Over the last few days
I have gone from sick,
to sick and weak,
to sick, weak, in pain, and tired
to fine;
I'm healthy as I've ever been,
and rested.

I seem to
have this connection
to the weather.
Just before
it's going to rain,
by which I suppose
I mean a few days at most
(?),
I feel anxious,
and sick,
and weak,
and in pain.

I'm still not sure,
and might never really be sure,
if
it's the meditation and breathing exercises,
or the rain and general passing of the storm
that make me feel better.

Did I have cold?
Could it have been the stomach flu?
Why did the Tylenol stave off the symptoms
long after they were supposed to,
but just before it started to pour?

Much like this poem,

everything

that has ever existed,

or will exist

including you,

your heart,

your life,

and your dreams,

always have,

and will forever be

composed of




"           "




and
sunlight.

The idea
that there is a time
                                             for violence, or guns;       that there ever is a need
to slaughter peaceful, innocent bystanders
in the name of an officer who willfully, and wrongfully
ended a young man's life for no other reason than he can is
u      n      e      q      u      i      v      o      c      a      l      l      y
f              u              c              k              e              d              .

I've got a funny story of my own actually;
I rose from the dead,
and then after that
I ripped people apart.

Okay maybe it’s not that funny but
you can sit there and listen to it anyway.

Listen to the story.

It’s weird at first because
all there is, is just darkness.
It’s so
dark;
it doesn’t make any difference
if your eyes are open or closed.
What you think
is that you’ve been
buried alive.

Not ideal.
That’s proper... panic, you know.
You hit out at the lid of the coffin
even though there’s no way.
But then...
it starts to give.

You have to push your way through
all the soil.
It takes ages doesn’t it?
It takes so long.

But all of a sudden
something’s different;
you feel the wind on the
tips of your fingers.
And the rain.

Because before that
you’re not really sure where you are.
But now
you know.
And you’re pushing through.
And then all this stuff at once.
The moon.
And this incredible storm blowing
and the church bell
ringing midnight
and just standing there,
nobody else around
and all of it
pushing into me.

That feeling.
It’s what being born must be like.
Except you’ve got
context.
Because honestly, dead...

Everything up to then was fear.
Everything,
even when I was alive,
different levels of fear.
But then
it’s gone.
And you’re like that:
‘Yeah, come on.
Give it to me!
Fill.
Me.
Up!’

But I tell you what,
this
hunger.
This appetite.
I could not wait to get started.

I don't know her name,
but I plan on learning it.
She has glasses,
and looks at me
in that way.
****** or not,
I feel a pull,
or is it a push?
Either way,
I feel a loss of words,
and the potential for coffee.
Before I get ahead of myself,
and start crossing that thin line
between
fantasy and reality
I'll make a cute friend first.

I am the rain transformed.
I am more than light, and speed.
I am deafening, but silent.

I am quicker than most.
I am louder than most.
I am brightest, when I arrive.

I move from ground to sky,
from sky to ground,
and even between the clouds.

I am in your veins,
orbiting your atoms,
making your thoughts.

I am jagged, and beautiful.
I am love, and death.
I am the rain transformed.

a Gestalt principle
of organization
holding that there is an innate tendency
to perceive incomplete objects as complete
and to close
or fill gaps
and to perceive asymmetric stimuli
as symmetric

Sitting around an
open flame,
feeding it,
laughing,
catching up.

Some drink,
some smoke.
We all eat when the pizza came.
We all watch the coals,
and sparks.

We talk about
necrodancing,
destiny,
and gender, ***,
and sexuality.

People are growing up;
so am I.
I love it,
and each of them dearly;
It's always sad to finally drown the pit.

I hope, no matter what happens in each of our lives, and no matter the weather, when the skies clear again, and we can all find time in our busy lives, the fire will never be truely out.

It's almost time to sleep.
I still haven't figured out the difference.
The difference between life,
and
love ,
and
death.
I hear I'm a romantic ****; **** me I guess.
The night is calm; the rain is on it's way back,
and
I feel like I must remain calm,
or
at the very least
sleep.