politics of the selves

i’m right here

where i once left and i’ve circled back

i don’t know what is happening inside my mind

i know it’s filling up with thoughts and feelings

but i’ve forgotten how to strain the thoughts apart from each other

and apart from my heart

i feel bundled up in a singular point

like the beginning of time

and space;

a singularity

that outside the realm of time,

encompasses the universe

and an infinite possibility of being

but within the realm of time,

trapped within the ticking clock,

i’m still tied up all together

i cannot yield the power of the stability of being one

to all the different selves within me

all the different feelings

and doubts

and conflicts

there’s simply no space safe enough

for all my selves to be

slipping

I’ve been getting worse

the lows are getting lower

and so are my highs

i think it started happening when i stopped writing

when i stopped knowing things for certain because they no longer existed on paper

the thoughts started slipping from my mind

drawn to the abyss of forgetfulness

i am void of coherency because i have been reduced

to the memories of yesterday

but any other day before that is lost

fluttering away the way a moth’s wing starts breaking down

when you swat it mistaking it for a mosquito

instead of etching away at trauma

i’ve broken down all memory

and thus

all sense of being.

 

Ticks

It happened one day when I was overworked and overwhelmed with too many details and too many striking clock hands. And when I rested my elbow upon the rough grey surface of the table, I saw it. A surge. Moving me noticeably. This was not a hallucination. This was not my mind playing with my reality; a bending I was familiar to.

Voltage runs through bone marrow.

I remember continuously finding the energy between my hands. Fast movements, I was always a ball of glowing enigma. Something so mysterious yet so accurate. Movements so determined in defying the slowness of nature.

But this was different; it started without willingness. It came out of nowhere or rather the accumulation of everything. Like the leftover food that never seemed to go away, this motion struck me and left me hanging in constant movement for the following ninety minutes. Never stopping once, but never exhibiting any pattern.

Numbers to stretched apart, it felt like I was weaving in the most infinite of the larger infinity of a pattern who’s familiarity appeared so far into the numbers. But it must’ve been a pattern; this is a design, it doesn’t fall short or fall empty of being.

 

Tuned to Ache

I hear the tunes. My heart drops.

It is the familiar scent of a melody once experienced in your presence. The feeling of a memory not so long before but so distinct in feeling. The ache of every tune. I was tuned to ache. I was designed for destruction. I was cured to bleed again.

The wounds are not meant to heal; it is you who are meant to adapt to the bleeding and only through adaptation does the wound heal even though it never does.

The past pokes at our weaknesses. We are all stories of history; some more tragic, some closer to holocausts than higgs boson discoveries; but we are all a mixture of both.

We are the different flavors of pain. So distinct; so beautiful.

I was meant to be devastated by a tragedy and to wake in an alternative realm where the tragedy is only a word, a memory, a tune.

I was tuned to ache with the melody of the stories.

I was tuned to ache for the past.

I was tuned to ache for the longing of my presence for a momentary presence.

I was tuned to be.

Pink Skin

          What does it mean to be? To exist amongst some people you end up being friends with. Those people that you’ll end up sitting with everywhere because you don’t think you can really end up in any other group. Because you surround yourself with people you can criticize by identifying their weakest points that they reveal to you, vulnerable. Friendship, does that ever happen? Or is it just a collection of moments we can look back and smile as we wonder off remembering, on and on. A little nostalgic pang that hits you harder the longer you leave it unnoticed. You think that yourself with people who will reflect your real persona, people who will help you out with your life, but you’re wrong, you’re just around people; you just surround yourself with amusements, figures and pieces of the insolvable picture. That little masterpiece that you are. Paint her, and you will color your life with moments of love. And you will fall in love in high school with someone you never realized except for a name in your class list. And then he’ll end up being everything, that person you can do anything and everything with, just the creation of more memories and more heart ache. But is it even real that little heartache? You think it hurts, and because you think of the wrong things, they happen, the wrong happenings. Then you complain about your life going at the steepest slope of downhill. What if life is just a placebo effect? One whole big illusion, after all God’s one hell of a magician. But aren’t all magicians really just con-men with lies bigger than yours?

           You’re just a solo note in God’s symphony. 
          God creates us with thoughts larger than our minds. So we end up running faster than we should, and we end up rushing through the roads of dilemma and some of us fall of the end of the road and others elope to it, that waterfall of insanity. We end up trying to arrive to an illusionary destination, and eventually, we die half way through that divine infinity.
          So what does it mean to be?
          To live accomplishing the highest level of society’s materialistic standards that lead you into entering a school and a college in to pursue knowledge when it’s simply another organized structure functioning in what aims to be a fascist corrupt utopia. Because if you’re in search of knowledge you’re supposed to be seeking those books that publishing companies are banned to publish. Those books have the real knowledge.

And then you get married and you think your life is complete, but there will always be this little itch that turns redder the moment you think you can just scratch it away.
But it does go away, and appears on another patch of skin.

I guess there is no real meaning to be, but there must be, there must be an unthoughted Godly thought that will lead us there, at least let’s placebo ourselves into thinking that.
After all reality is only what you think it is, so instead of being deluded by other entities, let’s delude ourselves.