Again life cycles to a clutter, ideas thought through

don't anymore seem as though,

even when expressed aloud and not within.



Maybe they're right,

my ignorance is only withholding wonders

I struggle to actually see.  



Hypocritically, I find importance in self enrichment

and observing from afar.

and yet even from a distance you feel so close.



Is this an evolution or is it just another mutation.

Obscure out of any cultural norm, I resonate

impairing those who hear my words.



This constant metamorphosis has left me staring in the mirror for

hours, searching for the presence of my subjected  form.



Yet,



while I peer into the interworkings of my reflection

to observe what I actually see...



With all truth, it holds a boy,

an awkwardly timid boy.



Insecurely gazing back into the pupils

of his reality.



He's bellowing inside his

submerged mind.



Subconsciously Blurting:



"Do not turn back,  

their are cyclones that await.



And all that is required

to overcome this task



is to go forth without

pondering times long gone...





So here I am, engaulphed

in tidal winds.



I must break loose;



grow, starting from

below.

Dating with anxiety
Is always over thinking.
The messages never replied to lead to the thoughts swirling through your head.
Every detail gets scrutinized.
Every moment replayed over and over until you can't think.
The little things that no one looks at become huge and the reason anything went wrong.
You try to be normal and not let it show because if they really know they will run away.
Being crazy isn't easy. The normal ones don't understand.
They don't get what your brain demands.
The need to be reassured and affirmed, to know that they haven't changed their minds.
But how do you say it? How do you let them into your hell? How would somone stick around after they understand the interworkings of the cells that create the mass that is you.
You spend the nights laying awake thinking. Wanting to just let it all spill out like a glass of milk knocked off the table but instead you walk on egg shells and pretend you're not internally freaking out. That you haven't spent all day looking at a message then closing the phone. Only to open it again and begin to reply ....but wait if you reply now you're clingy. But how do you gracefully walk the line between crazy and cute?

The answer.
You don't. You just silently go insane and internalise it all for the sake of saving face. To appear like the person they want. Because if you can be that then everything will be fine.

But what happens when the glass pane shatters when the mirror image you projected crumbles? What happens when the monster you've been shutting down for weeks on end to seem normal starts to seep through the cracks? What then? Will he still be there? Will he be able to handle it?

You go on a date and the conversation leads to "oh I have anxiety" he looks at you and just kinda shruggs. You glaze over the subject and move on. Like I had just said god bless you after a sneeze no second thoughts. No further questions. The cat is out of the bag but does he realize that by cat I mean lion? Huge, ferocious, dominant, lurking in the background ready to strike? No. Because I am a good pretender. I am good at making the facade up to par. What you don't see is the circus dancing around the erupting volcano inside. Every cell vibrating trying not to implode.

They don't see the girl who can't breathe because she is so far down the black hole that swallows her whole lost in the inner workings of her mind. Screaming to be seen and accepted. Begging to be allowed out. Needing to show herself.

But no. That's not allowed. Once it's out there it can't be put away. You cant just say haha just kidding. Because the damage is done. You've either found one who will take the shattered girl or everything you've thought would happen does and you're alone again.

we do not live in historical times -
there's a logic of time,
for sure, but this logic of time
does not essentially levitate to
a stand-still of fact making history -
i personally do not believe that i live
in historical times,
i live in times of regurgitation -
maybe that's due to the fact
that i am a contemporary of these
times, but it must also encompass
the events in the given space-time
area of interest that i allocate with
my mortality...
            it is almost strange to live
through a history, without having
an impetus to engage with it,
and this non-engagement is not
cowardice, rather:
    lack of interest or lack of
engagement-intuitiveness...
           the stage is ready,
but the actor is missing,
  simply because the missing actor,
cannot recognise the said stage,
as being a stage!
  the stage is merely a prop!
           what's most bewildering
is the shock-value of western nations
finding central europeans
  having a collective identity,
why, may i ask, is the nationalism
of poland so abhorrent
to western nations, requiring
journalists to use up the neo-****
gravitas?
              of all nations,
of all peoples, the only nationalism
that makes senses is that of israelis
and poles...
   how about your nation takes
an interlude in the chasm of non-existence?
how about your ethno-state takes
a holiday?
         100+ years, ~2000 years,
what does it matter, right?
       this nationalism is not ultra-/far-right
when you think about:
the right of identifying the nation
and the loss of an individual...
                 once upon a time
communism reflected the collectivism
of every man owning a hammer...
translate that communism into
nationalistic collectivism and the hammer
is replaced with homogeneity of genes...
that's neo-****? argument coming
from post-imperial un-imperial states
unable to make the national cut...
                this sort of journalism
stems from an insecurity...
   this argument comes from an
insecurity of: well, pretty hard to be
a nation in a post-imperial / post-colonial
era...
        no wonder...
the poles didn't have a nation for over 100 years...
you won't have a nation in the next 100.
it's not a question of whether i support them,
it's just the body count...
              in exile you get all
defensive about your common ****
of compatriots,
once we called them comrades,
now they're compatriots.
         why is the sudden "surprise"?
   a nation that roam the earth
like an ******* cup of *****
  doesn't  require individual thinking,
individual think is a precursor of
a schizoid condition...
   the tearing and shredding of
   a chaotic vector, it's the sort
of geography you hear on the moon,
the copernican question on the moon
begins with: where's east? where's west?
where's north? where's south?
               quasi-verbatim heidegger:
modernity lacks all sense of a question -
or a desire for a questioning narrative -
modernity is focused upon either
fact (masculine) or opinion (feminine) -
women have overly established
themselves as opinion curators -
men hold the "sway" on facts...
                   we live in a "modernity"
that has no quest for a question,
    we live in times of:
     only answers, and answers alone;
hardly erratic, more:
                              perverted by
          supposedly never being wrong.
but what is being tempted by
un-historiological times?
   perhaps, actual history?
            once upon a time history was
managed by either day, month, or year...
now it's monitored by the minute...
             time itself became time per se,
while history became space -
even though history delves in the study of
future-hindsight-past,
    history is no longer a study of time,
it's a study of space,
pockets of time, lost, dislodged from
the curriculum of chronology.
  a written history levitates upon
   a time-frame of expecting delayed-repercussions,
modern history, current history
has repercussions, although without
a delay...
                hence the shortening
of a time-"frame" -
  something truly horrific happened when
we became globally networked,
   sharing a single space, with interworkings
of dislodged pockets of time
congregating into a single space...
      the english with their 1066...
the poles & lithuanians with their 1569...
the americans with their 1787... etc.
then again, i stick to my guns...
there's either a man that gives advice,
or a man that gives facts...
    well... maxims...
most notably my
             maxim above maxims,,
   my categorical imperative is not my own,
it belongs to alexander dumas'
  character athos from the three musketeers,
solum optimum consulium, est dare consulium non;
i admit, my latin is not
on par with the pope...
        should be, given that i went to
an irish catholic school in seven kings...
translated the only good advice? is to not give
advice.
        apologies for the scruffy latin...
oh, right, in a quasi post scriptum:
        there's no greater currency than
giving your attention...
          the pop videos get pennies...
sure, a lot of onlookers...
but how many are, absorbed?
                   there is no greater currency
than attention...
                 a filled attention span is
a full transaction...
                     goldfish drop pennies worth of scales
into a bowl of goldschläger.

You must stop this.
but for why?
How can I change,
I feel no bliss.

Who are you to judge?
You not a clue,
Of me or what I truly am.
But maybe shall I budge?

Should I express?
Open my mind,
reveal my interworkings.
No I refuse, I will not depress.