No final resting place for the mind

There is a stone in my hand. Twigs and dirt in my mouth. My knees are bruised, my legs strained. The prevalence of dry sensations. My skin is smeared with crystallized droplets of petrified sweat and blood. The pain makes me smile a little easier. Here I lie, motionless. The morning dew clouds my view, entagled in a strange dance of bright haze. In the midst a man much like me, much of me, a reflection yet more so. He rejects to note the thin veil of my staggering hubris. My petty woe is met with oversight, and rightly so. Words are extinct and thoughts shall follow. Presence within and beyond presence. Where there was once defiance in my eyes, a strange dead calm now resides, and takes precedence. Whether it is serenity, surrender or stagnation, I cannot tell.

There is a stone in my hand. A hard form for a seemingly hard man, soft in all the wrong places. In all the finest places. You could spend a lifetime looking for the openings, but here their appearance relies on happenstance. This anger stems from such bizarre qualities it's easily misunderstood as indifference, arrogance even, rarely leading curiosity to anywhere but further away. But there you have it, there you have this man-like figure. A jester of absolute truths in a deceptively unambiguous guise, nailed by his feet at a crossroads, issuing another ponderous and futile attempt at guiding you forward with words perceived as misleading. This unfathomably upfront figure before you can be no more than clever deception of course, thus your rapport must remain one of mutual caution. His form is cracked and misaligned in vulnerable places, giving apt opportunities for exploitation. Perhaps, then, it is equally plausable to assume he is apt at expoiting vulnerabilities found in others. Untrue, yet unsurprisingly an effortless leap of faith. Still, the jester he is and remains, easily invaded. By the good-hearted or the ill-willed - it makes no difference. The tissue is exposed and begs to be punctured.

There is a stone in my hand. Held high and ready to strike. Trying desperately to keep in line with two ferocious eyes darting across the room, evermore surrounded by foreboding shadows. What they hide, one never knows. Best to keep wary. Best to relinquish trust and extinguish love. Best to grip a final means of protection with white knuckles and bleeding palms until the fingers rot off and contentment can be found in failing to defend for one's self. Release through absolute forfeit. A subtle compromise between warring instincts for one so quick to flare and so easily burnt to ice. One who knows not when temperance is the key, regardless of whether the impulses it would tame were tender or malignant. One who dreads of being misconstrued, yet stands in its face daily.

There is a stone in my hand. Pressed hard against my chest, offering a cold casket for a raging heart in exile. Drowning out the beautiful noise to give way for the choking hands of silence to do their work. It was an obstacle buried in the dust, yet high enough to stumble upon. A petrified tongue for a mouth of quicksand. Its accompaniment a nagging voice sticking to the air, reminding me of overlooked foresight and how the leap before the look left its mark yet again. The humble pair of eyes wide and heart beating could never lead one through this terrain unscathed. A small rub nonetheless, one that will eventually disappear into the bowels of the earth should I find the strength to release it from my grip. I can allow myself to believe in that much at least.

There is a stone in my hand. A swell of rage that makes me question the purity of each passing moment. A sliver of a shiver, sending a chill through my chest in the face of any kind of release or absolution. Release from the clutches of a burning heart and a fickle mind; absolution from the liquid fire that fills me as the breaking dawn exposes all the gnawed bones you've hidden in the darkness. I crave for both and desire neither from hour to pulsating hour, stagnant and stable in the fading mirror as my face becomes smoke and my name an echo. Remembrance lies cracked upon a broken altar strangled by overgrowth, a moribund god-head of yesterday and yesteryear. L'homme que j'étais, je ne le suis plus.

There is a stone in my hand. My hand is stone.

A midsummer night's dream

Her eyes pierce through the dark. The milk of black hues is no match for the ferocity in the gaze of this fine beast. I find myself weaponless. Her lips offer an escape, her tender skin a world beyond this world. A haven of impenetrable qualities, draped in bleeding sweat. I steal a kiss. We are in a place free of weight and tomorrows. A scarless safe haven trapped in but minutes and hours of bliss unbound. Every touch electrifies my spirit. I steal a kiss.

She has me at her mercy. Vulnerable and aware. A wolf by any other name, shielding its tongue with an angry snarl and jagged teeth. She defies my worry with but a tender touch. Here, I know only the excess of ferocious gratitude; to overpower by absolute relention. The burning inside grows to uncontrollable, unknown heights, into a boundless fire to disintegrate the world around us. The walls melt as the shadows swallow the light. The whispering wind forgets its talkative nature. I am nowhere else. No one but the man in your arms. This is all and everything.

My fingers trickle like drops of burning water down your spine. I feel you shiver. We smile in secret from one another. Another secret to share. Do not move. Do not speak. This place is as deep as it is soft; as delicate as it is fragile. Succumb to the tickle and the tingle. Be forever devoid of words and allow this moment to pass without description.

Yet I am a poet. Never without words, never without elaboration. Never without a song in my head. Under constant threat of ruining many a beautiful and delicate thing by overexposure. But you know this as an afterthought, as a foreboding flash of things to come and no more, for in this place of disappearance and succulence there is but skin upon skin. Oceans of truth behind the smallest of gestures. Your eyes against mine, the combat of raging breaths escaping through opposing smiles. Our hearts in fierce tandem.

Rapture finds me without a fist to shake in its face. Words are lost in a maze of scents and sensations as spit becomes fuel and sighs build to a thunderous roar. You exhale with a whimper as your trembling body yields under my hand. In turn, I yield before all that is beautiful in this ugly world. In another place this moment will never end. It will play on and play on without end as the needle jumps back insistently, with defiant determination.

The air is heavy and wet, yet effortlessly we twirl it around our intertwined fingers. You are all too soft and tender to devour, so drop by drop, trickle by trickle, I will drink you. Drain you until you are mine. For tonight and forevermore, until the dawn looms and to the end of days. Before the bell chimes its final toll and after we've become nothing but sand and dirt. For whatever it is worth in the annals of time after time: no one can ever take this away.

Well, damn. Good morning.

Iridescence

There is a fresh breeze blowing through. It has a sting, a bite, which gives it even more allure. It is uplifting and perhaps a bit deceptive. Playful. I'd rather give it the chance to knock me down than deny it passage.

I have this ritual I undertake every time I get on an airplane. As it is taking off, I look out the window and let serenity wash over me. A sobering sensation. My mind filled with nothing but the best of moments and the most impactful of people. Of times when all was liquid fire and the masks melted off our faces. Of light, uninterrupted and uncontrollable light. Then I embrace the feeling of helplessness, recognizing my reach of control to be nonexistent should steel and earth meet at lethal velocity. I make the pact to leave this world with levity, with my soul in joyous uproar, should the journey beyond flesh come to pass. It is a rainbow of emotions one should come to enjoy on a daily basis, if not more often.

Scars be damned. I grow tired of ambiguity. Tired of flying low in my thoughts and disallowing the world to surprise me. Perhaps this oasis is but a mirage, but I will never know for sure unless my lips touch the water's edge. We will all pass through these moments and over piles of bodies on our way to a better tomorrow - the warmth of the day at hand will disappear unnoticed only if you let it. My skin is thick and in no need of constant shelter. Better to let it breathe. The risk is worth the gain.

This sea is a fickle beast. Harmonious yet quick to anger. Deep. Immensely deep. I'm glad to find myself charting its unknown reaches with an open mind, no matter how far I may drift without a compass or a base level sense of direction. My understanding and appreciation for my own crooked self is somewhat growing, and in turn, my understanding and appreciation towards others is on an equally ascending trajectory. My time is well spent, so I am well and spent. A lucky fool in spite of myself, becoming better at making distinctions; not all things under the sun are quips of great poetry. That doesn't make them any less heartfelt. They have value.

The impact of the iridescence within each day and night is twicefold if shared. The dark is perhaps a more inviting entity for all the comforts its sanctuary can offer, but the permeating black devours all colors in its wake. I don't really believe anyone gets me beyond face value, but perhaps they don't need to. It's not as if I make that easy. But there is joy. Honest eyes and good intentions, with at least a measure of common ground. It is enough.

Yet therein lies the rub. All that is good in my world often feels so fragile I have to fight the urge to step back from it to thwart the threat of shattering the surface with these clumsy digits or my sharp teeth. An emotional contact beyond skin and spit is a deterring notion for all the destructive qualities such a bond can wield. So I backtrack. I put beautiful things upon pedestals and disappear from their presence. They can't fall to pieces if I'm gone. Granted, that's not a very fruitful way of embracing the world around you, but it serves me well enough for the time being. Tenderness within distance, in your honor.

All of this could end in a heartbeat. Every construct could burn down with but a spark. I am every bit as fickle as these seas I'm charting, but mindful and cautious of my volatile nature. Of the power of this burning heart. The flame is savage and unpredictable, but a source of immense warmth and illumination when controlled by sweeter impulses. I try to remind myself of that daily. I try to be mindful of the quiet words I recite to myself as the plane leaves the runway.

Be glad, be thankful, be at ease.

The gentle art

I wrote a long, well-structured and beautifully astute entry about very good things. Staring at the completed text resulted in a very rare exclamation from yours truly: that's actually pretty good. Ironic, then, that I am so hesitant to publish it. Even the most eloquent material with the purest of intentions has the potential to darken the skies when matters of the heart are concerned, so I'll refrain.

Instead, then, I will speak of other good things. The gentle art of release.

As noted time and time again, there is a very substantial structure of hard to characterise principles and animalistic intuition that guides me from dawn to dusk to dawn. I don't really operate on logic or base my actions on some sort of pros/cons deduction. I go on instinct and something others might call faith. With this whimsical direction, I often misstep. But when the foolhardy nature of this ol' heart o' mine is met with welcome and likeminded output from kindred spirits, it is impossible not to feel nurtured. My lungs feel empty and my heart beats with a wild rhythm. A joyful kind of bewilderment; directionless and free. Letting the fire inside breathe through candid, unrestrained dialogue has that effect. Just to think of it makes me smile so wide I now need to remove myself from the keyboard for a moment and just, well, be. One sec.

Still I falter. Whatever stems from the recesses of this heart is often buried under discord and contradictory statements. Muted shorthand with glaring omissions, uttered in frenetic morse code. Take the sporadic and surprising regurgitation of a backhandedly dishonest thing to a person of note this very day. I immediately felt so very foul. I said I wanted something, knowing fully well it would be rejected, but the truth is I uttered it out of some sort of stumbling courtesy. A strange kind of jewel of truth wrapped in a white lie to remind someone who matters that they do indeed matter. Probably wasn't the smartest move in the handbook. But to know me intimately is to know good intentions hidden in a haze of minced words. I am at home in the smoke, a gentleman - a gentle man - concerned mostly with the fishing of pearls from the murky waters. To the untrained eye it might seem as if I were trying to drown myself.

The cold truth cannot be overlooked, however. This home doesn't feel like a home and no place feels particularly welcoming, which tells you one thing: I have nothing inside to share beyond the warmth I feel for all those who deserve it. But in the dark I am alone, without the slightest desire for company. I am balanced and harmonious with whatever this madness inside is, but to anyone else peering in for a closer look, I would be but a broken mirror. A paradox wrapped in skin, ego and attitude. I live among ruins and recognize each stone and pebble, enjoying a very tangible sense of coherency in this broken place, but I can't imagine anyone else viewing down upon the debris and seeing the logic.

But I feel good. Empty and whole, drained and rejuvenated. A shared freefall and a revelation or two go a long way to imbue a sense that not all connections are trivial. That not all words and actions are but pieces of driftwood heading towards the edge of the waterfall. Perhaps there's a bit of humiliation simmering in the pot, stemming from misreading signals and sending out some mismatched missives of my own, but it's a humorous kind of shame. Like letting a stinky one rip in an elevator and someone steps in with you. Hard not to smile like an idiot.

Still, there is a strange icy quality permeating through the faces and vistas I pass by. Even when the facade of disregard dissipates momentarily, much of what is exposed is internal and impossible for others to deduct. It probably says more about my current mindset than anything else, but this feeling of detachment is growing on me. I feel mild discomfort no matter where I am, but dare I say it feels almost... enjoyable? Fitting? A tingle only the pariah could enjoy when exposed in the crowd? I couldn't really say. Perhaps I'm merely coming to terms with my seclusion - that being a much broader concept than you might initally think - or perhaps I'm merely falling into tune with how poorly I fit into any and all schemes. For all the scars it has wrought, perhaps this trait does indeed deserve to be celebrated.

Have you learned the lessons only of those who admired you, and were tender with you, and stood aside for you? Have you not learned great lessons from those who braced themselves against you, and disputed passage with you?
- Whitman

Lizard skin

I thought long and hard whether or not to publish this disjointed entry at all. As it stands, it's a rather far cry from anything coherent; rather, an amalgamation of sporadic, splintered internal dialogue over a vast amount of time. A fairly one-sided affair; a dark counterpart to balance those much appreciated rays of light that do in fact permeate my life as well. Take it as such.

These walls shapeshift from a fortress to a prison and back. They echo with familliar voices and hide familliar faces in the dark corners. Beautiful things creep from the shadows on all fours, whispering foul truths, taunting me. I snarl and spit at the mirror, paint a cynical grin on my lips and sow my mouth shut. Ready for another day.

I leave this sanctuary with an attitude that used to be far more optimistic. As it fades, I find myself losing touch with pieces I've considered essential to the polyptych that comprises yours truly. In some way I suppose I'd like to give myself at least the freedom to dream, but the decision not to let that bullshit factory on my shoulders take the reigns is a healthier one. The world is grey, bleak and ill-spirited, its occupants likewise, so outside and within, I will be a mirror for the monochrome landscape surrounding me. A face in the crowd, a burning soul covered by ice-cold skin. My eyes flaccid and my words vague. I will adapt.

I honestly don't like myself very much in this mindset nor am I particularly proud of the way I've behaved towards certain people, but it's a better alternative to hearing my skin tear. My imagination takes flight, but I catch it mid-ascent, rip out its tongue mid-sentence and leave it lying on the floor without a chance to fill my field of vision with its rainbow hues. If this is what I need to do to survive, so be it. My temperature will keep falling to sustain me in this climate. I will adapt.

Collisions in darkness. Some are good, most are irrelevant. People I've never met before probe me as strange beasts are often probed. Questions are left unvoiced, but I know they're there. Behind smirks laced with shallow curiosity. Expressions of cautious interest buried behind nervous laughter. Don't worry if it fades. We probably won't remember one another in the aftermath. I made an impact. So what. I still sleep alone.

I've poured maggots into my wounds, grinding my teeth as they devour the pus one drop at a time. I bleed cleaner, but before you stands a hollow man. Eaten out. The blood flows freely, but my heart rate is borderline comatose. I've worked too hard to let you tear these wounds open again. Still, I know I would let you do it in a heartbeat, should my defenses fall. Should I have any reason to believe it were worth it. Even for a second. I would give you that chance.

My eyes don't lie, and I know you'll see every ounce of the fire inside if I let it shine through. No one wants it and no one can handle it, or at least that's what I keep telling myself. So I'll care for you and about you behind the curtain, hoping you'll never notice. My outward face will be cold, detached, dismissive. I'll hide my eyes and swallow my words, giving you the opportunity to return the favor. To be cold and detached, to dismiss me. Believe it or not; it's for your benefit. Because isn't that better for the both of us? Better for everyone? To keep every emotion muted and under wraps? Perhaps. Whatever logic resides behind my actions, its machinations come clear only after the fact. I was better equipped to keep people close yesterday than today, better still the day before.

Either way, there is a very clear disconnect between what I want and how I express it. Much like there is a rift between having at least a measure of genuine feelings for someone and the way I let them know it. That being ass backwards. I like you, so I'll punch you in the face and steal your Barbie.

And the fact that I am aware of this? Hoo-fucking-ray. It changes nothing, because the ruleset remains unaltered. The playing field would be just as convoluted without this tidbit of obtuse perception. I'm hungry for a connection and starving for something below the surface, but it's all face value and skindeep girth. People can be so scared of candour I want to stab them to see if they bleed fluff. Give them but a glimpse of something more profound and watch them regress into infancy. They're out of their depth with just a toe in the water. But it's cool. Whatever, man, whatever. Rock & roll.

I'm dissuaded by the threat of being disappointed before it even comes to pass. Unwittingly and unwillingly I push people away before they have a chance to do the same. Disappearing from their view is becoming second nature. I am in an alien place within and without, unable to trust anyone with anything, because everyone is full of lies. It's all wordplay, misdirection, twinkly toes and cowardice. There is no place for me in your world. No place for you in mine. Still I wander, searching.

Even small islands of momentary breathers are subject to the whims of the waves. Someone, I forget who, muses on the things we tend to let slip through our fingers, how it's a fear response via the desire for self-preservation, yet leaves us wanting and often even more vulnerable. I nod with a visage of understanding, gripping my jaw as I refrain from retorting how apt I am in this field. My experience in letting things slip is formidable. It is where I excel.

A true magnate of misdirection, I respond to warmth by letting instinct overtake me in the blink of an eye. My skin is thick and slippery, my movement fast and precise. I evade. With each passing day I fade further into the shadows. My face towards you, eyes locked, ever smiling, I am backing away from you. This detachment tends to register as nothing out of the ordinary, as my masquerade seems to fool most into thinking we're of the same species. That we share a common tongue. If only it were so.

Still, I know much of this is on me. I am inconsiderate to the point of parody, as it is never willful. It is in hindsight when I realize who or what was trampled on. The blood on my boots is always dry by the time I notice it. The fact that I do notice it is beside the point. It is superfluous insight. Nothing to write home about. The fact that I can identify this pattern of incidental indiscretion from a wealth of past experience makes me even more of a fool. A slave to nothing, yet bound by so many fears.

Tell her, comes a whimper from something lying on the floor. Keep at least one door open before they're all sealed shut. I rise to my feet and dig my heel into its soft flesh. I place a hand on its mouth firmly and respond with one resounding, resolute word.

No.

Nights in a city of glass

Sometimes I catch myself wondering if and how much the past six months have changed me. So many things learned, relearned and reorganized. Two thirds of my life's building blocks thrown into a cement mixer with a fickle mind. It spits out one thing or another when the mood happens to strike, often with no warning. The amount of intake and outpour is quite a spectacle.

There I am, there I go, the self-proclaimed man of clay with bits and pieces ripped off and tacked on with alarming regularity. Fresh off another wipedown of my not-so-shining-anymore armor, inked with another new set of cuts and dents. That armor has lost much of its luster, but it still has strength and presence. An ample target, no doubt. My robes are torn and my sword got stuck in its sheath a long time ago, but I refuse to discard these tattered trinkets. They are quite integral, though sometimes even I make the mistake of labeling them a nuisance.

With the assumed role of an observer, I take to watching people on the prowl. A strange dance. Friends and lovers who don't deserve to be called either. Awkward yet methodical steps around one another's trust and respect, disgusting self-deceit to justify personal fulfillment, a constant mismatch of cravings leading shadowed faces to exclaim: this will do. Desire wrapped in a very ugly package. I mirror what I see against my own modus operandi. The end result has a tendency to make me feel sick. People are dogs. Soft to the touch yet violently unpredictable. Selfish beasts of paradox, scared and confused. I'm trying to be something else. Statistically I must be successful at least on occasion.

People have their agendas and are quick to trample over one another to reach whatever they're striving towards. I'm too weary to mind the former and too wary not to be expecting the latter, yet caught off-guard surprisingly often. Some unforeseen occurrence draws me into an equally unforeseen chain of events. Eyes meet and heartbeats go from tick to thump. It sparks something inside, but I'm a bit too fargone to succumb to delusions, no matter how grandiose. My immediate impulse is to tie my tongue and walk away before a glass wall breaks. Before the stem sprouts thorns. But I can't. I'm so preoccupied with being Mr. Nice Guy I forget how easily things go tits up when you expressly strive for the opposite. Things sort themselves out accidentally or by sheer luck of the draw. Rarely for the best, though that's mere assumption.

But let it be said that I am no one's fool if not my own. I've noticed that I have grown a bit of a habit of painting myself up as some sort of stick figure adhering to Charlie Chaplin's immortal Tramp; accident-prone and warm-heartedly mischevous, but never guided by ill will. Duckwalking from one whoopsie to the next. But you can't blame the balcony for the fall if you're the one constantly dangling over the edge. I may be a stick figure to most people - many of whom seem to never grow tired of marveling at my musical exploits or this journal, for example, and how nothing melds fluently with their cardboard cut-out concept of who I am - but one would assume I'd know better. Perhaps I'm delusional after all.

A girl with angel eyes faintly glistening with well-hidden optimism listens to my stories and calls me naive. Her voice has a touch of frost, but the punctuation has a sweet undertone. It signifies a measure of understanding, though perhaps somewhat reserved. I do not miss a beat in joining her exclamation in delightfully bittersweet unison. We continue to uphold the harmony with a shared laugh, though both refrain from pulling a veil over the tones of cynisism shadowing our joint vocalization. A rare stroke of honesty or an act akin to giving up? You decide. I'm out of mental juice, tired of thinking about thinking, passively content in conducting another vain exploration of what I want by dragging my droopy eyes across the floor. Passionately unfulfilled.

I tell her I'm damaged goods and laugh, forgetting that such a punchline doesn't really serve its purpose as a deterrent when fact is draped in humor. But at least it's poignant. Or... at least I hope it is? Because I am, you know. Fubar. A point well worth noting.

Later, I find myself enveloped by some Hollywood rendition of romance. My guise is that of gleeful detachment, at least at first. Scenes flow from one to the next and I begin to recognize more than my fair share of lines from the poetry in motion on display. The two people kiss each other so passionately it has a whisper of desperation. Enough fervor to make mountains crumble. They latch onto one another like drowning people hugging a piece of driftwood. The joyless in me wants to dismiss such sights as melodramatic and proportionless, but I know they're not. I remember sensations like that. Moments when the world disappeared. I remember. Faintly and from a distance, yes, but still.

I half-jokingly told a friend that I seem to be inflicted with some sort of emotional shortcoming that expressly prohibits me from reaching any measure of happiness, yet it simultaneously imbues my desire to continue the search for such a state with neverending vigor. A true Catch 22 if there ever was one. Again, the punchline would fare better if not hindered by a factual backbone.

To another friend I retorted a piece of internal dialogue one succumbs to in the late/early hours of the looming dawn. While looking for one thing you mistake something else as its tail and in the process become even further entangled in the machinations down the rabbit hole. Something about misshapen desires and a pair of overly eager feet ready to pounce towards a light shining in the night. Might be a beacon or the glint of a predator's eye - you'll never know until you step out to find out. To my recollection I phrased it quite well, so I'll refrain from reiterating too much, as to not spoil it.

Still, the principle has substance and sustenance. There is an idea behind that which is formless; an encrypted manuscript. A voice as loud as it is incoherent. Blinding stabs of white noise born from desire without direction.

The wolf howling at the moon for he knows of nothing else, then? Perhaps. At least for now. At least for tonight.

Blood inside

Rarely have I felt as adrift.

And I had such a good run there for a while, despite the little sandbox dramas that flared up from time to time. It was good. Things happened, feces and fans found one another and everything was vibrant. I liked the fevered pace and the feeling of not knowing what'll happen next. A surprisingly addictive way of toddling through the days, though mostly in hindsight. A different kind of disappearance at sea.

Carefree is another word for inconsiderate, I admit, but it sure beats playing the patsy. Like a lovestruck child, I've allowed myself to be overpowered by the desire for a human touch at the expense of my own integrity and pride. This form of vulnerability is alien to me, yet it hasn't stopped me from opening myself up for a few brand new puncture wounds. I'd like to say my habit of sticking my neck out is a quality worthy of praise - nay, I'd like to think that. But it's not. It's stupid. Stoo-peed.

There is a melody playing in my head, but I'm trying to do it justice by thumping the keys with boxing gloves on. My heart is planted on my sleeve as firmly as ever, but it sways my stride and makes me lose touch and tempo. It makes me unpredictable.

I express myself with the subtlety of a pink battleship as I stumble over my own tongue to get from here to the next disharmonious moment. Being passionate and being restrained has become somewhat of a barren land peppered with pitfalls of tension, awkwardness and stuttering punctuation. It's ground I'm traversing through with idiot savant efficiency like a headless chicken let loose onto a minefield. I don't know where I'm going, but the journey sure could be a bit less of a walk of shame. Well, at least there's consistency.

One would imagine that if your heart isn't exactly in pristine condition, it wouldn't come as such a surprise when the person you've exposed it to begins to backtrack in unison with your advance. There is logic there, symmetry even. I should be able to see it. But no. Deep down I expect the action itself to warrant a favorable outcome, because deep down I live in a fantasy land where candour is rewarded for its own sake. Where the word Veritas tattooed on my arm has absolute, resounding relevance. Where the birds sing and the heavens shine as gems of truthfulness escape my lips. But my timing is off. I'm in the wrong key. I'm the village idiot mumbling through Danny Boy, none the wiser.

It's ironic. I'm becoming more and more cautious in social situations and surprisingly substantial parts of me have fallen under lock and key - a development I'm honestly very sad about - yet it doesn't seem to deter me from donning the crown of a most royal fuck-up whenever the opportunity should arise. And believe you me, such opportunities seem to present themselves like an overgrowth of weeds in an untended garden.

I exhale, words appear, something becomes exposed. A small shock overtakes me. My immediate impulse is to swallow every syllable back into my lungs and undo the fact that I've just rendered myself skinless. Instinct takes over and I forget the world isn't all flesh and teeth. The facade is better, because the truth is violent. Antagonistic. It steals the sound from your mouth and punches the gusto from your gut. If it's all the same, I'd rather spare you the torment. And in doing so, spare myself of... other things.

That's the theory anyway. Practice? Well... See the headless chicken analogy above. I have a strange craving for companionship, to understand and be understood, yet I'm growing increasingly terrible at expressing it. It's nearly comedic.

My eyes dart nervously around the room as I attempt to escape my own mind, hungry for yet another round of rewinding and reenactment. Thanks, I retort, but I already lived through the embarrassment and discord. No need for a rerun. But I can't help myself. A cold spike begins its advance up my spine and we are underway. The buffoon revels in the memories of his botched performances upon the soiled stage, bringing the proceedings to a close with a quiet monologue of having nothing to show for it all, least of all wisdom.

I'll manage of course. Find a way for all the pieces to fit. I always do. There are more than enough vessels at my disposal for me to express and expose without expressing and exposing. Much like I'm doing right now. I need to do this not to implode. I understand that now. I see it in a different, harsher light than before. A colder truth, but also brighter. Purifying one's internal clockwork isn't a science but an art - which, I assume, is why creativity is its most effective form - and you can never know what else you'll wash away in the process, but I'm quite sure I'll still recognize myself as I pop out from the other end. The real question is whether or not this search can be completed alone. I'm not exactly sure that's the case.

Having put it like that, I'm suddenly less bewildered by these appetites. I'm missing something. That entails the desire to search. A quiet touch of something genuine, without trade. Something real from someone real, someone who isn't terrified of bearing a bit too much without being silenced by fear or restraint. Something I can call both shared and mine, mutually inclusive.

Yeah. Something like that.