Journal Entry #1

There are too many roles that I’ve been asked to play, I can no longer adapt.

Each requires a different approach, a different temperament. I’ve always been about responding to other and the situation at hand, evolving to it. But when you’re balancing so many different parcels of chaos, it starts to wear you down. And breaking free from it usually means alienating those who’ve grown used to seeing you a certain way.

Most people don’t have this problem, they just are who they are, they live by their programming. They don’t question themselves, they don’t try to be better. They don’t look at all the different possibilities. They don’t try to accommodate others.

I envy that, even if such a life resembles a personality disorder wherein we meet each situation with the same rigid persona. When we are just who we are, we end up destroying a lot of shit because we assert ourselves into every situation rather than letting the situation mold us to fit.

But, maybe that’s the way to go? Alone, I have no issues and no burdens. Except for the memories of encounters past.

Should I just be cynical and bitter around others? That’d put me on par with the rest of the world. Should I be inconsiderate, selfish, and self-absorbed? I’d fit right in. To wear a scowl removed only for those who’d never harm me.

It’s sad when you realize that all the things your parents taught you—to be honest, kind, giving, and true to yourself—put you at odds with the industrial culture you live in, that they make you into someone who can’t excel in it, who is brutalized by it. Seeing my mother now, as she ages, the misery is slowly seeping in because she cares so much. She taught me to care as well.

It’s a beautiful teaching, but does it work? Is it practical? Looking at my own life, I’m not so sure anymore. The kindnesses and open hand are taken for granted to taken advantage of. Should I remain caring but simply limit the people I commune with? Should I be a working hermit, moving through the marketplace but touching no one?

These are the questions that flood the 4am hour. The only certainty is that my course cannot remain as it was if I”m to live with some sense of basic sanity.

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An Introvert’s Ballad

Silence sings an introvert’s ballad.

Silence makes no demands,
And it is immune to neglect.
It neither judges nor rejects,
Welcoming each fearless heart.

Always accommodating,
It turns away not a single one.
All who seek an embrace
Will find it, warm and waiting,
In solitude.

Guarding his silence,
He wades through noise
Like a warrior, assured
After a war hard won.

Guarding his silence,
He sees the world’s unfolding,
Past illusions waver like red silken sheets
Slipping from the thighs of a lover,
Laying, bare and breathless,
With the sumptuous winds of
Possibility tracing their ways –
Tickling along sensuous nerves –
To the longing seat of power.

Undisturbed, she moves through
The crowds. Unphased, she responds.
Understood by that which is unknown
To so many, she smiles in the dark
And breathes in the night.

How sweet it is to rest alone
Unbothered by thoughts.

A Daydreamer’s Nightmare

When the daydream is over, we wake where we were
With the times had an echo, an obscuring blur

Wisps of feeling—stubbornly struggling—occur
When the daydream is over, we wake where we were

The mourning dark, scrawled words with a slur
With the times had an echo, an obscuring blur

The heart’s drive still standing, a European silver fir
When the daydream is over, we wake where we were

The quest of the loner than none can deter
With the times had an echo, an obscuring blur

The ache of yesterday, a mind softly stirred
With the times had an echo, an obscuring blur
When the daydream is over, we wake where we were

Fearless

Another’s hands –
Such a dangerous place
To keep your heart

But in your own chest?
Such wasted beats

Never fear a broken heart
You’re in good company
For it’s the dreamer’s ache

No one ever said
This was gonna be easy

Driftwood

At the heart of things –
Driftwood carrying tides,
The names of two young
Lovers etched into the grain

There is a beauty to the irreverence,
To the irrationality, subtle hints
At a logic far too simple
To be understood

Drifting, each of us carried
By the tides of our own humanity,
Past the rules, past the people,
past the fears, the plans,
the words, the reasons,
Past the past –

A smile
A glimpse
A tomorrow

Twisted Tongue

Desire—the linchpin of action
Emotions flashing out like
Like cars on a light rail
Passengers busy themselves
Between terminals

Some never get off

Fear, sex, hope, and heat
A life of pale memories
Ghosts peaking up through
The dimly lit passages etched
In gray matter, a labyrinth
Snaring a soiled lizard
Whose venom blood
Is filtered into purest water
As it rises to the surface

No amount of knowledge
Has been able to free him
From himself

Watching cars switch tracks,
He rolls restlessly in sodden sheets
If the world would bend, he could be happy
Like the spoon in the Matrix, shifting
And twisting to his will

But nothing bends, and the smooth
Surfaces so often grow transparent
Revealing the stained, crooked teeth
That gnaw on the heart of the world

The war between self-concepts,
The Ideal a Tantalusian torture
And acceptance the numb glow
Of the Buddha’s opium den

Akin to all the rest, he sees himself,
The Ideal, the ghost of could-be
Haunting the dysfunctional present
Unable to be bent into is

Calling, calling across infinitudes
The vision returns a muted echo,
Voiceless lips stunted by static

Oceans of hatred, fear, and misery
Of longing, of contempt, and envy
He burns within the quiet fire
Of quickening contractions:

“I want to be!” his heart whispers
The world, a stone-faced pus sack
Doesn’t even hear

“I just want to play!”
That is his heart, his core –
Playfulness

Yet in meeting such squalor
Serious lines bleed from his fingers
And cover the minds of readers
In his own blood

“I just want to play!”
Held hostage by his own patterns,
None can help him,
He must do it himself.