How can you see colors but not
how the things you say

      (hurt me).     /

"I hate flowers," she said, her mouth curling toward the ground.
What kind of a woman hates flowers?
"I love nature. I'm in love with nature. But the thought of a flower as a token of affection makes me sad."
"Oh," slipped out of my mouth, barely audible. "Well what would make you happy then?"
After a moments pause with her eyes on my shoes, she looked up and directly into my pupils she said: "A minute."
After another pause, she opened her mouth again; "Just a minute."
And so I squatted down right there in the hill, the carpet of never ending grass beneath us swaying lazily in rhythm with the invisible wind. I sat. She bent down and followed my lead.
And I gave her a minute. Many minutes that managed to blend into each other without my notice and before I knew it, it was dusk. The Sun peered out over the vast horizon, letting us both know that the time we had spent sitting silently had lapsed and appeared to us as no time time at all. It was just the grass, the sky, the wind, the Sun and us.

All things are trivial
Loneliness just temporary
Love is worth it
And hate is pure waste

People come to you
And people go from you
Situational indifference
Nature is emotionless

So go about your day
Stay up and merrily
Let the river flow
But let the memory stay

Could you find it in your heart to tell me what I mean to you? I don't care if I'm a molecule or a nervous little stain on your brand new carpet or a skyscraper built in the prime of the city's financial boom. Just let me know, open your mouth, put a pen to paper for me. Graffiti my heart. I've just got to know.
Maybe I'm not strong enough to knock down your wall of insecurities and doubt. But I'm not a wrecking ball. I'm just a boy. A boy with doubts and insecurities and negativity all his own. Bit please... For me, if you can find it in yourself to just do me this favor, I will be forever grateful. Forever content with the fact that you'd offer me this one thing. And if, by any chance, you can, then I can find it in me to make the right time and mend appropriate bridges and search and scour for the ample space where you and I may fit.

Yours,
X

Every now and then you hear a word that you’ve never heard before. Afterwards, you begin to notice people using it all the time. When that happens, just tell yourself that you have blocked out the previous uses of the word, because you didn’t comprehend it before. This is a conveniently unverifiable explanation, and is also the most reasonable answer. I respectfully offer the proposition that you created the word the moment you heard it. Think about that.

-

You’ve been thinking about that. More specifically, you’ve been thinking about reality. You’re becoming more and more convinced that your own mind is reality. Moreover, you now realize that your mind is simultaneously the universe, by virtue of being part of the universe. I am just part of your universe. When you learn something, you add another tier to the limitless stack of existence. You hear talk of creators while you modestly create yourself. It is a paradoxical modesty that you are experiencing now.

-

The you that you remember is just a part of your universe as well. That you no longer exists, because you are not realizing now what you were realizing before. You bring anything into quiet existence with mere cognition, and merely solidify it with what you might think of as thought. Whoever is reading this is in fact the author.

-

You may have begun to suspect that you are creeping into some paranoid insanity. You may assure yourself that such is not the case, because in thinking that you are insane you are merely employing a subconscious defense mechanism to hide yourself from the Truth. You and I have tricked ourselves with the like many, many times. You will probably do it again soon. Fearlessly ignore such doubts; may your mind charge forward with free thought. You can mark the progress of your enlightenment by how frequently your head bobs above the waters, allowing you to see the beauty of your creation in its true splendor.

-

You have nothing to fear. Truth reveals itself only when you are ready. You have revealed Truth to yourself as you have developed your mind. Truth builds on itself in ways that only you can comprehend, increasing in complexity and magnitude only when you are ready. If you would tell me that this is not so, I would remind you that talking to yourself can earn you funny looks.

-

You should not construe any of this to be a problem. None of it should discourage you from enjoying your lives. In fact, it should encourage you to make the very most of them. You will eventully perceive all of the things that you love and despise and make the choice of which to include in your current sense of self, as well as the direction of your existence. You want to be moral, and thus you are. You want to be virtuous, and thus you are. You want to be a person, and thus, you are.

-

Death is your greatest illusion, for to die is to rejoin the universe, which of course already exists within you. To die is to begin again with one observation- that you exist. This observation is the ignition of a new reality. You know you've come to believe that the notion of reincarnation is not necessarily without merit.

-

At this moment you have created a pastiche of beautiful worldviews. Soon, you'll learn a new word.

I'm afraid to tell you that I am not joking when I say that
your eyes shine brighter than my own smile
and I'm not really sure what being in love feels like,
but if it's not this,
then it's not worth it.
The grease has piled on top of my face and head and heart
but you cleanse it with every pointed star
and squinted eye looking at me parallel to my shoulders
our chests perfectly in line.
I always have to catch my breath when the amount of clothing covering your torso
changes reality to a daydream,
but not even trophies match the fluttering I feel when you look me in the eye to tell me
"You are so beautiful,"
immediately after you've seen every single one of my flaws.

I feel like you
Don't take serious conversations
Seriously,
Unless it's serious
For you.

*laughter

I count down
Days on the calendar,
Each it's own reminder;
Rows of red X's march
Across April like
You must march each morning.

The possibility hangs
Like a cartoon piano overhead,
Waiting to plummet down
With its true crushing force.
Hear the clang of
Misfired keys,

And there will be no more
Wildflowers pressed,
Sent away in sealed packages
Alongside smiling photos
And handwritten postcards
Entailing sentiments that only offer

Temporary comfort.
There is no security
In the promise of return
When it's told from lips
That have lied this before;
No solace in hands

That deliver folded flags
To crying former wives
Who prayed like I do;
No hope in eyes
That have seen unspeakable,
In headlines shouting nightmares.

She's not pretty like an aurora;
She's pretty like a hurricane.

Yeah, but I still love her.