Welcome.
This is all we have for you.
Live now.
Nothing is waiting.
There is no reward for living with restraint.
So don’t.
Do what you love.
Play jazz.
Change the world.
Fall in love.
Fall out of love.
Change the world again.
Dream.
Forget where you were going,
Remember.
Change your mind.
Go anywhere else.
Make someone smile.
Drive nowhere.
Do it fast.
Etymologically,
paradise
is inherited from the Latin
paradisus
and the Greek
paradeisos
and ultimately an ancient Iranian root --
pairi daêza.
In theory, paradise is a religious term. By that definition, paradise is a place in which existence is positive, harmonious and timeless. It is conceptually a counter-image of the miseries of human civilization; in paradise, there is only peace, prosperity, and happiness.
It’s absurd, though, how we provide ourselves with such a convenient idea, a carrot for all mankind to share in our relentless drive towards death. It’s absurd that we must rely on such nonsensical ideals to inspire us to adhere to literal, arbitrarily-dictated morals. “Thou shalt not do things we say you probably shouldn’t.
Except sometimes.”
“Actually, whenever, as long as you feel bad about it and spend a moment kneeling quietly and thinking something along the lines of ‘So, like, sorry -- my bad. It won’t happen again, unless it does.’”
The fundamental mistake here is attempting to delineate the existence of Man with an old book and relentless propaganda and childhood indoctrination and threats of post-mortem punishment, but more on topic -- why can’t one just live the right way without this kind of artificial motivation? It’s a juvenile concept that we’ve taken much too far. It marginalizes the human race -- “listen, Man, if you eat all your broccoli, then you can have dessert.” But what happens in this situation, when the dessert isn’t real?
What I mean to say is that maybe you should eat your broccoli because it’s healthy, and because, besides what society has attempted to instill in you, it might actually be tasty if you give it a chance.
Live for now. Care about people now. Because you don’t get anything afterwards; however cynical it may be, dessert is just a cold grave or a flame designed for whole incineration of your being. Paradise is now.
part of the issue is that people spend so much time
trying to quantify paradise;
trying to delineate
what exactly it would look like,
and what the air would taste like.
that’s not necessarily plausible.
the imaginations of men
are acquiescent to their
experiences.
as a species,
we form opinions based on
societal designs that stress a need
for instant judgement.
we’re contained in
an age of information and instance;
an age that has rendered
deliberation
and reflection archaisms --
tasks delegated to philosophers
and poets
and writers for literary magazines,
and other ‘nonessential’ social functions.
“nonessential” because of a permanent,
entirely pervasive air
of cynicality
and ignorance
that has descended upon us
as a species.
I digress;
people decide
what they delight in, and
what they detest;
what they revere, or
what they repudiate,
based on quick decisions
and first impressions.
this is paradise
and there is nothing else to see
don’t
you
think
you’ve
seen it all?
A dear friend inspired me to write again. Because I have to know everything that everyone else knows. I’ve actually stared at those two sentences for six minutes. I don’t know what else to say. I have nothing else to say. I miss that depth of emotion that she has that I used to pretend to have. Depression has this interesting way of making me interesting to myself. Sometimes. I don’t know what I’m talking about, but I have to assume that some sort of ad infinitum theorem will eventually make me make sense. I don’t know enough words, maybe -- maybe that’s why I can’t get it out. Or sentence structures. Or maybe I’m not asking the right questions. What do I do?
I don’t like bringing my head down, but I don’t like being dry. How come the emptier I am inside, the more full each page becomes. I’m so intimidated by an empty page now -- but I’ve remembered how to care for people. Is simplicity preferable to complexity in this instance? Is it worth being less introspective; to be open?
I’m out of answers for questions that don’t necessarily need them. Why does her poetry make me feel like that’s not the right thing?
Could you talk yourself into romance?
Would that be bad?
Where do you go
When
You got
No where else?
I think I saw you once, sitting silent on the swings;
Your pervasive empty made the cold that February morning sting;
The chains were dormant, and you had nothing to say.
I wanted only to give you something to care for, to make the chains sway.
I couldn’t approach, I had been frozen to the pavement.
I wasn’t used to this sort of Romantic sort of enslavement;
I think maybe I stared too long, waiting for some part of a smile.
But if I could ever get my feet up, it’d be worthwhile.
I wrestled quietly with ice that held me down to the gray --
I didn’t want to escape so quickly, didn’t want to scare you away.
You started to stand, and in my direction glanced askance;
I promise I could swing with you if you just gave me a chance.
I can’t write poetry
Not right now
But I’m obligated to
I have to
Impress you.
I’m too
Narcissistic
To let you ignore me.
I’m reading too much into this
And
You’re not doing this
To hurt me
Or toy with my emotions.
You’re probably just occupied
Elsewhere.
Which is really unfortunate
Because whether you did it
Sentiently
Or unconsciously
You set a trap from which
I’m don’t know if I can
Or want to
Escape from.
And I’ve got to be reading too much into this
I’ll just try harder
Until you notice me a little more.
I’m not used to being challenged
But you’re probably just occupied
Elsewhere
Or with someone else
It really makes me wonder
Why we do these things.
I promise I have reasons
For acting like I do.
I
think
I missed
Having these
Little crushes
Late night thoughts,
Later night dreams of
Things that I didn't expect
To ever cross my mind ever
Ever ever again.
You're so beautiful
In a way I can't describe
I won't even try
You're so breathtaking
Language isn't enough, here
Inamorata
Simple syllables
An equation for feelings
I just like haikus
You've played marvelously.
You've been what I wanted.
You've maintained the perfect amount
of disconnection
of apathy
of nonchalance
and disinterest
And it has driven me mad.
I've been writing songs about you.
You've got me the perfect kind
of obsessed
of committed
of infected
and controlled
I mean, don't get me wrong:
My rhetoric gives the false impression
That I'm not enjoying this immensely.
It's been a long time since anyone moved like you.
I could accuse you of cheating
But only in embitterment
Only because I don't want to be drowned
In rules I don't remember.
There's something tragic here.
But it's the perfect kind
of adversity
of affliction
of infelicity
Of tragedy.
I wish I could express my emotions like you can;
I wish I could show someone I really am me.
But I don't know if I can be so personal --
Maybe I'm afraid to be.
It's easy to be a guitarist,
Because I can form songs with my bare hands.
But could I really be a poet?
Could I really use my words to show you who I am?
But I can't spend the rest of my life
comparing
my poetry
to yours
Because your words have meaning
And I don't know what mine are for.
You know, it's possible I'm in love with being in love.
It's possible that I'm not even there.
Because I switch too fast from being so romantic,
To being someone who just doesn't care.
I think the difference is you're not afraid to be broken,
But I am, so I put walls up around myself.
I've only played the game getting fallen for.
I couldn't bear to be the one who fell.
But I can't spend the rest of my life
hurting
everyone
else
Maybe it's time to change the way I play
And become the one who fell.
Some things are straightening out.
Some things are looking up.
I’m standing up.
Other things are falling down.
Other things are twisting my stomach.
I’m doubling over.
I’m vomiting stress and secrets and anxiety onto the carpet, a dark and uncomfortable stain.
Anger pulls trust and confidence slowly from my lips; two more blackened regrets on the floor.
I don’t feel so good.
I may have mentioned that she was “hard-to-get,” so to speak.
Well, indeed.
What an enigma, man.
She flirted sometimes, and was a stone wall the next moment.
Imagine trying to court an Autumn in Colorado; that was Madelynn.
She was not the first girl to say “no” to me when I first asked her to be mine, but the first in a long time, and the first to affect me.
I was used to predictable, insecure rabbits of girls, whose immaturities and self-conscious fears guided them into my inherent charms and snares; traps they had always desired.
Madelynn was la renard; a fox who put me on my knees for once.
I wasn't what she wanted.
The fox escaped.
We understand that stress kills you.
We’re here to help.
It doesn’t mean you can relax.
We understand that you don’t know how to communicate.
We’re accommodating.
It doesn’t mean you’re exempt from interaction.
We understand.
It doesn’t mean you can escape.
“You’ve obviously put a lot of thought into this.”
Well, you have not, and somebody’s got to.
There will come a day when social obligations will no longer be enough to hold me here.
There will be a day when my love runs out.
That will be an interesting day, but until then, I’m running out of “desperate cries for attention” to make up for your incomprehension.
You can only misunderstand me so many times.
Patience is a finite resource, and it is just one of the ways that I’m running low.
Here's something:
A car can only run on empty for so long.
What happens when the road levels out?
Stop thinking.
Stop thinking.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
It’s always darkest before it shows you it can get darker still.
Clouds can still block out the Sun in the middle of the day.
You’re not out of the woods yet.
What a nightmare.
There was something that stopped me to begin with.
I don’t remember what it was, but it felt like lying.
She didn’t trust me, because I wasn’t how I am now.
She made me who I am now.
But she’s gone.
So who am I?
There was something that reminded me why we were
I don’t remember what it was, but it hurts.
When you’ve broken someone’s heart, who keeps the pieces?
If I have them, what am I expected to do with them?
Because I don’t know how to fix that sort of thing,
And she doesn’t want me to, anyway.
What do I do?
There’s something that told me it was supposed to end.
I know exactly what it was, and it was too familiar.
I couldn’t always be happy, and she couldn’t either.
And now I’ve perpetuated that.
She won’t feel happy for a long time.
But was it worth it?
How soon can I be happy again?
There’s something that everyone keeps telling me.
They tell me I’m a bad man -- I’m the killer.
I’m not a bad guy. I can’t be. That’s not me.
I never meant to hurt anyone.
I just wanted me to be happy.
Because I’m always looking out for number one, you know?
What happens when I’m not number one anymore?
What happens when I care enough to heal the next girl?
What happens when I realize I have to heal myself first?
