Pers

there is that one time I had just prayed then I looked outside and my bed because that fine time I was wishing for a life where I can be with you and a child, and the animals in a small house, of no other of no nexts but something called out to me this is a test to be gotten out of like a certain death like I should be out out, out, out and that once I am out then we are all out

 Logic is the new magical thinking. Our ancestors died when they have decided that certain things mean the end of it, its death. When you are sad to the core and kills the self for it, it is the end of it. When sickness hit you, the plague is unstoppable, it is the end of it. When war or raging higher up men, powers you, it is the end of it. Until a logic man comes up and tells all of it, this taxonomical life. You are not sad, you have depression, it is just a fact and not the end of it. You are not sick to die, you have a sickness, it is just fact and not the end of it. You are not a soldier, it is just fact, and political boundaries can be changed by rigorous action, it is not the end of it. Logic is optimism at the not dying. It is just how we kept on living. It is how we increase the average age of living. 

I am at an absolute death. At an absolute death. But I am afraid of dying. But I don't want to be the best person. I can't keep up being a super good person like an everyday tick of a calendar. I can't be that constant sisyphus of Good, it's the only boulder this proverbial can't roll. I get so bad at writing. I get so bad at being. But I don't want to be bad, guilt knows something I don't. Guilt knows something that was not familiar with me. Though he himself is inside me. I'm wrapped up stickified lollipop-like of a guilt based substance.  I blame my curly hair, I blame my asymmetrical face, I blame the bodies of other people, I blame my rotten brain, I blame it all on everything that is existing within and before the context of falling out of a coconut tree. I can't live, am I wrong to keep you here? am I wrong to think we can be healthy? am I wrong to think I can have you? am I wrong to think this life is not it? It's all everywhere, that my ...

All the things that are bad in this world, negotiation is the only thing you have to do to keep up. I have been sick again, and reminded of all things that are sick in this world. I refused to call them bad or synonyms alike. I am a rotten root anyway, the fruit itself survives sure. I have had cold feets and more. I will cancel my therapy session tomorrow. Sometimes the only thing that I can think of is thought itself. I have had so many thoughts not long enough to write, to make sense. I know I exist though, through the means of one second realizations of the moment, then it's gone again because I have to interact, that interaction is like lapse of water over inks over paper over threads. It's not just is. Not just is.  I am sorry God, I am sorry God.  You do realize that I can't write right? I'm the one with the disease.

       I think from now on there is a different rationality. Anyhow, everyday is a build of different things for another set of time. Say you are a child of 5 years old, having your toys to play for yourself everyday (factor in your self that this is a kid who has his ways) then a day of your cousins visit, you had to weigh in that factor and share your toys to. Now you are 27 at the age of working an extra shift for a colleague of no relation. Tabulating this does not put a negative connotation as you analyse them. I am just in pain of time. Of the obvious. Of my start and my end. And that they mean the same thing. The tabula rasa or that mea culpa. Have you known? Duh. I am kinda dumb.

     My sister's hatred on me is like a breakfast orange juice. It's a common notice among people that western idea, or maybe like a cereal. But I am not that, of course I am not. Though declaring what I am to her idea is some kind of narcissistic birth. Maybe I have had lived as this narcissism, like a name. Like a hidden subtle name to be called out by irking faces.      I think a sleep makes them a different. I've touched candles as they burn, and as it dries while I don't see it's residues, I feel it. Is that how we see people? Is that how we connect? I am just sleepy right now.  I don't know how to get rid of myself. I've pretended like an out of work actor. I've method acted the way out this pretend. Pretend, then I'm pretentious. I can see the world's tries ignoring death except for their own. One, two, three is a disorganized pattern. Words are my tries. Words are my tries. I'll write my manifesto soon. 

     Let me paint a picture. Not really a picture but a catch, mound and mold of particles I capture with my yearning hand, of this scene, I so, so regain every once in while. This yearning hand screams at the importance of the temperature. Imagine a temperature of walking enfolded, comfortably wrapped, of a blanket puffed out of the inoffensive oven, only to care for you and much better -- with your love. With the addition of snowlike pretend of a wind. Then that balance of an after cry, a weird homeostasis, to know that you know comfort before pain. That is that temperature. Call that exact White Temperature. No hues pulling to one side of blue or orange. It is the white you have known instinctively.       With that white, remember that. Remember it with your heart. It is divine because God gifts you this threadlike movements inside you. The threadlike connections, that learns you while you learn them. God gifts you this imagination. And I used to mu...