I've sat in circles, in the center of the room with faces flush for conversation in a way I've always known. The walls have ways of fading, the faces all grow faceless. Their words yet spilling where their formless mouths believe, in these rooms I've all but left, watch my starry eyes recede. I've gone to all the spaces, to find the in-between.
All my life we've kept our lives in small concealed compartments, in hiding spots in little rooms, our little home in separate boxes. We stole our eyes and left the rest, and small talk now survives. Please forgive my faulted faith, I've lived so long alone outside.
no matter how many times you tell yourself "everything is ok" the unsettling edges of overthinking parade and with every worst-case scenario, your breath has run away
Make the same mistakes in finite steps to breaking your own heart. Break. Reprise. Break. Repeat. And only break until you're no longer left, and all you had to give is lost to lust and wasted in fleeting fucking smiles and double taps until that lurking fear you like to think can't happen does and the only thing thats left is lonely. The only one to share it with is you, and any brief encounter in whatever hour your life brings home. Your quiet house, your silent home will fill with lyrics of only your favorite sad songs in reminiscence of all the lives you crossed and times you couldn't commit and all the second chances you had and left for loss, always believing they were better off, better faired, when all along you were always scared.
Running from parts of myself that were easy alone. But baby whats left? And how much have you known? I can't get very far, very fast from the place, but I opened a door, straight into you. And the pulling parts, the ghosts before, keep pulling back from running more. The parts of me I've longed to leave keep coming back in fear of the left behind. My life is always leaving, staying sounds sublime.
I see all in dim light and dreaming lately. Looking for a place I left behind. A home in the Dakotas, a home that's hardly such. A place of temporary taste, as always, another in my transient tapestry of always onward under a false flag of duty and prize. I'm held together by unsettled breaths and reflection; and in reflection of strides assumed in the right direction I'm finding myself short on time, or perceived as such, in part, in strung out times I'm strung along on caffeine and another dream of leaving. A bigger dream this time, a bigger feeling. For something here will be left behind, and the driven life that most admire will burn for preservation.
i remember those days and the party cups, it was all too fun, we would never split up. we could never get hurt, we were all too young. in the days and nights with the boards out back, with the beers and girls, when we never looked back. when we toasted the moon and mourned with the sun, before we all grew up, before we'd ever get hurt, we were all too young. days and weeks where the streetlights swayed down the same old streets we were born and free, with the suburb sweethearts and American dreams.
it’s a life less frightening from the back of the room. foot on a wall. foot on the cool.
feelings of fading and a life steadily on the sidelines as a version of me, out there, fumbles, flaws and all in false minor victories under flags to fall
fate. duality. purpose. anxiety. faith and lack thereof. strangers mannerisms. the way light comes naturally through windows in dive restaurants and makes royalty of a relic. energy, and ones ability to effect a room in the immediate. pure aesthetics. intimacy in shadows and smiles by the low light. dualism. the far reaching, finite, inescapable affectation of the dualism of life. karma. influence. truth, and want of. little lies and are they innocent? memory. ones ability to adopt any specifics and arrangements of the past as they see fit to the varying light of their current life. stories. coincidence. conspiracy. charm in conversation and the elegant power in a simple smile. perspective. effort. empathy. expression. obsession. all of these as i see them in regularity and adoration. as all the parts of all the days of me. the recollection, and the trailing off as the sounds of the day surround the lines of the page. and i simply am, again, carried off, return my day away.
you exist in the low light in dreams i sometimes dream, and wake up wild wondering...the sun rode out our make-believe
There’s a certain tinge to timing. When words are worked, and perfect letters lift a curtain in the way they leave some lips. Time tested, for smiles left in airports where I never turned back; and before it’s known, a scene starts moving, unfolded from the former, and people, places are more than walk-pasts and dreams-ons. More than memories in the face of the fatalist brevity of the best encounters. That certain change. The tinge of timing rinses, off-white to bright, and the desert shines to summer.
I reside with a vast collection of inconsistencies. A sea of distraction that's dust collected me; still I come back to a path where no X's sleep, and all question marks proceed. The same old ride-by-luck, drawn on hope and infinities. My coming back, my toxic trials, my heart resides in all these miles; my face-to-face finds peace in all the midnight tides. I come again, and leave again, and back and forth by right. On letting go, and consequence, and continental quills. Stuck to me, stuck on us in black and white beguile. Drawn inside and disappeared and "Hey, come back in time". On letting go, and letting go of mine.
The weight of explaining to someone how you've changed. They stare in expectation, knowing, wanting, waiting for your story, because there is always a story. To sum a lifetime of nuanced actions, reactions, insults, injuries, scars, starts, start-overs, endings, renderings of every you from every time and the culmination of every life you've lived in your lifetime of living... the thought feels a forgery. The question puts words in our mouths and minds as gospel, but we will change again, and those words turn false from hymnal...
a choice, in defeat of all design. always a choice to dance around your fleeing mind. but left to chance, a choice is felt to pass, a crime to wave goodbye.