Sit down, and be still.
Sit straight against the wall, your back pressed against it.
Close your eyes, empty your mind. If you can't before the next step, go to a room without windows and turn off all lights.
Take a deep breath in your nose, as much air as you can take, and then exhale it as slowly as you can through your mouth.
Feel, exist, be. Let your mind wander as far as it will, while your body remains still.
Simply be. Don't be mad, sad, happy, tired, awake, don't be anything.
Just be.
Just be.
:;,

I fall more and more in love with her with each passing day.
No...no.
I fall in love with her again and again, with each new day.
Everyday is a new world, and in each world, I fall in love with her.
:;,

Eyes are the window to the soul.
Can you imagine how it feels to see nothing?
Can you imagine how much it must even be when it’s in the mirror?
:;,

As I saw the blood leave my body
It reminded me of you.
You slowly ****** the life out of me too.
::,

Writers
Writers write (duh)
There is verbal form of any language and a physical form of any language, and writing is the physical form of any given language.
And in some ways, writing is extremely beneficial to society. It expands vocabulary and ability to process things, it makes a better form of passing on things and keeping things as permanent as possible.
But, sometimes, writing is horrible, and even language in and of itself can horrible at times.
When one loves another, words, eventually, don't suffice to describe the overwhelming flood of emotion you have towards the other person.
In this age of technology and talking over it, texting or calling or face-calling, words sometimes do not suffice, those three words said all the time, over and over again.
Sometimes it’s a deep, passionate kiss on the lips. Sometimes a small peck to the tip of one’s nose. Sometimes a slow, gentle kiss to a forehead. Sometimes a small squeeze of the arms when cuddling. Sometimes a nuzzle to a neck or cheek.
To truly be a writer, one must submit to the fact that there can simply be no words. And it’s okay, it’s fine to not have the right words sometimes.
If anything, it can make your writing a little better.
So, go for it. Be wordless. Be in awe and blown away.
Be a ponderer. Because, in the end, that’s what all us writers are.
Ponderers, who attempt to describe their observances.
:;,

The world is not divided between good and evil
The world is full of good people who do bad things and bad people who do good things
The officer who sells drugs and murders people under the power of his badge
The criminal who has a family of four back home and does his hardest to provide for his wife and children
But the world isn't divided between power and those too weak to seek it.
There are those who seek power who shouldn’t be in power
And there are those who should be in power but wouldn't seek it
So what does divide the world?
I'm not sure either…
What if there is no division?
What if it’s just blending?
I swear, those Taoists were up to something with that yin and yang symbol, the taijitu…
:;,

We are not curious about what lies in the light
For it is clearly seen.
We are curious about what lurks in the darkness
For it is unknown.
:;,

Time flies.
And yet, I am walking.
:;,

To understand your enemy, you must think like your enemy.
But one must be careful that, when fighting monsters, to not become the monster one is fighting.
And, so, this poses a question.
From each perspective, the other is the enemy.
But who is the monster?
For the other must be careful to not become them.
Or are they both monsters?
:;,

It’s funny
How all I see is the negative
And all you see is the positive
But we’re both looking at the same person.
:;,

“How do you live?”
“To the fullest.”
:;,

There he lay, sleeping gently, sleeping quietly
There he lay, awake, rubbing the sleep out of his little eyes with his little fists, blinded by the low sunrise
There he lay, meeting eyes with me, both of us simply staring at each other
Child, sweet boy, little infant, return to sleep, this world is much too blinding, much too loud, much too *****, for something so pure as you.
Do you even know? That someday, 17 years, you will be sitting where I am, perhaps having these same thoughts towards someone born 17 years after you?
That you could be riding an old yellow piece of scrap metal on wheels at 8 in the morning
The sun blinding you
The music pounding in your ears
The good morning text from your girlfriend?
No, no, little one, go sleep, return to your little infantile dream.
This world is too much for you.
It is too much for me.
The only difference is seventeen years.
Close your sweet little eyes.
Seventeen years.
:;,
10:48
9/28/16