Hitting Your Hands On The Keyboard With Your Mouth

Words do not exist until they are voiced.
Here is the graveyard of the uninitiated.
You'll be searching a long time for any substance. And there is no promise of payment. Makes the search seem potentially useless. I wonder, sometimes, whether I am even looking with my eyes open.

Enough of that. We could talk of a thousand things. But who are you, screen, silent receiver, judge, ghost, with your shine and your submissive quality. You teach me that I am in control, I can push the buttons and move you in so many ways. I am supposed to feel empowered, perhaps, that I can do so much or some sort of inspirational motivation should surge through me. All I feel is an emptiness. Since when was communication, connection, life, even, to be experienced through a device that acted as a technological bridge, a translator of sorts. At what point do we forget there is a person on the other end and talk directly to the device?
I am under the impression I have written a more eloquent little piece of aimlessness in the last period of productivity.
Blogs are such wastegrounds sometimes. I could write anything and put it up. I could attempt true mundanity, or things too many levels below that.
We are shaped by our environments. Our states of mind are so liquid that I know when I take the music from my ears I will feel different than I did before putting them in.
If you are reading this, I either applaud your perseverence or I apologise profusely.

Nights For Naught

If there is a heaviness to mornings, then the night has a sense of lightness.
As everything is, the perceptions we place change everything. It can be argued that the lightness is not a relaxing one but an empty one. It's the lightness of a lack of something. Of life being dragged onwards even when it should have been clocking in for the day. It has outlasted its prime. The helium has picked everything up except your own consciousness and now you are left to study it, to ask questions, to answer unenthusiastically.
Oh mysterious human being, just grow up. Change the tone of who you are. Or change who you are. Or stop thinking that anything you write accurately represents you.
If it is written is it true? Asked the sexual Einstein. Or the irresistable Buddha.
I'm really just looking at you. I don't understsand you. I never will, of course, but I can't help but try.
Who are you? Well, that's not for me to say. It's for you to know, but not to be told. It is the ambiguous you, the specific you, the you that is reading each word and looking for yourself in them. I cannot promise that. And if I could, looking back, I would not want you to be the cause of a lot of it.
I'm writing here because I'm not writing fiction. Unless this is fiction. Everything is a story, a creation. I'm not writing fiction because I'm not. Who needs to create reasons when there is the simple fact of the non-event? Not this writer. Nossiree bob.

Now, my apologies for the mess.
It will be cleaned up.
Go ahead and ignore the spill.
Hollow bells are ringing.
To the music of the mind, I depart.

Mourning Mornings

There is a heaviness to the transition into reality. Every morning feels not like pushing a rock off one's body, but like being forcefully dragged out from under one by your foot. The difference is in motivation. And then you are left with the will to do nothing, to find that escape once more. With the knowledge that you should not enter slumber once more, you lay there holding onto the covers for a semblance of security. For now, the world does not exist absolutely.
Schroedinger's cat, if it was aware of its own existence, would understand. Yet this understanding is not wholly complete.
If I may be so arrogant as to change the perspective to my own (the arrogance of third person only goes so far), I struggle to come to an acceptance of reality with the comfort of the dreamscape that I want to be smothered in. There is a balance of the two that hiding between the covers we are forced to be aware of. Both exist in one form or other, we throw ourselves completely into both, we have the ability to thrive in both. The problem stems in choice, in absolutism, in the terror of decision-making.
From undercover we must make an effort to exist. In limbo, as the bed is a symbol of, we must leave one state behind. This works both ways. Getting into bed is the travel into our fantastical surrealities. Getting out is the dragging into of the potential possiblities of past and future into the present. Real life in the present is only the balance between what happened and what may happen.
It is easier, I find, to sleep than to wake. What I mean to say is that it is more pleasurable to fall into a slumber than to step into the world.
This could be a simple case of my problematic feelings of the 'now', or it could be that sleep always offers something that reality cannot - a lightness of touch.
Oh what are you trying to say?
The author wants to acknowledge that he thinks. He wants to admit to having wakelessness, that sleep pulls him in and morning pummels him with the truth of himself. He wants to explore the heaviness of life and the lightness of sleep (through absoluteness of wake and the seeming quantum mechanics of dreamstate). He also wants to show that he doesn't know everything about all the terms and words he uses, he is grasping for straws, hoping to find one with the word 'sense' written down it, hoping to read it the right way and not throw it out because it says esnes.
He wants to complain about a lot of things but cannot truly allow himself to fall into that way, fearing the judge of ungratefulness will whack him with a stick or something, as he knows that everything is teaching everyone. Every moment is one of learning. Every pain, every smile, every moment in a while, it becomes something. Something to have had or to have not.
And where does this leave us? It leaves us talking, hopefully. Because the one thing that dreams will never win on is the other. You have yourself, sure, but your dream will never truly bring the stability of other people. They will dip in and out but never in the same way as reality can provide.
Oh there were too many things I wanted to fit into this.
But this is what came out, and I shall leave it at that.

Life In Motion

I cannot pretend to be immune to the sufferings of time's apathy. It's an endless fascination and frustration. I know it passes, and I know there is nothing I can do about that, yet I cannot help but want to have a modicum of control over it. I want to be a time traveller, not just a passenger of time.
We look back at the inevitability of events. They are only determined because we cannot change them. The past is always inevitable because we remember them ending in a specific way. I embarrass myself, or I say the wrong thing, create the wrong tone, all in an often flowing way - as if it was meant to be - and I cannot go back on any of it. We are a victim of our memories. And a victim of the want to break free from it, not by transcending this issue but by trying to make changes. Not even by trying, just by wanting to try.
And there lies the biggest problem that can befall man. The dream of living a life. Or at least, as I see it, the dream of dreaming about the life. A fear of reality so great that we find ourselves more comfortable in life's non-events than in the true nakedness of existence. There is comfort in emptiness that feels very much like settling. But within that emptiness it is easy to dream of what life would be like if we embraced chaos. I cannot tell you whether it's a real want or whether it's just an enjoyed want for wanting's sake.
There are so many things you might want, yet when the offer is placed in front of you, you hesitate. Why? Maybe it was just a shock that it came. Or, just maybe, you didn't want it in the first place. Can it be that we just like to aspire and hope?
I do not want to be unhappy - that's a natural aim - but it is in the deepest of pits that we realise some of our most ingrained truths. It is within the blackness of the cave that we realise that there may also be a light out there worth hoping for.

I suppose this is another way to say hello. There has been a silence and I am feeling sadly motivated to talk once more to the screen, to the abyss that acts as a substitute for the fulfilling existence I may one day manage.

A New Home A New Rota

Not getting to sleep before 2am has been a regular visitor in my schedule. Tonight I stumble past 3 for sure. The causes are unknown, but the brain ticks on.

A Spot Of Feeling

Though the people were lacking
The world had a lot to say.
I was ready to give up
When I stumbled one day
On a rock
Or a sock
A creature of some sort
But what was this thing
That knew to contort
Into beings so sweet
That they hurt not my feet
But asked for attention
And then lay incomplete.

I was ready to move on when it said one word
A greeting and a smile conveyed in this bird
Or jellyfish, or bookcase
How absurd.
It said hello and I knew it was loving
It cared whatever it was
And I cared back
Forever and always I would care
And I wanted to never feel lonely again
So I took it with me and we talked until night fell
And until I next fell but I was not lost this time
I was content
In the end.

Searching For Words

The word of God was too short to comprehend
I forgot it when He told me and yet
Yet I ask for reiteration
I think I am changing
I have not quite set
But the word the spews forth
From my mouth or another
As though I was my own mother
For the creation of myself is my task to bear
I swear
I am told once more, that word from before
But as it comes in
It escapes out that door
The one that says entrance in bright shiny lights
A pathway to somewhere
That I must forget
Not by choice but by reason
It is not my place
So it is not my mind.

Again I awake in a numb aching stupour,
My memories lost in a vacuum
Disaster
I strike again, or my mind says I do
What am I doing when I only know later that I did?
Nobody falls victim
No body is found
I thank God and He says something
I think
I think and I think
But God does not speak
It was not His voice
Nor his mind
Nor his anything
I woke, I spoke, and I mistook my mind for another
But nothing is new
Not this or the next
Not the last or the first

I awake
But I was not asleep
This time from a thought or a feeling
I snap out of one world into the other
Travelling a mind
Meeting my brother
A variation of myself
On a closely linked path

Street lights are waking
The world is readying for the end
Of a day
I am alive
This, a thought I believe
This, a world that cares less every day
This, another dip outside reality.
For now.


- Shaun Berge Donald