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.
The grey sky looks blue when you’re yellow.
I hope the rain cradles you
And makes you new.
Ready to die
Too heavy to cry
Aspire for nice wings
So I can steadily fly.
Sick of interpretations
Sick of your perfect hatred
Sick of you workin late and
Feeling like I’ve been taking
All of this love for granted
Sick of this fucking planet
Really I can’t stand it.
Really I’m just a phantom
A shadow of a former self
That wasn’t even whole
It’s been ten years
Of me searching for my soul
At the hands of the unfinished
hands of the broken
So I’m alone w a mac, maschine, and a Roland.
And I dream of just floating
I think we’re just hopeless
Drink somethin potent
Hoping you notice
My self destructive tendencies
Looking outside for the inside enemy.
All the things you said to me
I let it rest in peace
God descend from the heavenly
Been on some fucked shit
Since I was seventeen
When I told you the truth
You told me you’d never leave.
But what a load of crock
Wow I’m so shocked
Now I need to stop
Chilling on the block
Stay workin in my room
Until I finally get my shot.
Want to know something about the Shaman?
He’s not Jesus. He’s just a guy who stumbled by accident upon the waters of eternal life.
Making pie is not about immortality.
It is about leaving his burdens behind.
Getting out of his mind.
Away from himself.
From his sins.
But his past isn’t going anywhere.
It’s as present as the noon day sun hanging over the Pacific.
He wakes up and faces it every morning.
It’s his cross to bear.
And Anna has not come to set him free,
Nor has he come to enlighten her.
Of this we can be certain:
The two have things to learn from each other.
For they are more alike than either know.
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.
Soul felt lyrics.
Make money simply for the sake of existing and supporting life.
Stop apologizing for being selfish with personal resources.
Break down old structures.
Build up new ones.
Begin where the self already stands.
Am I in control of my own life?
Do the voices of others,
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.
But like… maybe God sleeps in the nude.
Maybe he only wears pajamas in the daytime.
Maybe Earth was an accident
Like he farted and it knocked over a table and that table started a chain reaction which ended in the creation of Earth.
It’s not entirely impossible.
I just think there’s more to it.