Autumn

Now is the autumn of my discontent 

My being I 

I being this ailing world 

And within it 

A speck called me. 

A leaf

Browned in vein.

Falling 

Falling 

Falling 

To the tired earth.

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Thoughts

This blog has once more become a private sanctuary. I’m glad for it. Exposure is lovely. Solitude is better. Even still I worry for my privacy. For my ability to speak without consequence. Hence the physical journal that no one sees. The one in which I haven’t written a heartfelt thing in months. I have shied from it. I’m tired. Wishing I could sleep. Wishing that artistry wasn’t such a struggle. Wishing this world supported my craft on a socioeconomic level. Wishing what I did for money didn’t secretly ruin my sense of self while seeming to empower it. I live in a catch 22. Paradox is my middle name. Sadness haunts me when I cannot hear it. Body image issues hang like shadows over my being. A yearning to be what I can never be. A yearning to turn the clock back to a time before high school. Somewhere amidst the blossoming of my true self. To a time when I could have changed my fate. But what I am. The life I lead. Appear to me fated. Inevitable. Unchangeable. Fixed. Static. So again acceptance forces its way into my mouth. Forces its way into the meat of me. The core that demands peace. That is made of it. That is shrouded in illusory tapestries of misplaced suffering. So here I am. Alive. And that must be good enough. That must be sufficient. For I’ve no other option but death. And death is no option at all. Because it will come of its own accord at some point. There is no rush and there is no uncertainty about it. Only the necessity to live well and rightly and bear whatever the universe has seen fit to lay upon my plate. 

Butterflies don’t fly on the moon

Sometimes 
I wish 
I could be 
A butterfly 
Flying by 
Flying high 
Sometimes 
I have 
Visions of suicide 
Take me away 
Help me erase.
-Raury
What else is there to say of this world? It could be said that Italians do not eat peanut butter, that love is not what we think it is, that sex and music are humans’ two greatest languages, that blackberries have no qualms with blueberries, and spider wasps provide great metaphors. 
It could be said that magic is real, that a girl with loose auburn curls and the smile of a child could easily arouse it in your life, but that it takes considerable effort and intention to arouse it within yourself. 
It could be said that a cherry pie knows everyone’s deepest secrets and still has room left for filling, or that hamsters — given the right diet — could make an entire island invisible. 
It could be said that the Shaman is actually the second coming of Jesus. But it could also be said that he’s a lunatic with a weird grin and a past too sad for movies. 
It could be said that a caterpillar must become soup before transforming into a butterfly, that disrupting the process could ruin everything. 
It could be said that she is happy, and fulfilled, and that you have no idea what’s real anymore. 
It could be said that the wheel is finally grinding to a halt, and that something else is there winking at you.
It could be said that I am not a writer at all, but an animated clump of flesh that will one day make a great dinner for a family of worms. And that any attempt I make to articulate the seering mystery of things is about as useful as a carton of old milk. It’s not going to do you any good for me to tell you how to live your life. 
I was a child once. 
With dreams. 
Big nebulous dreams 
Some of them nightmares. And that child has grown into a tangled mess of paradoxes. She’s basically a box of Christmas lights wrapped in garden hoses. She’s basically the human version of an alien. Her curls have been known to pick up radio transmissions from space, and every one of them sounds like Don Knotts playing the washboard. 
Zero is more of a number then ten will ever be.
Twin flames are real but that doesn’t matter much at all.
Sometimes angels will tell you important things but you’re addicted to your cell phone so you’ll miss most of it. 
Sometimes you write in the second person when referring to yourself. 
Sometimes 
I wish
          I could be 
                            A
                                   Butterfly. 

Begin

Begin to make moves in the direction of a strong, well balanced, drama-free artistic, literary, and musical community flourishing by the sheer effort of its members. 

Begin to walk away from the energy suckers, the phonies, the manipulators, the emotionally reactive.

Begin to extricate energy from improper circumstances and relationships. 

Begin to limit endeavors. 

Begin to hone them down. 

Begin to focus clearly and consistently on positive feedback loops. 

Music.

Beats.

Lo-Fi sounds.

Soul felt lyrics. 

Novels. 

Poems.

Short stories. 

Make money simply for the sake of existing and supporting life.

Stop apologizing for being selfish with personal resources. 

Wake up. 

Break down old structures.

Build up new ones. 

Become.
Become. 
Become. 
And begin. 

Begin where the self already stands. 

Autonomy

Autonomy.

Am I in control of my own life? 

Do the voices of others,

Lovers, 

Family, 

Friends,

Get to dictate my decisions? 

Trying to please people 

Trying to keep the eggshells intact.

Trying to walk lightly 

And live well. 

If I could just make my decisions 

Without pressure from the outside 

That would be great. 

Following my own compass.

Living my own right. 

Instead of your wrong.