Written a while back:
(I’m really sick right now, and wrote/felt/lived this while meditating in water because being alert and conscious wasn’t what the germs wanted)
I escaped and before I was able to realize where I had gone from, I began to drift across the surface of the water. Travelling this path a voice encouraged me to reach in and pull up as much water in my hand as I could hold. With hand half opened I lifted it from the water and a texture began to form. The water grew warmer and began to pulsate. I knew this device was not my own and that I could never control it. It had to be left alone. I slowly dropped my hand back into the water with fingers stretched. The form of water stayed in my hand and grew as heavy as a liquid metal. Feeling the form pulsate even faster and stronger than before I knew that I could never decide it’s fate but that it might be inclined to stay on it’s own. I will let it rest there, warmer as the days pass, warmer till it burns through my hand or melts into me, creating my new shape. A hand with a heart in it.
The hate and sensation of fear they have of me makes me fear them for fearing me.
I walk endlessly looking inwards at the outside world, encapsulated around nothing but the idea that this world is inside of my perspective and outside only because I am inside of nothing but what is not outside.
Why do I analyze the potentials to an extreme?
Why can’t I be satisfied with what should be right or something already on the inside of me?
Why do I seek refuge from persecution to the extent where I persecute those for the persectution they haven’t yet given me?
I am afraid.
I default.
I assume.
And here I am, a dishonerable being who falls into his own traps often.
It should be the other way around.
I should indulge in the possibility that perhaps this means something more, perhaps they are right.
But mostly that I am wrong.
I persecute myself, for I am the one who inevitably falls.
Here’s a little poem I wrote while being sick from some really greasy pizza. No it’s not about a person so don’t think it’s about you or someone you know, and it’s not about an addiction. Think about it a while. It’s a puzzle. Read the underlined words and imagine both from two perspectives related to each other.
Every time I close a door someone opens it again.
Your sickness is my health, your destruction is my form.
Your progress is my delay, my adventure is your game.
I enjoy your company and I loathe you all the same.
I cannot exist without you, but I’m paralyzed by you.
You’re my worst quality. I call you friend.
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