How Mice Must Seam to be Gentle

There came a revelation that what was happening was the opposite of what was intended. I had never wanted energy, and went to lengths to ensure I wouldn't t have it. I believed I thought too much, and wanted to get rid of that habitual nuisance. Energy was deviated at any chance: jerked off constantly to prevent any arousal; pot so that I wouldn't try to do anything or think too much on something; slept in and stayed up late to avoid contact, interaction, energy...and in the reversal came a sudden desire to act, something so rare and unfounded in my existence, to the sense that there was a real need to act, it was a strange sense to me, something that was even harder to cope with as I realized that my inherent energy was vastly diminishing, probably even more so as I spent so much time trying to get rid of all that power. Yet, there is also an annoying paradox: while I spent all that time wasting energy, not trying to do anything, I also wasted good time and opportunity to waste energy on more pleasurable things. HA! Oh well, another day another life. How interesting and how important could it really be? I still even have my doubts, not any more, or less, seriously...its hard to truly care to act when there seems to be nothing useful in the sky, nothing inherently wonderful about the killings down the street or in the other avenue. Whatever, it seemed. And there yet lies another twist, when I consider the fact that all along, throughout all of it, I had this insatiable and curious belief that I would sustain, that somehow this body would permeate throughout entire lifespans, regardless of the abuse or the refinement, and so yet again, it didn't matter. Whatever would come, it would stay or pass or just linger in my mind, like everything else, and the sun would keep coming up. AND HOW WONDERFUL A THOUGHT IS that, THOSE PLACES OF THE WORLD WHERE THE SUN DOESNT EVEN SHINE...HOW I WANT TO MAKE LOVE TO A DAY LIKE THAT, HOW I WOULD BURY MY FACE IN ITS BREASTS AND FUCK MY MIND OUT OF CONTROL, AND WHEN I WAS DILAPITATED AND TIRED AROUND THE THREE O'LOCK HOURS, IT WOULDNT' MATTER WHICH .m. IT WAS BeCAUSE NO ONE ELSE WOULD CARE EITHER, A CUP OF MILK OR some CEREAL OR SOME YAHTZEE OR HARDCORE FUCKING WHEVNER YOU FELT LIKE IT , HIDDEN BEHIND THAT MYSTERIOUS BLACK AND YET ENLIVENED TO REALLY EXPREIENCE...WHAT A WONDERFUL BLISS, but instead we have these days...”living off borrowed time the clock ticks faster” and nothing more said could be any more true, my life has accelerated in the past several years, and even more so in this year of congruent months and solipositing incubating weeks, what a fucking drag it all is, and thinking that one day one of these days will have to matter, that one of these days will become a Monday of October, or a third of july, fuck and damn it all, I want neither, I want something close to what I will describe as tranquility, which some may take to me some pacifier vacation, something other worldly in the sense that it doesn't really correlate with this progressive worker world mentality, but it isn't...my tranquility resides in a notion that behind the clock, and the veil of “matters” and morals, there is a guideline to rational and sophisticated debouched living that encompasses a real striving for nothingness, no nomenclature or effulgence or symbolic hedonism, instead what would have is a speculation to the divine it self, that out of this misery and awkward awakening in a disillusioned program called “reality” by the business men and saleswomen, is somehow more prevalent only because we appease to it, that we don't avoid the fact that none of this really matters, certainly not to ourselves and maybe to some of those sick packs of worshipers...but behind this illustration, this veil of anonymity forced into out psyche as antisocial and ill, is actually a real feeling of exuberance, and a joy that we have readmitted ourselves into the primordial, outside the limitations of christs and ecology. We are no where near what we are, however true it all may seem.

Call a Locksmith

The spirits of the sinners and the relentless become the air that I breathe as they follow me like soldiers in march. I gasp at the thought of who controls my mind and why they've taken me on. No matter how strong my will is, I cannot conquer the undead soul. I am my own colony. My last breath will only be a partial death. Then, we will haunt someone else.

my weekly routine

The cord is connecting the result to the thought.

I don't move backwards, but I can when rethinking the past.

Nostalgia sets in and I daydream for days.

In my trance I fall. My knees buckle, my feet go numb and my blood goes cold.

When I wake, my sight is deluded. I lie in bed and I swear I sense you smelling my breath.

It could be anyone, but I'm always hoping it's you.