please be warned that this may be junk material. NO grammar check or copy editing made. I wrote this without touching anything for corrections. It is as is. The more nonsense it gets, the better. It is unfinished, though.
July 4
In this planet, I am random. I am scorned when I do not
think in this manner, and I am scorned when I say I do not understand why and
complain about not understanding. And yet
no one is ever in the position to punish me. I am rendered no fruit but some
brackish analogy as to what fits whatever, and to who jives with whomever. And
when I call this normal, I am scorned. And again, no one is a doer. Just
me, as creamed as the mud cake. I spill
off when I think it is a feeling. In
this planet, I write nothing but feelings.
I try imagining myself broken and I couldn’t see it. I see, instead, lamp light, plugs, and a lump
of my mess. I feel unresolved but I see so much than this confusion. I ponder myself as an action. If I try seeing it as an action, I ask “do I
denote or do I kill?” Some kill as they
wake up. Some kill as they sleep. But I
kill when I am awake. All this is
nothing but I fiery loneliness, unanswered. All this is loneliness unresolved. Upon trying to understand myself, I
cry and speak of words I carefully choose. And for awhile, it is comfort and for awhile it seems forever.
Today, I write like I have just learned words. Whether I’d be illogical, ill, unthinkable or
erroneous for some reasons, I will not feel broken if you tell me. I do not want sentence constructions today. I am writing like I have never written
words. I am writing like it will keep me
waiting if I ever pray it’d stop.
Peepholes and some broken tag lines in my memory divulge
more than how much I wish to spill. Some feelings are just never constant. Right for the other moment and simply
unimaginable in the other, either way, I loose. It splices me like cinnamon bread. And it pounds me down like I am some betel nut. The harder I cover
myself, the more I breed malice. If
ghosts are real, them I am haunted. If
not, then I am haunted still… My ghosts
are never easy, I am never wrong.
If I think this is a craft, then I have in fact turned some
screw. If I think this is art, then I
have in fact returned home. But I wish
not to be at home. I wish to be in my
planet. Nothing but me in my own. Some people, when writing in each of their
own planets are sane. I am not. Why
so? Maybe because, this is how my planet
is. Curtains I have never washed, could
speak on my behalf. There is no real
story in the world where I eat, drink coffee and laugh like crazy. I am writing one.
***in the washroom
I am drowsy now. But
since sleepy is not a word equivalent to any meaning in this inner world, I
will only declare myself not conveyed. I
am sinking down this river of glass and not single fixture can hold me up if I
deem it relevant to do so. And as I
write more than character after character, I am only writing space after space.
***talking in the phone
There is a feeling of redemption from the sinking for a
while. And whether I’m stoned or
conveyed successfully, anything was just there for a few breathings. My real purpose is to spell things well. Yes, I know pillow spells P-I-L-L-O-W, but
things don’t seem well covered. I can
think with lights off. I can think under
my covers. As I sit in this uncomfortable bed, I trouble myself with good night
questions. Questions magazines would
advice never to be raised during this hour. 2:10 AM and I am wallowing. My shadow seems awkward. Light is on my face as I face this
screen. I know this is exactly why I
love this. This is my moment of being no
one else, and nowhere else in this axis.
***in the phone again
(fell asleep)
11:14 AM
I couldn’t recall a single dream this time. But, damn, it is
late. And as I attempt to enclose myself
in a sleep, I miss school work. I want
to just stay here undisrupted but could it be not, that I want disruption the
most this very hour? There are things
that I couldn’t deconstruct in the weather. Because I couldn’t see it or feel clearly, I feel lost in this lunacy. My mind is playing tricks on me again. I wish it would just stop and tell me to take
my ass out this perfect pose.
There could be reasons for this attachment. I am thankful for getting over the madcaps
computer game. Although, not
totally. Clinking of caps against time
is a demented idea, but good.
I am halfway sad and halfway happy. Am I half blessed or
have screwed? But here now, my planet is
going to squeeze as punishment. I just
checked for grammar and it is prohibited. I feel like a prick, really. If I
do not get anything good from this writing, I burst bubble or what, I consider
myself doomed as a miser.
I got up out of free will and it feels well. There is not
other reason for me to sink in intoa crazy idea because at last, I feel
normal. I have this slight idea that I
am fading from the scene. Because I do fade under to fade up, like audio back
ground in a radio program, I am normal.
I am normal because I can think of comparisons. I jive with the world when there is the need
to do so. I disclose and enclose. I
persuade and dissuade. But I have
persuaded more than dissuaded. For some
reasons, I do not work full time dissuading. I let people think how worse things could get. But I am not an expert. Anyone could be too
silly to believe me now.
I sometimes feel uneasy about this. Some persons consider it a crazy idea to
delight over such pleasure. I am a lost
quarter under the sun. Disguised as
convinced, I distract my self again.
There are voices outside the room and they have been awake
for a long time already. They have been
wide open for a long time now. I want to
know if they feel the same way and if they do, should they feel this way. Sometimes, the world seems to help out but
now, it conspires.
Now, I think I should get going. I will come back.
(living in the axis again)
