Five Acts

There's an open bottle on the counter with his eyes open, startled yet prophetic. Pleasantries accompanied by the daily tirades start us off before we realize how far we've come. Before these moments of sipping hot elixirs on an oddly warm September day, the feeling of mutual hatred that was real, not just the imitation we do to amuse our boredom. He might be the one person who understands how this air is suffocating to breathe in, to live in, to exist in. He knows how much it hurts to rise day in and day out.

I think back to those adolescent nights of discovering short stories by an ancient Russian and I have to pose so many questions to myself but the main one stands, I know the answer.
It's these days. They keep coming even when I refuse. I shake my head, cross my arms and hold my ground. A refusal partially of spite but also of logic, experience and the day to day that I live in.

I am worn through with fibers close to their final grasp at coherence but instead of real help, let's sit in these stolen chairs and discuss our mutual gripes. It will do for now.

I try to catch every sentence, every word you and I say, and quickly lock all
these sentences and words away in my literary storehouse because they might come
in handy.

The Seagull by Anton Chekhov

Unpropitious

He was inside me

without even knowing where he was.

What a funny feeling.

A Story & a Voice

Let me tell you a story, it's not mine to tell but hopefully they won't mind. One day, they were walking along, gray concrete and gray skies with nothing to separate the two. His hand was warm and hers was too, but covered by fingers not their own with tight grasps on opposite wrists. She whispered secrets through the sewer grates while he watched the gray turn to white then back again. She was lost in tunnels while he couldn't even see what his downfall would be before they both tripped head over heels.

Maybe I need to start documenting through images again because these thoughts are all incomplete and unfinished. I need something concrete, gray skies can only hold my gaze for so long. Let me show you the delicate patterns of the world that make living so difficult.

The origin of beautiful prose can't just appear, it has to exist. It has to be found and cultivated, through patience and hard work. It's ignorant of the writer to sit and wait for life to come to them, living it themselves is the only way to truly do more then just existing in the world.

One humble creator sits in a former pool, drinking in historical thoughts and transcribing everything down to individual pages. These words become concrete, ideas forever printed in ink. This ink sometimes will sit and wait, days, weeks, months, even years before it sees the light of an observant eye but once it does it lifts off of it's fibrous home and weaves itself with past memories and thoughts, materializing deep in the subconscious.

Can you see emotion, the connections that run as deep as the tributaries leading to and from your life source. A finger can rest over a word, studying patiently for it only to stay on the page. Everything is transferable in this world with a little work, bond with it not against it.

Abstract Expressionism : The Formative Years

Sussurations keep still, filtered light shining on water.

A blue grown up without control,

A fit of fidgets, coughs and things that don't keep still, stay well.

Rules can't be broken unless they're lyrically done.

Thirty one blue lights, two broken bulbs;

Incomplete thoughts lay tangent against the ganglion, waitingfornothing.

Gosh, what bullshit.