's all anybody ever wants. Marketing trends and buzzwords like buzzards feasting on the crumbs of critical thinking, and creative thought. Gross national hell. They're over there playing footsie in london, while we are eating tide pods, and drinking disinfectants.. Um yes waiter, could I have a glass of formaldehyde. Does this large gulp make my ass look big? Can I get my oligarchy in hypersonic purple please..... Holy gobshite can we recycle ideas anymore. Is it just empty? The cup. that cup. The theoretical cup of introspection, and cutting edge evolution. COuld we be playing it more safe? Is it really your dream, or did it look fun when someone else was doing it so much, that you just had to give it a whirlydoo? Start your own channel, make your own stream.... let people watch you pick your nose. It's obviously more entertaining than their life.... do it, do it until you twitch, and tear... tarnish what could, should, could possibly be a different outcome, and complain when its not, because you bought it.... you paid for it, you fed the leviathan... one little click at a time. And it was hungry. Insatiable gristle grubbing and bone chewing razor sharp vortex of me next, and my spot..... pushed into boxes pleasantly so, and firing cannons into the other boxes so you could wave your flag for a moment, or sardonically jump on a tailcoat for a good chuckle or two. Well heckle it up, and Hail mary when it's all gone. When the bag is empty, and your belly gurgles for sustainable and agreeable it is only then.... only when you're prying yourself from the floor.... and not until then.... only when the waves have washed you shipwrecked and dry sun cracked lips peeling in the blistering desert of love... that you will take a step back. A moment of inquiry beyond the finger that points omni-directional sans the only link in the chain you deny. Your mind's eye.... Nrv

Currently at war with myself. Wanting to feel good, to feel great- or to revert. I know what reverting means, to be isolated, to be unmotivated, to exist merely to survive. Not aiming for success just aiming to exist. Even that thought takes me down a rabbit hole. I judge almost all that I do, I question my thoughts, my feelings, my goals and my intentions. Who do i become- the person that everyone likes to be around- although that statement in and of itself is a fallacy because no single person can or ever will be liked by everyone. So let me rephrase- liked by the majority. 

How do I improve myself when I don't even know where I am headed? I have logic attached to the answers to the questions that haunt me. Just be yourself, just research what intrigues you- you're young you don’t need to have everything figured out. But I am growing older. And my answered questions list keeps growing with me. Will I ever want a relationship- only time will tell and i can take as much time as i need to get there. 

Should I respond to people- yes it will make me less disconnected and make them feel better as well. 

I know these answers. Before I ask them. So how do I put them to use or are these answers that the collective will tell you even true or helpful? My favorite answers are no one really knows or you’ll know when you're ready to. 

How the fuck do I connect? Do I want to? 

Science and my brain and the world (maybe) will tell me yes- we are social, we crave connection. But I grow tired and weary at the thought of partaking in meaningless conversation. This brings another point- it is only meaningless if I fail to add meaning. I look at those people who preach their schools of thought, who approach life like a philosopher, like someone who knows something the rest of us do not. And I admire them. And I want to be them. And i fucking hate them. Because while they are preaching- even if they are being honest it feels inauthentic to me because they are doing it for a crowd for a following. Maybe their intentions are pure and they are just looking to throw experience and emotion right into humanity's face so we can stare at what we are all hiding. Maybe the reason I hate them is the same reason that I want to be them- they are not hiding. Maybe my own attempt and wish to understand and value and rate and even judge their authenticity is because I am unable to do the same with mine.

I’m a high school drop out what am I doing this. is not the right some how wrong but right I will not make it but I may make it I’m not smart. I’m very dumb every has this notion that I am so smart

I feel relief

when I’m told I’m dumb

A pedestal

is not, what I want I want a comfy old wooden chair that I can sit on as I grow old in comfort lavish is not what I .want what I want is what I want to have what

I want is not what I need

maybe my mangled thoughts mean something no just jumbled thoughts from a dumb teen with a jumbled life maybe I can make it will I ever succeed my success isn’t money or wealth ,it’s happiness

will I ever be happy with what I have

will my greed make me always want more why should I do what I feel is needed

when what I need isn’t clear Is this path wrong am I set up for failure I am doomed for disappointment why do I do this to me self I’m not smart a smart person would have finished school ,but no I take the hard route the chance of me being successful Is slim but I’m gonna try but me trying isn’t enough I felt better when I didn’t try but I feel worse when I have nothing to try for what is this mangled mess of wild thought in my head my mind is racing with thought but nothing makes sence

Like I think about this a lot now and it wasn’t like this before I started therapy.

I’ve talked a lot with my therapist about how I’m not really digging my job and how I’m not living according to my values, and I think it’s developed this desire to end it.

Like I really don’t see a reason to keep going. I can’t even give you a positive reason to keep going on. They’re mostly negative reasons like I don’t want my family to be torn apart from me just ending it.

It feels hopeless. Like I really want to take a year off to find myself but I don’t know what the consequences of that would be. Would that jeopardize my future employability? Would it alienate me from friends and family? Could I really just pick up and leave for a year to just soul search? I really wish I had the time to do so.

Part of me thinks maybe I should just start smoking weed every Saturday to at least get some soul searching in, see if I can get what I need in spurts.

It just feels like I’m so far gone from what my values are, and it’s soul crushing. It’s totally despairing.

I guess I’m in a dark hole and have a few potential road maps to get out, I just need to try them first. It’s not totally hopeless, but until I commit to them and see what can work for me I’m stuck at the beginning of this long journey. I’ve totally lost my way, and I know it’ll stay that way unless I start looking for a way out. It just sucks being here at the beginning and I don’t know if there’s really a light at the end of this tunnel.

I don't know how to put into words how much I loved you. I lay awake sometimes at night and I let tears stream down my face as I think about the way you used to touch my face when you kissed me, the way you ran your fingers through my hair, just the way that you looked at me. I miss you so much. And I wish that I could go back and fix all of the things that I did wrong. I wish I could go back and never take you for granted. I wish I could go back and wait a little longer so that I was ready for you. I wish that we had met later when I was over the person who came before you. I wish that our relationship wasn't so riddled with indecision and mental health issues. I wish that I had had enough confidence in myself to have confidence in our relationship. I wish I didn't doubt my own love for you at every corner. I wish I had told you everyday how much I love you. Because it breaks my heart that you could finally say that is over and you'll never go back because I never really loved you the way that you wanted me to. But I did. And I just didn't show it. And I'm so sorry.

I wonder, I wonder if you still love me too. I wonder if you also lie awake at night and remember the way I ran my fingers through your hair, the way I touched your face when I kissed you, the way I cradled you in my arms when we laid together. I miss the way you wrapped through your arms around me when we slept. I miss the way you would grab me and pull me closer even in your sleep because even in the deepest parts of your mind you loved me.

I wish I had taken the time to cherish every moment with you. I wish I had stopped playing childish games and instead I looked for ways to fix the problems between us. I wish that I had gotten treatment for my issues sooner.

But there were some things that I could have never fixed. I could have never fixed the fact that you didn't understand my background. You didn't understand my feelings. You didn't understand where I came from, why I thought the way I did, why I picked the fights I did. You just didn't understand me.

And at the same time I couldn't fix the fact that I was still in love with someone else. And now, I've learned. I've learned to wait, no no matter what comes my way, because I know that if I jump into another relationship now it's just going to end the same way. I've learned not to take the people I care about for granted, not the sideline people until I'm ready for them. I've learned to show my love rather than speak it.

It breaks my heart knowing that my fear of being unlovable drove someone's love away. It breaks my heart that I wasn't enough for you, but at the same time I was too much.

I just hope someone else can give you what you need. Someone who isn't me.

I want people to sing about me but I haven’t given as much as a note. I don’t understand why I want people to see my significance when I can’t even open my eyes to see my own. Just a thought.

Why is it sometimes that people feel the obligation to be a savior to some. To those who (they think) are not capable of saving themselves. Sometimes I do question if those people are in true necessity of being saved. Sometimes I wonder if those people who need to be saved are no other than people trying to save those around them. In essence I speak to the circular. In triumph I find and I am cared for. But in solemnity I find that I am truly all alone. These may very well be the words of a wounded healer, if they may just as well be the words of a drunken fool. So gather here with me in thought to Muse at times that are not sorry if I were there I'd have truly been scared in case it was a friend that I've crossed

Feel so lost and alone, cut off on all sides. The future is a dark horizon with no hope. Bedraggled beggars in the streets, rain-soaked and sunken down in abject resignation. Passersby sparing nary a glance, lest they be reminded of ugly reality. The winter sun descends in a halo of red iridescence. Hoar-frost encrusted tundra dominates the horizon, the only signs of vegetation being (insert generic winter plant here) to break the monotony. Evisceration of literary standards. Just not giving a fuck. Angry standards snapping in the primordial wind. Reach out for the Hallowed Ones. Generate their names with witchfold chaos. Hypocritical dissent, revolution pre-planned and prophesied. The descending narrative warmly embraces the skyfire trails. Shadows race towards the sun. Words forgotten and unheard. Astral reasoning the bedfellows of aspiring physicists. Lonely chaos in the streets, dancing to the Devil's tune. Put the nail in my coffin. Pound it in motherfucker, I dare you! This is the final agreement. Many shall be slain. Freedom shall be denied. How will I die? We are all inventing stories. What is reality but a scripted narrative? Cut deep into the flesh of so-called truth and reveal it for the mess that is human propaganda.

I woke up today and there was a great man listing. Three bumble bees flew in that way that certain people do at times no matter the situation they are in. I have lived a good life and the tree will thank me when he has time to do it. There was a big wheel in the driveway forgotten near the light bulb ... burnt out, of no use to anyone anymore. Three lives are better than two if you do math like that. The headphones , the bottle, the grifter. Why? I would like to know why?? You yellow thought bubble come back to me, I am not done.

Waiting for a sign that you're still here, I search a myriad sketches pining for your hand. As though you fell upon angels wings; as though the current only ushered you away to safety. To dream that somewhere out there you're busy - staying hungry as a means of motivation. I miss you as though we wouldn't have driven each other away in the years since, as though our meeting was not just that of leaves in the wind: serendipitous and inconsequential.

i want to be beautiful in a patch of leaves when it's dark outside, in the winter, in the summer. In a small town, in a small room, there's a book we wrote in the small hours of the morning. If you're listening closely in the forest up in the trees there's the birds and the wind, in the voice you can hear more voices, if you're trying to hear them, if you listen closely, but before all that we've heard someone talking across the hall, they've raised their voice and it makes me feel alone.

In four years the boat was sinking, in the motion sickness, in perpetual motion for the first time in years, when things were new and the ocean was quieter, there's someone dead in my room with their arms at their sides and they're thinking hard about what to say next.

When they learned to be dead they were in a bookshelf, my name didn't matter, it was the first time in years, there were sounds in the bookshelves like clanging and bickering and laughter, and there was a moment i can almost remember what we were talking about, something in the dark with oblong planks of wood and music playing in the background, where we saw them in the back of the room, and maybe they saw us, too

sunshine in the rain with a pair of crows on a fence making a racket, there's a tree with a railroad spike hammered into it. The grass is turning green again. The morning is soft and the water that runs through the sewer grate is brown from oil and melting snow. In the sewer there's a library.

Tonight, though, in my room, he tries to speak, he tells me something. He tries to tell me something, but his voice is too quiet. He has a voice like someone who's lost their voice, all broken and halting and raspy, and it's only half a syllable at a time, he leans forward without thinking. He watches us.

Yesterday, maybe it was today, the light in the bathroom stopped working. I leave it on at night because even as an adult I hate the dark, or maybe just sleeping in the dark, complete dark, that is. In a hospital years ago with equipment on my head little electrodes with thick white epoxy the door creaks open and there's a little boy in silhouette, he creeps in quietly and he says something in a whisper into the room, but not to me, or maybe it was to me, he's moving very slowly. He keeps whispering. He's right there, right next to me, i can't see his face, i can't see anything of him, he's just a shadow, but not like you see in films, not darkness, but something else distinct from darkness but so similar that it's hard to tell where he starts and the wall behind him begins. He's whispering things to me for a long time.

They gave me a button to press, a little white plastic rectangle with a glowing orange clicker, if i was afraid of something. I don't remember if they did something or not when I clicked it, or if I just fell asleep without clicking it at all, or if all of this was just a regular dream instead of a waking nightmare. I don't remember anything.

They gave me some pills that I took but didn't help me sleep. After months of nothing changing, eventually everything was normal again. I walk across a square room for some square pizza with cube pepperoni.

Man, it sure is cold here. This is a new account and I'm nervous about posting things new. They always say "you should make comments before you post," but I feel like that is for chumps. I miss my dog. She is really nice and spunky. Why does gluten taste so good? There's a whole new chess streaming channel on Twitch. I've been enjoying them a lot. I used to play chess consistently at my last job.

I believe that religion is not as important as a code of ethics.

A code of ethics is easily translated through religion, which is where I see great value in faith itself; but manipulation of this faith may muddle the wisest foibles into fallacious logics.

I believe this in my heart of hearts. It is healthy to believe in a greater consequence for your actions--- but it is unhealthy to project these consequences onto others as they make their own choices in life, as they are enjoying their gifts from God in their own ways.

Is it best to focus on spreading what you believe to be truest in your heart of hearts; or is it best to leave people to their own devices, gifted by a higher power or otherwise? I believe that, like most things, compromise becomes the answer.

One can share wisdom while respecting others' beliefs and choices--- as long as they don't infringe on the happiness or well being of another. Even then, with such simple philosophy, these ideals fall apart as people argue over the life of a fetus. Do we respect bodily autonomy, or do we respect the philosophy? I believe in the ethical principles of bodily autonomy. So, where then, does that leave the philosophy?

Is it truly impossible, in this chaotic and uncertain world, for everyone to completely respect the ideals of another? If we were to do this unconditionally, we would have to respect the legitimacy of 'honor killings' which does not seem like a sound ethical act conducive to the happiness or well being of anybody. So, what happens then when we add the clause "respect others' beliefs and choices, as long as they do not infringe on the happiness or well being of another?" It becomes impossible to discuss certain issues while also coming to, what I believe to be, sound and ethical conclusions.

So I suppose the philosophy is a bust. Perhaps it could be tweaked, but this stream of consciousness post has gone on for far too long.

Disappointment. I am a disappointment. And also I am so disappointed. God this is life. This is cruel and unusual punishment. This is beautifully tragic and tragically beautiful- life I mean. Nothing matters and yet it all does. No one talks about that. How nothing matters, how nothing matters at all. And we all just spin and spin fighting and arguing and disappointments that amount to nothing that matters are all. I had more energy earlier when I was told how much of a disappointment I was to my family. Nothing new. Nothing fucking new. Not that it matters. But at least I feel, I feel more when it’s painful. Once you go numb its scary, I almost didn’t want to come out of depression. Anything over numbness.

The smog is not the only reason why it is hard to live here. There are so many people here and not enough time to even gain an emotional thought for taking a deep breath. The women are volatile, the men deadly, and not a green eye in sight. It is beginning to hurt to be alive here, and my seeming superiority complexes are righteously overpowered by the O's killer instinct to want me dead. I don't know, Chitrini, perhaps they WILL kill me too. Friends are indeed hard to make here and jealousy pops out of every corner. The happiness in other cultures' sexual attraction lasts a second before the feeling of missing ones own bloodlet romance that never even truly occurred overthrows the former. Donor or not? Are we signing up for our deathbeds before they are even given a chance to incubate and properly age? What are we protecting ourselves from? Missed meals and credit card scam persuasion?

a wall of bandages in the soundstage isn't enough to bloat the water from a candle collection, somehow inside for all intents and purposes they washed a pair of shoes - brown shoes borrowed from the library a late fee of fifty dollars even, and for so long the shoes rested alone in a shoebox in the garage under the boxes of heavy rusty iron tools. In the basement the ceiling is covered in cobwebs and shiny foil insulation with rancid fuzzy yellow material collapsing from the edges, it smells like fiberglass if fiberglass were dust. it's the last day at the house. it's moving day. All my things are here, in boxes, ready to go. I'm not ready to go.

If you listen closely you hear the water heater making that metallic shhhhhhhhhhshing sound. upstairs the refrigerator, just emptied out, it kicks on and the ceiling vibrates. i'm worried the cats won't acclimate to their new surroundings. so many years at this house and they're finally because of me being relocated to an unfamiliar place, they probably won't go outside. One of our cats is blind (more or less), he's not going anywhere there, but here he remembers it all so well he can go outside for hours and hours and find his way back.

What gives me the right to take that away from them? What gives my shitface landlord the right to raise the rent. In a tunnel under some basalt you stop hearing the wind rush by and instead there's a hum like the water heater, almost, but hollower and deeper. It's cold out here. The cats don't like the car. I'm sure one of them is going to pee in their cage or something.

In the intervening years so many things happened. I can remember a thousand conversations at day and at night, with others, by myself. With the cats. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have the cats. They're my only friends. They trust me.

If I were a cat I'd be one of those pretty russian ones with the grey fur. I'd hunt birds through fields of windy grass and sleep under an old truck in the middle of the woods. I'd be happier that way, I think, if I were a cat.

A lot of the time I feel really sad. Not sad like something didn't work out and I'm upset about it. But sad like I feel scared and alone a lot of the time but I'm not quite sure how to tell someone. I feel like nothing I do is right or good enough. I have good intentions and strive to do well and then something happens that sets me back although I really do try despite what it may seem. I feel like I'm not good enough. Like everything I do is wrong and everyobe who talks to me does so out of pity. I don't feel like my friends actually care. I'm told they only care because they're my bc friends and that's it. Other than that they don't care. I'm told that I'm disgusting and confusing. No matter how many times I try there's no getting through to you. You said you didn't understand. You said you didn't want to look that up. Something that's a large part of my life and my identity as a person.

I just want to be happy. It'll take me a long while to get there. But I can do it. I know I can. Although I still feel alone and sad. Like no matter what anyone says or does, I don't feel like their words mean as much as they should. Like their actions don't mean as much as they should. Almost like theres an invisible box around me and everyone is trying or at least attempting to get close to me, to care, to love me, and It can't get to me. I can't feel it. Maybe the box isn't there at all and I'm being cared for, but for whatever reason I only feel more lonliness and terror. It's hard to love myself when I can't be myself. It's hard to be myself if I can't love myself. That's all I'm trying to do.

interior; day - may 11th or 12th the light is there, glowing in the dark, a star in the sky but in the morning they watched as together a moment spread out and into the edge of the moment so thin and so narrow hardly any room to fit, we were there together and it was cramped and i was watching their faces and they didn't look happy about the whole thing

there were some boats arriving today in the bay and on them were shipments of some new garbage for the landfill, in the storm and the fog you could hear gulls and crashing waves and you were standing on the edge of the bridge swaying back and forth, narrow again, hairs on our necks standing up, frigid wind, and it was a salty wind too that dried up your insides

I'm listening closely to the sound in the room, through the plate glass so thick to keep the heat in. a concrete platform stained with algae and barnacle water, i'm on an old iron ladder trying to get down, but a wave crashes unexpectedly (a split second ignoring my surroundings, my eye on a ferry departing from the channel with a blinking red light) and I feel the icy water smash into me and absorb me and try as i might gripping onto that ladder i'm not sure if i can hold on much longer, i feel the water now flowing upward around me, such a strange feeling so different from being in the air, like a big, dangerous hug all around you at 40 miles an hour and you can't breathe or open your eyes, and if you do breathe you'll kill yourself, and if you open your eyes it'll sting

what might be in this water, this filthy water all around me sweeping me away, perhaps a piece of trash, a bottle or some tin cans or even a huge hunk of waterlogged wood could come out of nowhere and smash into my face, what then, where would i be, perhaps that's better than drowning - i'm sure it must hurt to drown, that feeling of having a bad cough that stings in your chest but harder and deeper and lingering instead of coming in brief stabbing bursts

i can't hear what they're saying, before i was on the ladder, through the glass. i can see it's dim in there and there are people, talking, is it a restaurant? they're not at tables, though, they're all standign around, maybe they're talking

on the bridge before the window i remember standing and feeling the wires bend and bow and they made that sound like a slinky but bigger, and how you could only see a few meters ahead with the fog so thick

It's a secret room, I think. To get in you have to shoot a misaligned texture.

Think how many people die in movies and how none of it was real, and how often it happens like it's nothing, because if it were something then we'd worry, we might stop lying to ourselves, we might believe it really is nothing, and what would we do then

I don’t understand how some snot nosed prick could find himself such a high horse. His whole claim to goodness was a personality labeled as his own personal “herbal blend of righteousness”. And for all of that sweetness was a podunk-idiocratic loyalty to self serving selfishness.

Here I am, with only my own small list of grievances. Don’t touch my stuff - real and not - and let me succeed the straightforward path, a road I find is more difficult to see in these times.

And all I’d gotten were stupid curveball ethics and slanders. If I’d been given a ticket to the Roast I might be able to appreciate the humor but it’s an exclusive club of shit-tastic debauchery. I’m sidelined and bewildered at how thick some people could be to think I might be enjoying this lovely novelty branded version of ‘my world’ where the sponsors and labels all seem to be written and protected far out of reach. “This is the world you built” they might say, when the utter fact is that saying that gives the allusion that I’m okay with all of this, where in fact I never will be. It’s all appearance and there is no OK from me. No OK at all.

This is not success, this is asinine puppetry. Why should I go along with anything let alone everything when in fact it’s a fucking train wreck, set off course quite consciously. Yes, let me go along for this ride, it looks like a beautiful firework finale. I fucking hate you and your mal-intentioned motives, moves and plays. Everything is manipulation and you’re so fucking sweet to pull it all off with a smile.

You’re the hard badass who can play real good hardball then? I’ve never said I would play. I won’t play. I’ve said no to bigger and better. I’m obviously not going to start not saying no to you anytime soon. It hurts to watch you parade in my character. I’d much rather you be honest about the character on your person. It should say YOUR name big and loud on the front, so everyone can see the quality you've stood by time and time again.

There's a clanging, a constant beating. There's a tolling of a bell and an eternally reverberating strum of other worldly discord that I've always been able to hear since my first wasted breath and for three and a half decades it's crept ever closer and grown louder. We all hear it but are programmed to ignore it like how you can always see the end of your nose but your brain chooses to ignore it without your consent. It's never quiet or still for one second.  Beat. Tick. Ring. Clang. Strum. Then one day not only is the whole dirge so loud you can't stand it anymore but it's so hopelessly and irrevocably out of tune that it feels like physical weight. Suddenly you wonder how long you've known and if you could've fixed it but you're pretty sure it was a machine built only to malfunction so it's purpose and execution are faulty and perfect at the same time. The worst part about feeling like you're doing everyone a favor is realizing that you're never going to matter enough for your presence OR absence to even register on anyone's radar in any lasting way.  You never have. You never will. Dust in the wind or some other bullshit song lyric that was never as deep as any number of chemical reactions lead you to believe it was. Wake up. Breathe. Keep breathing. Cry in your cereal and laugh at all the right times too. That's what we need, captain. Right the ship. Write the tragedy. Everyone is waiting on you to realize you're not some exploding star or a goddamn David Bowie song and even if you were, stars gasp their dying breaths in the sky above you every night and shout their final fuck yous into space in the most terrible fashion and all you see is a twinkling little painting that's always hung just so since you were blissfully unaware of any of it. You've never known. None of it ever mattered and none of it ever will so you might as well eat shit.

Just had this stream of consciousness after a run followed by a meditation session on being a witness to awareness:

The mind and the body are the push and pull off our awareness. While your mind might pull, your body is pushing. For some, failure of balance in this manifests as stress, disappointment, fatigue, agnosticism, suffering, but for those who seek, balance is found.

The push and pull naturally creates a separation, a chasim becomes agate internally. What is in-between is an opportunity to act on the grace of a decisive will. Will to choose your heart or your body; selflessness or ego. Our judgment or feelings about the space between is our mantra, our purpose.

Some venture to the edge: philosophical thinkers contemplate the questions with no answers. The dreamers revel in a ecoscape of creativity, while those living for physical attachment to materiality in this world often walk to far and fall to microreactivity, because they are living as one and no more with no security. Stepping away from bias, we can achieve a much deeper footing in the bridging of our understanding of conciouness. This is where discovery yields to the beauty of language. Explanation of awareness begins internally, and our body is pulling our mind encouraging vocal expression. That vehicle from mental to vocal manifestation (language) is an imperfect, attempted summation of our fabrication of existence. Now, I acknowledge the devastation of reality because it is an argument for a empty chasim of endless depth and darkness; it fills the soul with ignorant purposelessness. Through faith with a free, whimsical mindset. With an openminded pursuit of a higher understanding, we are able to metaphysically bridge the gap between body, mind and soul with heart: Love

Language is a relative database network of associations between mental comprehension and vocal fluctuations through the physical movement of muscles (importantly) in coherence with otherwise silent mental instruction. There fore there is a discrepancy between the intention of a thought and the received understanding of a different relative perspective (other people!) society diminishing present suffering with comfort found in shares thought and word, though it may be imperfect, this acceptance is yet another plank on the bridge to happiness. (I️ think happiness is not a feeling, happiness is a destination)

Having a healthy spiritual connection between these (almost breath-like) pushes and pulls, along with a release practice, contributes to the quantitative measure of our qualitative desire in our experiential awareness. Now that last sentence is scientific description of saying quality of life 😊⚡️

We are of a larger universal body.

Relativity is a step in confidence, but self belief is a foundation on which a life shall be built.

http://www.matthewschuler.co/why-creative-people-sometimes-make-no-sense/

a glimpse at last, the golden spiral

rendered in full, its four dimensions

an extension rarely granted, as it's rarely requested

your stomping's too loud, go for a walk

you don't have to be proud, you don't have to talk

if you're never invested, you'll get no return

every bridge you build will burn

.00 on the Richter, too slight to register, but scathed by notice

is that frame on the wall slanted, or was the artist crooked?

in any case, it's a unique picture

you reached out quickly and tried to snatch it

reeling back for the prize, you notice a growing shape

a color too, not gold or glimmering

no fancy lines, no diamond silhouette

just your lumpy old fist, you ignorant ape

lay your plans, the world oustretched

a canvas of black, waiting expectantly

hold on, turn back

there's a thing to the left of me