Blind to the subject of being blind in love –
does that mean I can see?

Do I believe in the belief; of love at first sight
isn’t faith believing in that you cannot see,
that which you hope to be?

But I could close my eyes to a better scene –
when we go out and it doesn’t go so well;
we should have made it a blind date!

            Now this love feels blind.

I feel like my best musings happen early in the morning
Before the sun fully rises,
And the world still lingers in half-light.
Winter has draped its silent cloak over the city,
Its pale breath fogging the windows of the bus.
My bag rests on my lap- not just out of habit
but as an anchor, a small weight of constancy while the world outside blurs past.
There’s a rare tranquility i feel in these moments,
One that seems to vanish as the day begins
There are no buzzing notifications,
no deadlines to pull me away
just me, the hum of the engine
and a moment untouched by time.
In a world so loud and fractured
where we just move through the motions
unmoved by this ephemeral existence
These fleeting bus rides
somehow tether me to reality.

It's been a while.
The birds keep chirping in the distance,
their melody steady, familiar.
I glance to the side, observing it all.
Was it the atmosphere that had changed,
or was it my heart whispering a thought?

I look down,
lost in reflection,
turning it over and over in my mind.
Now it feels like a cycle—
too many thoughts,
too many wanderings,
looping endlessly.

Woke up feelings to a morning that kind of *****; mixed a bit of ****
in my coffee cup – being blunt, that I need a higher buzz. When I cry,
my tears are always like smoke in my lungs; it just chokes me up.

In this life where people search for *******, more than the depth
of one’s inner soul – they might say they love you, but never hold you
that close. Even if our energies magnetized, I still need to know – that
if we dressed our love, would I still be attracted to you even in your
baggy clothes?

We all carry baggage – still if I showed you mine, would you
show me yours…

Pillow talk: you can be good at it, but in public you don’t have the
right words – you just rest them in your thoughts. Where you woke
up, laughing with the bad folk – the wiser eyes look at you as the
joke.

                                                      Aren’t we sometimes a terrible joke?

Must I tell you, I’ve got a Bag for a mind –
Just to unpack all of my Thoughts: thinking Back
On old plans I had for Myself, I had My thinking
Cap in Reverse

I swallowed a whole lot of Colours to fill
My imagination's belly, from dreaming in Black
And white – now I have a Picture full
By this laughing Spread, I can’t help and smile
While looking at the Ugly things that are
Secretly Beautiful

All my tears are navy Blue; depression in a
Collapsing sea – depending on your own Impression,
What you witness in glee, isn’t what the other will see

A Simpleton must annoy the Complex thinker,
But what if the Easier option for them, makes life
Simple then,

                                                  Is life that simple?

What a kind curse I have. I am built in my biological design to observe the world around me. To process and be able to understand concepts, how to use the information to benefit. My visual acuity to discern the physical world with clarity and capture as much floating light information that is ambiently around. A dissociated portion of my own psych that is constantly observing me and my mental state giving a pseudo "objective" view of whatever I'm actually doing. Even when inebriated, woozy, or having ***, being directly still aware of what I'm doing and what is happening to me. I am kind enough and seem to be attractive enough that people enjoy my company, want me around, and sometimes kiss me. I have a strong enough imagination to **** a little with my perceived reality. With a degree of fact, narcissim, and uncertainty, these are gifts.

I have such a poor memory. There is so little I retain from the information I receive. I regularly can not remember to do things. It takes a long time, with considerable effort, to commit something to memory. I lose grasp on a running thread if distracted. The gifts I have are wasted for doing anything to accurately and fully benefit those around me and myself. Even selfishly it is difficult for me to substantially gain from it. This is the curse.

I have no distraction from the exact moment I am in and what is happening right then. I am always present. I have the greatest capacity to observe the exactness of the life I live. I have nothing to do with what I have, other than enjoy it. To see the grandeur of the fact that is existence. That anything exists at all is a marvel and I am here to see it.

It happens with all the holes and wounds: they grow their own face, mend their gap, heal their rifts - those new skills of yours are but entities that emerge: to give shelter, to stand guard, replace the old, thicken the crust, weather this human storm - through and through.

But will the skin ever return to its soil? It linger on forevermore.
How tight is its grip? How hardened its sappy brooks? When will it nourish those delicate roots anew?

These thoughts arise as doubt breaks free. It pours and flows as I gaze down and lower still. Shadows seep and leak as the wheel spins and drills the soul evermore hollow. Anonymous is our tree of life, but it keeps faces in store.

For it happens with all the holes and wounds: they bleed, they mend, they heal - and what don't they do as I stand here, as I bend, as I kneel - as I carve their seats in shapes of departure. These skills thicken under my feet like growling tremors.

My past was but a dream - ready to slide and crumble like a leaf.
My weariness is universal. My knowledge, heavy. There cannot be a conclusion. I am growing thin.

Let me feed those roots anew.