Normal people aren't anxious and explaining their existence’s to everyone else wholly within their own mind’s. Most people don't do that. Some people do. I'm one of those people.

The abnormal fantasied reality within my conception plays exciting and often scary acts with peaking and valleying performances within. It's not real; however, I am real, so in a way it is. At least to me. And it's a reality that I face and must tame daily in order to be seen as “normal”. What ever the **** normal means anyway. Sometimes I want to run away and other times I'm too fatigued by trying to care. In stark contrast to when I get caught up in the whirl wind of passion and ideas and I want them to be tangible so bad that I sit and create. The mind loses focus. I look away for a second to make something else... That is if it's not another one of those times that I become so burnt out from the fires of present tasks of building the unreal into the real that I regress.

But I digress.

When I look back at what I've done, and it just seems like a distant memory becoming more and more distant with every passing moment of observation I can't help but get the stirring feeling to get caught up in the whirl wind once more and make a new idea. A new passionate thought forms and the creations can't help but take place. The moment is really the only thing I know for sure. It's not a dream it's as real as being awake, or at least I'd think that until it too becomes just another one of those distant memories; another one of those things amongst all things.

But perhaps I'm just projecting...

Senses; those funny things. Almost as funny as the mind that decodes their meanings. The human presence. The spirit within. the very soul. Like mine that has seemed to ache more than it has not ached. I look at all the things, big and small on the place where I currently reside in the universe that houses me. “Relative,” says one man. “Frequency,” says another. People say a lot of things. Especially to one another. What else would understand? Let alone who? Do you even understand you? I'd ask. A dog would pant, and I'd pat its head knowing all to well that we both got the meaning. So easy to try and do. So difficult not to. And if I changed the positions of the subjects it would be equally as true.

But that’s just the moment now as it would have it...

I feel as though I have a paper heart
And every time I write my would be mind's love on it
It scratches under ink tip's pen
And bleeds with no resolve

In relation only to himself
knows only what he can
Or what he thinks he can
Knot
He ties and a boars his prize
The hide
The island man
Has no fear to feast
No rain drops trickle for thirst's being to subside
The island man only has space to confide
Is technology up to its *****?
Does the island mind have enough for needs to be met?
Is there a need yet for island man to have not yet got?
Should island man go and get?
Island man looks for the stars
When he finds them all
Island man knows that they were never really that far
He looks back down on the clouds
And the effervescent ocean that houses his house
Island man finds himself at home
With all the other island people who love him so

My disorder is like a tree

There’s the trunk, the stability
Attached to it, beneath, lay the roots
That keep it grounded to the earth

Above,

There’s the branches with all their sprouting leaves
Struggling in their many directions at the same time
to grasp at the same thing

The rays,

Like my thoughts reaching out
Trying to understand the complexity
Within it’s beings existence

All the meanings to it’s origin,
It’s seedlings of creation blowing on the wind,
The fruits it has bore,
And the enduring labours that stand in between
What can be
And what will become

The ocean, the air, and the sun

Fall, winter, spring blooms summer

An order within disorder’s cycles

Intrinsically placing its faiths within the nature of it all

And here I rest in the tree’s canopies shade

My mind eases to this space within space

And I can’t help but laugh and cry at the same time

Hell, we're all there.
Heaven, Can't we be somewhere else?

(A meaning less image)

If a picture said a thousand words,
Then I'd write a thousand pictures,

Each one would contain one syllable less then the last
Just so I could get to the nucleus

Of what it truly means to express
Expressionlessness.