Changes

I could’ve been a private investigator, or a hacker, or even a ninja. My parents always used to tell me I could be anything, right up until I told them I wanted to move to Colorado and be a dirtbag. Before that, it was assumed I was going to get a real job, buy a house, and settle for the life of a house wife.

Things change as we get older. Sometimes they settle down, other times we get complacent. We dredge through the new responsibilities and seek out excitement to enrich ourselves with. Sometimes we find it, and sometimes we stumble.

We meet new people all the time. Sometimes they come and go, just to leave a beautiful memory, a life lesson. Sometimes they stay for the rest of our life. Either way, you know damn well that I freaking love you and happy to be here.

I’m slowly attempting to be a “career oriented” that knows how to greet people in two different languages, and smile in a pleasing way. Maturity is defined by the experiences and empathy you have. I chose to take life at a faster pace than most, making mistakes, bleeding and growing in the process. Who I am, who anyone is today, should be something to be proud of, with a willingness to embrace your weaknesses and strengths in the same breath. If I didn't firmly believe that I deserved mountain-domination, I wouldn't stand where I was today, I'd be festering in my parents basement playing World of Warcraft and answering Craigslist personal ads.

I believe that loyalty is the rarest and most vital tenets of humanity. Loyalty is to "accept no harm" to those we love. If we could all do that, then the world would be okay, in the end. Right?

Rhymes

Exotic simplistic linguistics bumps sadistic mystics realistic
its artistic opportunistic, I'll kick it
the dualistic chauvinistic materialistic ballistic logistics breed primitivistic propagandistics voyeuristic...
of the hedonistic holistic naturalistic altruistic moralistics stylistics tick
egotistical spiracle miracle keep-me-full to the ground
compound around and away from rebound resound
and sustain my own inner champagne go to sleep to regroup arcane,
rest the body mind and brain

+

I  need to relax so I'm daydreaming again

I need some warm sand, a hot sun, and an ocean
or the jungle, herb and shrooms, and some drums
echoes bouncing off the trees, birds beneath the canopy
singing free, pure sounds, sparatic movement,
life embracing the spirit, the souls, and my body completely.
Running.
Feather steps, leftover morning dew-drops,
hidden places, faces, sacred spaces, plants, leaves, ground, textures, vibrations
Dark and light sun rays peeking through, reaching the ground
touching gently in an array of majestic, mystical warm sparkling patterns
Real, humbled, innocence, surrendering to the highest of powers.
Strength, Love, Light.

I wanna speak the language of the universe.

The Changing Seasons

Winter (The Director)
I fell for Winter way back in '99. One glance at her pristine beauty and crystal accomplishments, I was in love. I was young and alone back then, she taught me how to warm the cold and compete to survive. She could shear my breath with an icy gust, or enthrall me with confounding blizzards. I'd dream, and dream, and dream as I walked on her snowy blanket, past the snow angels to remember, and snowmen to build. But seasons change, and Winter rumbled on to find another lost lover to whisper her cold, cold secrets. I'm still waiting for that one frigid Winter to come around again, just to feel the stinging touch and relearn her gelid lessons.

Spring (The Builder)
Spring came with budding popularity, sunshine, and dependable rain. The zealous celebration of life, newness and delicate disaster of painfully exploding innocence, all brought me home. I danced, wrapped in nothing but showers, tromped through careful flowerbeds, and stood for today as no concern of tomorrow. She taught me how to nurture and listen, lest I miss something beautiful.  But Spring is an unpredictable season, going from lion to lamb without warning or reason. A lion passed one year, and Spring was gone, leaving only a wreath of flowers.

New Moon (An Interlude)
There's consequence to Love. Someday, if you listen carefully you'll hear it knocking at your door, asking for a cup of sugar and some answers. And maybe you'll invite it in and show the scars on your back from when you started looking for answers and borrowing sugar. Or maybe you'll just stand there, staring at the bathroom mirror and wishing the doorbell would ring. Or maybe you'll wake up and everything will be different, or everything will be gone, or maybe…

Summer (The Explorer)
Summer is a clear schedule, the keys in your pocket and a brilliant day to explore. Everyone loves summer, she shines so brightly that everyone knows her but she hardly knows herself. Even the darkest days are light and warm, the cold midnight and stars are kept away with her intense, watchful glare. I learned unyielding loyalty, and the importance of "together" from her intense sunny sessions, where a good summer day was utterly enchanting, and a bad is wholly unbearable. Sunsets and sunrises are plentiful in summer, always brilliantly scintillating and short-lived, best experienced on the beaches or lakes where you can spend it alone, together. She's the all-or-nothing organic incarnation of Bacchanal, giving and taking the desired points of life. With a flirtatious glance and a Cheshire smile I tumbled head-over-heels into hot summer love.

Autumn (The Negotiator)
Autumn is an evolving season. Uniquely celebrating the fusion from a previous life and the climax of a new, there's something sentient and spectacular about the reds, oranges and yellows as they shift through the streets and passages. I used to chase leaves as they fell, frantically trying to catch and catalog each in my butterfly net, then releasing the crowning colors back into the wild. Of course, they could never be described or fully captured in their vibrant splendor and beauty, for the traces of their previous life wove many stories over the pieces of the new. I'd walk along a wooded path, guided by the gentle rustle of an Autumnal breeze, and the muted crackle of leaves underfoot seducing my secrets until I had nothing but meaningless nothings and recollections; at which point I'd emerge refreshed and invigorated; and exposed. The quiet beauty and vibrant mystery of the Autumn season captures me, though each day more leaves fall, and the season threatens to change.

Dancing In The Moonlight.

Full-moon hike after work tonight.
It was magical as the animals were out and howling.
Dancing under the moon light never felt so right.

There is a man in my dreams. He is tall, beautiful, and glowing in happiness.

Together, we romance in imagination, whittling worlds and ages away to nascent concepts and blind ideas: before the dawn, beneath the dusk.

Whispered secrets and philosophies drift through the current of a river that runs along the paths. The paths that have always been there, some hazardous, some traveled, some yet to be discovered. And there are bridges, some smoking and ruined, others spanning vast depths and chasms, stretching across canyons filled with tears spilled along the journey.

The place within my mind is changing, evolving. My muse is a "will-o-wisp": entrancing, alluring, but deadly dangerous, enticing me with thrills to expand my universe, driving me to adventures I may not return from, motivating me to dizzying heights from which to fall.

I suppose sometimes you must fall, to fly.

There is a man, who is in my dreams. He is the prince charming who'd wake me up from my sleep  to dance under the moon. Every night, he'd light my soul on fire. I was filled with restless embers, just waiting for the next best thing to catch so we could light this place up. He took over my cerebellum and filled my thoughts with his smiles every waking seconds. The drum beats of my heart was racing fast only to fill my veins with passion and desire. I'd be excited and vulnerable. But the silly thing is, he wouldn't even know it.

I am the syringe with only one vaccination

Personal persona invincible against you
your passion
your lust
true to your heart, actions that reflect as deep as your soul
you are pure, just the wrong place at the right time
questions with seeming meaningless transparent answers attached to them
ask yourself one thing
do you regret
anything
if I told you, "I don't love you"
if I told you, "I can't love you"
would you understand?

Understand, I am broken

breaking time and time again
locked into a endless game of chase tail
deep in love, an emotion I can only recall
remembering the times that I could feel such a thing
memories that poison my life.

Do you regret me?

Expression of my sorrow grows inside me
mending my body and soul with the feeling of destruction.

Would you understand?

Nourishing Secrets

I’m searching for answers in this life I’m in, and the questions have always been the same. I’ve been crafting careful memories, both regrettable and irreplaceable with a bit of serendipity thrown in.

The passionate soul calls like a moth to the flame, bringing us close to the brink where we vibrate with the intensity to fly, or fall. It’s basic, instinctual, carnal, and beautiful.

It’s hardest to scrape out of the darkness when all you hear are voices screaming down. Sometimes you need a helping hand, some footsteps in the sand, a light to guide you. And other times you close your eyes and run, trusting the world to keep spinning and keep you firmly riveted to the ground.

I wish I learned how to juggle when I was young, a good skill for anyone to have. When you drop the ball you just dust it off, pick up a new one and keep things rolling. A wonderful philosophy and logic to apply to life.

My dreams have been running rampantly through my life, which always makes me uncomfortable. Whenever you dream about what’s happening instead of what could happen, it’s the harbinger of insanity. Pretty soon I’ll be muttering about butterflies and chasing tinfoil tumbleweeds across the kitchen wearing nothing but socks. Keeps the legs warm, you know.

A constant ear, a gentle touch, a whispered kiss—these things nourish me. I’m convinced that there’s deeper meaning within the secrets we try so desperately to hide. Only on release of ourselves or to each other can we ever reach enlightenment.

There’s so much magic in the world, so many possibilities, so many stars to gaze and mountains to conquer. In the end you're either remembered or forgotten. Good intentions and careful planning are like holding the ground to avoid a centrifugal ride into outer space. You'll never know it is one hell of a ride until you let go.

Making The Cut

What does it mean to be a friend?  I mean, a real friend.  What does it take?  Do people even know, anymore?

I went through my friends list this morning, and recognized all the faces.  I remembered all the things we did together, the various conversations, hugs, kisses or secrets shared.  And then I deleted them.  I didn't even like an uncomfortable number, and I'm sure they felt the same way, we'd just fallen victim to the social graces and popularity contest that we call life.

I'm raising the bar again, if you're still on my friends list, congratulations—I find you to be a genuine person at heart, and believe you're a valuable, sincere contribution to existence, as a whole.  But what's my opinion matter?  I'm just another crazy, wild child who believes that world domination is merely the next step to enlightenment. 

Trust is a fickle thing, hard to gain, and easy to lose.  How does one build trust?  In my opinion, empathy and reliability are crucial factors, but the most important is that what everyone seems to miss:  unfettered, unapologetic availability.  I readily admit that I'm sometimes too tied up in my own life to realize what's going on in everyone else's, but if I get a call from a friend in need, then I drop whatever I'm doing and fulfill my obligation as a dedicated friend to them.  I don't start crunching numbers, I don't glance repeatedly at my watch, and I try not to cut them down.  Instead, I jump into my car, open my schedule, and freely offer my wallet, and heart.  Why does our relationship with others always come with strings and limitations?  Why are we so hesitant to commit to others, and truly help those we love?

We all have acquaintances.  You know the type, you buy them a drink when you're out and about; you give them a hug when you're spotted on the street, and then you never, ever call them outside of the social circumstance.  There's nothing wrong with this, but they are not your friend.  It's bothersome when people are so obsessed with the contest, and so set on cool that everyone's "my boy, my girl".  There's no respect there, anymore.  They don't care who you are, and you might offer an, "oh, that's too bad" if you heard they fell off a bridge, but there wouldn't be any more thoughts after that, and certainly no tears shed.

Respect, where does respect come from?  Is it the sum of accomplishments, the acclaim and responsibility vested unto, or the investiture of proven, experienced heroism?  I feel that respect is earned through awe and manipulation, but also through critical confidence in self. 

You never hear about "common sense" people on the news.  You hear about the risk-takers, the crazy, and the dead.  We respect those people, we're awed.  Most of the time, we say, "I could've thought of that", or, "I wonder what I would've done in that situation".  Or perhaps, we're simply amazed, and respect suddenly blossoms.  We're constantly looking for those who inspire us, for those who pursue and compete with their idols.

How do you maintain that empathetic, unfailing bond against the jagged hardships of life, humanity and competition?  How do you balance a double-edged razor?  Can we ever be a quintessential friend to anyone but ourselves?

Holding Hands With Your Shadow!

When you turn out the lights and immerse yourself in the pitch-est of pitch, and the blackest of black, what do you see? Do you feel a chill creep up your spine, as the monsters from your childhood creep out from under the bed and rustle within the closet, or feel the warm blanket of darkness welcome you home? Do you desperately search for a guiding light, or feel your way along the walls by rote?

We're all looking for something different in the dark. Some of us search for treasure, others run from nightmares, and still others stumble blindly, groping for something to hold onto.

There's something to be said for walking alone in the dark, away from the city lights and away from the press of people, far from the glitz and glam of everyday life. You're left with yourself, your thoughts, your motion, the rhythmic beat of your heart, and the resolute inhale/exhale of breath. You can finally let down your guard, there aren't any prying eyes or explanations to be provided. You can finally reflect on yourself, as a vulnerable subject, deprived and devoid of (visual) perception. You can let your imagination tumble the wraiths and wavy shadows in the absence of light into umbral clouds, and you can feel your most basic instincts kicking in. Your hearing sharpens, you become alert, the adrenaline courses through you as a critter scurries across the path. Still, your feet keep treading, one in front of the other, and your chest rises, and falls.  Rises, and falls. You're in a routine, now, walking alone with yourself in the darkness, holding hands with your shadow.

silken silent silhouette reflecting on collections
protecting perceptions and the twilight photoic projections
affections are interlaced
some selections replaced
in this shower I'm liquid lavender encased
after the fresh shampoo i just wanna cuddle up next to you
and sit witness to this galactic spaztastic elastic game of
Fate Intimidate. 

Papered Bird

If I could fold you up into an origami creation, you would be a bird. Painted wings and glued-on eyes, watching the horizon with wind in your heart and your soul plastered across your feathers. Flighty and headstrong, pressed into a stubborn sheet of paper, crumpled into a mimic of yourself.

People would take you into their homes and into their lives, whispering their secrets to you when they could tell no one else, because they know your crafted beak won't spill a word. They will set you upon their mantle piece and take you for granted, understanding that you will always be there, a fixture in their worlds, beautiful and listening.

 

Until one day you turn on them, flying out of their lives as lightly as you flew in, and suddenly they realize how much they had relied on you. How much space your color took up, and how little you really cared about their lives.

They would realize, then, that a paper heart is nothing more than a pretty construct.