‘people are strange when you’re a stranger’
tousled curls thrown carelessly on a pillow. a hand in self-embrace grasps that vestige of dignity. the rooms artifacts scattered in disarray. blistering heat of a headache and a hangover. tomorrow unwanted treasures will be found. but for today.
walls are opening and i’m lying here but running through last night.
back at the drawing board again. i seem to have lacked that motivation to keep move forward and keep this thing going. Fear of failure seems to be a well masked attribute, or failing here. If the only failure is failing to attempt, then i seem to be the minority. no need. no try. time to join the irretrievable and discarded millions orbiting our collective mentality. the cost of bringing them back and recycling the words to create something useful…too high. leave them orbiting alone in that vast emptiness waiting for anothers idea to collide and together start their own little bang.
it might be a while till something good happens.
Even as we float known or unknown to others you tend to our seemingly complex turns of thought with deft touch and no little modesty. Sometimes surging, sometimes meandering, our calculation from your perch on high remains unclouded.
Thoughts that cross boundaries, course through our veins and find dwelling on page, in the recesses of mind or freedom in the voice of song are all possible because of you. We in our inestimable pride do not recognise you that have brought us here. You do not reside in stone figure, painted image or wooden symbol. You are not idolised, worshipped nor followed. You are not matter, molecule or neuron. You are everything yet still we continue relentless. Encroaching upon all that hasgiven us life we still do not recognise you.
We don’t have to.
Truckers know best
It’s strange how writing, any kind, can lend the author a feeling of worth, a feeling of productivity. Whatever drivel gushed from its nib, a pen confers upon its holder a sense of self worth. Justified or not this image is an invaluable aid for the suitably emotional writer. If one could imagine depressed souls composing themselves, forcing steel direction into their shaking hands as they pore over their desk attempting a suitable final riposte to the life they so desperately want to leave. The anguish and conflict that has brought them to this beautifully desperate point must be struck home, right back to those that have shaped this ending. Once the pen thuds down onto the table for the final time and rolls to its terminal stop they stand determined, rope, gun or pills in hand. And at that final moment, that infinitessimal present between the life they led and the void ready to receive them, they pause, turn and stare at the parchment and a wandering thought, lain dormant beneath the pain of self-fulfilling depression, explodes into a fountain of myriad and vibrant colours into the front of their mind. That explosion, that rainbow of positivity can bring a soul back from the reapers embrace, can bring a soul back from the brink. That is writing.
laputa in the sky and dali.
After my first hesitant steps, I thought it advisable to add a little more content and definition to what is basically a collection of random thoughts and ideas. I personally am on a experimental journey, beginning in the UK last August and following on to wherever it leads me. What follows now and will follow in the future are the by products of the journey. Some of the photos and words will be obvious, others hopefully less so.
Rather than explain the who, where and why of these the aim is to provoke enjoyment, distaste, or any other reaction as long as one is provoked. Even boredom will do. Put a plant in a car. Do anything. Just do something. I’m broke, half the world away from home and possibly criminal. So fuck it. Do anything.
