cold uncomfortableness, like the Nile River long or the oceans emotions cold.

uncomfortableness, like a friendly stab in the back by a person you trust. but i trust no man.

cold, like a man who rapes a young girl with a bright future and decides to mess it up for her because he had to satisfy his needs.

cold uncomfortableness, like a man who *** with a woman but then decides to run away because his father taught him the motto of life is: ditch the mom, leave the baby. cold.

uncomfortableness, like the big people in government who use tax money to buy fast cars, expensive houses. they then forget the people that got them there.

cold, like a 5 year old who gets shot fearlessly.

cold uncomfortableness, like fake gangsters who shoot innocent people because they feel drugs & their needs are bigger than any man on this planet.

uncomfortableness, like human greed which leads a man to be controlled by money. but what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

everyone has a story.
some, beautifully written.
others with torn pages and blotched ink.
you read, absorb, comprehend.
you learn
the fears and hopes and well hidden pain
the mountain of anger and regrets
the beautiful smiles masking lonely hearts.
after awhile you realise
that empathy,
in its cold uncomfortableness,
hurts if you give too much.
still you grow,
strong enough to love the world
yet empty enough to dine with its demons.

for some reason, i never seriously branched away from american rock / metal into the alternative of black metal or viking metal of scandinavian... the finnish music scene gave me an appeal for their music... given the folk tale of herr mannelig... well... it's come down to: either hedningarna or gjallarhorn, when drinking, you really want to mellow out... you still like classical music, but you just can't keep up with the shrieks and the heavy guitars anymore... you want to return to the roots of melody, above ferocity... god, i hate the strauß family... i can't stand that sort of music... the non-contemplative type... it doesn't allow any meditation... because you imagine yourself constantly dancing... dying from st. vitus' dance / sydenham's chorea... there's nothing contemplative from their music, their waltzes are cannot entertain thinking, only dancing, or clapping to the rhythm.

existentia (existence)
     "existence" (existenz)
   ex-sistere ("to exist", "to stand out")
strutting among non-beings:
            
  cogito - sum   (i am thinking - i am)
   the simultaneous answer,
      
the vector guiding the cartesian sum
   is to provide conversation

the vector guiding the cartesian cogito
is to provide an anti-claustrophobia
   (you can really become claustrophobic
  in a conversation... i.e. be put on the spot /
    high heels, of uncomfortableness).

ah... *ex-sistere ("to exist", "to stand out")...
isn't that the western mantra for
individualism?
                   how can it not be?
why is individualism so sacred,
        so nauseating? this segregation of
one's own, from the ownership of all and
no one?
              it took king solomon to look at
an ant, which didn't exactly transcribe into
a humbling... just an crying out of
what individualism leads to: vanity! all is vanity!
                   vanus! vanus est omni!
ah, but no day is void of its content,
   as being the vessel of emptiness,
  the day, is a vessel brimming, full,
   a dam about to collapse, that fills me
with at least something that otherwise makes
me devoid, of entertaining it, in the first place.

but all these "political" conversations...
    these conversations might as well
start off with a sticker:
   hi, my name is...          bob.
i listen to these political discussion and
think...
         wow! the cartesian libra
       weighs so much toward the "i am"
side of the measures...
     such is the scenario of poly-identifactions...
i'm a liberal, i'm a conservative, i'm a progressive,
i'm into alt. right, i'm i'm i'm this that and the other...
given the conversation, and a complete
lack of silence i.e. thought,
           i'm also about to create a collage
of identificators...
   but i'll begin with: hi, my name is...      bob;
like any goldfish might.
        
  to me these people are talking presuppostions,
they are presupposing they are what they "are"...
     which suggests their thinking aligns itself
to suppositions, that they "are"
                          what they "think" they are...
they're not thinking, they're talking...
   non-stop, ad nauseam...
               i gather that people who are
       vox-philic, are also musica-phobic...
sometimes i think about knocking on a door
for about 10 years and not have it open
than listen to these people talk "politics".
       sometimes listening to hammering
in nails on a building site sounds more entertaining;
oh wait, should that be dico-philic / sermo-philic?
      whatever.
     i found that the people who love talking,
have no passion for music.

     silverchair - freak:
lyrics -
               no more maybes, the baby's got rabies,
       in the middle of the andies... yeah, heh!
i'm a freak. nature!
   yeah, heh!e
    if only i could be as cool as you.
   ****** and soul, i'm a freak, i'm a freak...
           trying to be different...
   whatever different disease...

   yep.... index finger moving against the motorboat
effect of the lips vibrating...
       hey presto! a mongolian harmonica.
              
ex omne diem
                  (out of every day)
               out of every moment...
    there is a driving momentum,
              to counter the shackles of systematic
clarification of what existence actually is,
or can be, or will or never will be,
            for what existence was...
                         is an selective memorisation...
a memory drives my curiosity more than
a spontaneous thought...
                 the thought is in the now,
a memory is in the what was...
           when walking in the desert of thought,
you must certainly stumble against
   the mirage oasis of a memory, suddenly arising...
i count memory, to have a higher status
     in the hierarchy of mental faculties
as that of dreams...
             for one... memory is attacked by
institutionalised learning, say,
       the pythagoras...
                                    i rather respect memory,
and keep as much of it as i can,
   than demand an interpretation of dreams...
i literally, have no respect for dreams...
                      none...
        memory though?
        memoriam est grata, somnio est non grata
(memory is welcome, dreaming is not welcome).

I had a bad day.
One of those that
started while
I was sleeping.

Shaking hands
and a heart racing
like the horses
in the Kentucky Derby.

I kept my mind blank,
on purpose, you know.
How is it that
all of a sudden,
every bad memory
comes to mind and
turns me into
jelly?

This day is odd.
Everything off.
Someone looks at me.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, I am."
It's a small lie, but that
is the answer they expect.

They don't want to know
anything, except
that everything is okay.
They don't want
to know
the bad things.
Because that makes
them uncomfortable.

The sort of
uncomfortableness
that makes you itch.

I roll, and
take a ****.
I smoke my
closest friend.
You know the one.

I forget the bad,
I float in space,
and watch that someone
stumble and fall.
Too much to drink.

I prefer nature
to help me with my
bad days.

i want to help you
the person with the fake smile
   hiding behind a mask
      of forced happiness
why do you do it?
why do you want the world to see you
    as something you are not?
don't project happiness
because that's what's to be expected
people can handle happy
it makes them feel content
if they assume you are happy
but what does that leave you
   nothing
      empty
         unfulfilled
& burdened with carrying
that extra heavy weight
   of uncertainty
      uncomfortableness
just to comfort everyone else
be free with your sadness
   cry
      rain tears of despair
         open your arms, desperately
and plead with your eyes
   beg
      ask
for someone
   anyone
to grab ahold of you
and squeeze you tight
whispering
that everything
will be alright

expressing your sadness
   reaching out for help
      is the only real road
to recovery

the only real road
to peace.

A fractured spirit as a child.
Divorced parents.
A Saturday father.
A jealous mother of happy time spent with our father.
What very little time that was.
For me it was never close to enough.
That precious time was reduced even more.
I missed and needed my daddy.
But mom didn't care, her feelings were clearly more important than a fragile child.
After being dropped off by our father there were times of mental and physical unwanted unnecessary uncomfortableness.
All I wanted was time with my daddy but it became scarce, because our father did not want us subjected to that type of behavior any longer from a jealous woman.
Fractured spirit led to a fractured heart.
Part of my heart was so loving and warm.
The larger part was so cold and so bitter.
Which has led to a fractured tormented soul especially after losing my daddy a few short years ago one March day.
Watching my daddy suffer first hand from stage IV lung cancer opened up old and new wounds.
It fractured my mind.
It fractured my very essence of being.
Why is my existence completely fractured ?
Why was it after watching my father get so abusively tortured by cancer did I and do I feel so broken and unrepairable ?
Perhaps it's because I want the same fate as my daddy and I won't feel whole ever again until I do.
I've never been a truly happy person since my father left us as children.
I've never been whole, ever, and I never will be.
I drag my fractured existence through year after year since my daddy's passing.
Never caring, even a little if I myself was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer
tomorrow.
Selfish?
Perhaps.
But that cold and bitter part of my heart doesn't care much about selfishness.
It only cares about the exhaustive numbing pain it has dragged around for nearly 50 years.
As other layers of guilt with other separate affairs of my fractured heart have been added throughout these painful years, life if I am to be honest, has almost become a nuisance.
Crowds of people I avoid because my cold bitter heart trusts no one.
Outside of my home I venture only because I have to, to support the family I created.
Otherwise my fractured being I would keep in my home away from a world I almost despise and sometimes loathe.
Money does not make me happy.
Love does not make me happy.
Nothing will ever make the bigger piece of my fractured heart happy.
It's north pole cold and it will never be warmed until I suffer as my daddy did and I finally leave this place called Earth that I look at as hell.
I only need to leave my home for one day to realize that this really is hell on earth.
Until I can get away from the ignorance...
the I I I I I ...
the selfishness of just about every human being I encounter everyday I will never be happy.
When I see my daddy's face and Jesus's face is when my fractured heart will become whole once again and when I will finally allow myself to be happy.....at long last.
I can't wait to know even something as simple and taken for granted as being/feeling whole.... I can't wait to know how that feels because I never have.
A whole heart from me would be absolutely angelic.
A heart that Jesus has longed to see whole too, i'm sure of it.

I still miss you just as much
I just don't say it anymore.
Because when I do
The look on your face
That mixture of pity and uncomfortableness
Makes me want to *****.
And I can't throw up with an empty stomach
And heaving is just unladylike.

-bcg (i miss you)

im scared.
But  "I know I will be okay... "

(The quote that seems to make it all okay in the mind of Kimmy)

the seconds till sun sets feels like a lifetime.
I hear the whistle, but dont have that kick.
I feel the pressure; but there's no release

my break time, has turned into lunchtime and my style has changed from super so cal cute to what the **** am i doing out here?

i seriously contimplate playing with death. i think to myself how id do it and what the aftermouth could be.

its as if my skin is crawling with uncomfortableness.

this city isnt for me. im not for me.
i know who i am.
what i enjoy.
what is wrong and what is right.

but oftenly enough, my behavior has trashed all previous  teachings once learned. I cant take myself seriously i cant take life seriously. I am in a relationship that is remaining consistant because its one less thing to add to my table platter of life.

sometimes i wish i could just walk away after being served, but it just doesnt work that w ay. I get that.

the world is feeling a lot today -
you can feel it in the pavement
you can see it in the sky
      in the clouds
      in the sprinkling rain

I am feeling a lot today -
its been lingering
that feeling
that feeling that doesn't have a name

overwhelming...
confusing...
unnerving...

allowing yourself to f e e l
is something that doesn't happen often, at least for me

digesting...
breathing...

understanding these emotions
that I've always locked in a box -
I've pretended to feel them before...

but, for the first time in my life
I am feeling
uncomfortable

and it's the first time I've ever actually felt...
c o m f o r t a b l e

The words flash across my screen
in comments of facebook pictures
and news articles.
Why are you still calling HER a he?
How do you think that makes most of us feel?
The fear and uncomfortableness,
like a pink elephant in the room that no one seems to notice
lingers in most of our minds.
Gender has nothing to with
what's between your legs or
how you were born;
but rather, it sits in your mind
dragging along all your insecurities:
you don't even feel safe in your own body.
I am not a person of gender
rather, I'm a blank slate.
To think
her coming out is a publicity stunt
is quite alarming
I have to wonder:
when did that door in your mind close?

In solitude I find myself
As if I were lost
During nights of loneliness I am forced to accompany myself
With myself I spend time
Forced to confront uncomfortableness
Awkward stares await my reflection
Accompanied by depression and all her friends

No distractions to distract
A Vice City no more
Prohibition of vices
Eliminates the haze

Who I was is not who I am
My alter ego took over
The Hero creates the Villain—not the other way around

I am rediscovering myself, solely
Alone, alone, I need to be alone
I have never been
I do not know how

Ignore my instincts for company
I urge to leech on for friendship and love
Companionship is a drug
But I combat and deny all—no
No I say
It is time to be alone

For solitude is my new lover
I will get used to this eventually
Coming home to no one
And no one waiting for me at home

To be alone; my choice
It is not a luxury nor is it a goal
I chose this
I choose to be alone

i've chosen to eliminate the color
that surrounds me
i want my world to be grey
   for now

   solitude

an encircling of woe
that reaches deep inside of me
embracing my heart with black fingers
and squeezing
    squeezing
deflating me
leaving me with nothing to feel
   nowhere safe to hide
enraptured in the uncomfortableness
of my own mind and body
my only choice is to give into my despair
and wait
wait
for the eventual brightness

i open my eyes to a day barely started
and my mind becomes a whirlwind
of thoughts bumping into each other

with bullying strength
the poison of uncomfortableness
forces away any happiness i may have felt

the fight within me
becomes almost unbearable
and a sob escapes my throat
with the realization
that nothing has improved

this life is tough
my life has drained me
and the will to carry on
becomes weaker with each passing hour

i crave to stand stable
   i urge my mind to succumb to happiness
     and i will my arms
       to open up and accept love
but the clicking of the clock
   the creeping of the minutes
beg me to face the inevitable
   force my heart
to beat with emptiness

and the realization
that the one true love i have
     myself
is less then what i've hoped for.

Nearing the heights
Of the rollercoaster’s first climb,
With its challenges and uncomfortableness.
Now
Anticipation
Of that stomach in your mouth vertical drop moment of
Fear, exhilaration and excitement.
For you’re on the cusp of  
The ride of your life
To remarkable extraordinary summits
Not yet imagined,
Only mere glimpses of,
Til now. . .

You’re already on
The ride of your life
The thrill of your life
With its screams, excitement and fear,
The ups and downs
And ins and outs.
This adventure,
Your adventure,
starts right now.
The time is right.
Perfect timing.
Divine timing

you have a beauty
that i cannot grasp
me, with you,
isn't possible

uncomfortableness
fills me

when i imagine your arms
around me
and even though my body
craves your touch
my mind
isn't ready for it.

the single
   most selfless act
that the baby boomers could
   bless us with
may be to show some gumption
   take some responsibility
then accept that what possibly
    is going on is
an action set forth by nature
    to even things out

it also may be
     that what could save this world from
    **** that we abundantly produce
would be to say to everyone, truly
and with love. ‘f**k yr feelings’
  because to take account
      of every time someone is offended..
          well, let’s just say you can’t
    make it the ideal temperature for all
and if you did, they would be bored
        

so it may seem
or really, to me it seems
when we stop looking within
to observe our afflictions
we tend to blame any uncomfortableness
on what it was that reminded us
of the pains we cling to;
instead of identifying causation


it’s something that seems cruel
    and there’s no pretending I’m not at all
just think though
      do you wish for future generations?
   what are yr hopes to entrust to them?
        if we preserve life,
where will newness become?
       with nothing to breathe
eat or drink. because
septua+genarians have behaved
as toddlers, since they were toddlers

There is a delicate innocence
in a young season.
One where they are just beginning
untainted by the coming days and the rush
of all the things that must change.
Unburdened by the falling leaves, or the growth of flowers
or the fall of snow on a winter evening.

But as the seasons age, they lose that innocence.
Leaves no longer bear the vibrant colors of Autumn.
Spring no longer grows such beautiful flowers,
whose petals are so soft
like silk, or a lover's touch.
Winter brings forth harsh blizzards and ice that forces
everyone into hiding
as they wait out just one of many winter storms.
Summer brings forth days too hot to do anything,
drought and sunburn, heatstroke and general uncomfortableness.

As the seasons die, they give birth to the next season,
innocence born anew in a never-ending cycle
of naivety, then suffering, then the long waited for relief.
A season never stays, and you cannot follow it.
But at the same time, you know
that it will always come back to you in the end.

Seasons are much like humans, no?
We are born so delicate, full of an untainted fragility
that people swoon over
wanting for that innocence to never fade.
But as we grow, that innocence turns to
bitterness, greed, anxiety, and the wish
for the next season to come along and save them from this
the boring, monotonous day that never ends.
And as we grow even older, acceptance rolls around
and we begin to regret the things we never did in life.
But for some of us, the season ends far too soon.
and unlike the seasons, we can never come back.

between darkness and light
twilight
this is where i am at the moment

why does it feel like this?
i can't find the words

the energy, the sensations
i don't want to be here
in. my. mind.
feel and be present: this is where You begin
detach to connect to your wounds
learn from them to heal
be still and allow the emotions to swell
ache writhing in my heart. pain. tears.
breathe s l o w l y

outgrowing who i've been
not knowing yet
but appreciating how far i've come
holding on to the heartache and pain
because i still can't find the words
and this is part of how i tell my story
maybe it's more for me than for you
protecting myself: ego
learning to be thankful for each moment i cry
seeking for her to be free

the body knows
intuitively.  if i pay attention
i didn't see before
that's why you keep coming around
settle into uncomfortableness to discover your higher truth
i do everything not to be here

i now feel the desire to release
choose the vibration that excites your senses
wanting to send light to all the places that need love
the vulnerabilities are your courage and strength
breathe them in
let them settle
to create more space

let go of what no longer serves your heart: loneliness, shame, desperation, abandonment
i don't want to tend to these feelings anymore
i've kept them close and safe long enough

what are the points at which the top edge of the sun reaches the horizon?
i want to be in that light
where the aura radiates
and the energy is tender, beginning again

if not for you, i would not have remembered
so bright i am: the beauty of the sunrise
be present to this moment
awaken

a breath in to receive
a breath out to continue the journey

--dinah simpson

Everyone has a story to share. Some, beautifully written, others with torn pages and blotched ink. The mountain tops of joy and the valleys of anger and regret, the beautiful smiles masking broken hearts. In its uncomfortableness, may I have empathy and strength enough to love others’ stories of fear and hope and well hidden pain, while being vulnerable enough to comprehend their meanings.

It was a beautiful day. Some might say 'perfect'. Others would disagree, as they always tend to do. I say 'WAS a beautiful day' because as these words are read, the moments they describe have long passed. Not only that, as I experience these moments they immediately become the past, since the present moment is partly an illusion, partly our liberation. The only moment most people are ever able to experience in our dimension/universe is the present. Yet the very structure of time becomes the ideology that binds us most: segmenting and amalgamating to create a false perspective of continuity, but more detrimentally to us, of finality. Reggie Watts once sang that:

"We're only living in the memories of our future selves and its funny to think like we're here right now, but we never really are 'cuz we're somewhere in the future controlling the options, giving lots of hints to ourselves in order for us to understand that choice is still important in a world where we gotta figure some stuff out: yea".

That's a pretty consuming thought, but most don't even have the self-awareness to figure out the most basic concepts so hopefully, this alleged shift in consciousness better brings some swift wisdom to those it can and solace for those it can't. How did such dark thoughts come from such a beautifully perfect day? Because beauty is pain and nothing is perfect in life except perhaps life itself in/or the multiverse we inhabit (potentially). Always full of ups and downs like waves... of sound... of light... of energy... aka EVERYTHING! That's enough pseudo-philosophy for now. Take comfort in life's uncomfortableness.

having observed the english language
it's hard, not to observe the χ conundrum
(chī) -

it goes way back to the introduction
of the Cartesian mind-body duality...
so you can say: it's very old -
old enough to reach a revisionist
aura -

notably, and only notable in the english
language;
i never read any English philosophers -
and never will,
don't know or even if there is a why...
i was always drawn the the "stale" Germans...
those ******* boorish
perfectionists... oh well...
plus i don't have any curiosity of
the French philosophers' ambiguity
of the self...
    like a Pontius Pilate scenario
in Sartre: "i"...

who?!               "i"...
           o.k. i appreciate the existential
curator aspect dealing with:
ambiguity, nuance, metaphor...
but "      " over a pronoun?
           even I find that as if stretching
something not akin to chewing gum:
hard to grasp.

yet this is how a chī conundrum looks
like in the english language:

         mind                object

                            χ
        
           subject              body

oh it's there, i'm pretty sure of it...
esp. when i hear alt. media "objective" truths...
objective reporting, whatever...
so... subjectivity is, inherently, a bias?
there can be no subjective truths?
not a single drop of truth from
a subjective trickle?

           so why bother listening to music
if you can only attain
an objective truth akin to
a music critic?
           what could possibly be fun
about giving a critical opinion,
an objective opinion,
about something that inherently
possesses you, overcomes you,
that you like?

             point being:
objectivity as a safety cushion -
   you don't shy away from
the uncomfortableness of
a counter opinion about a piece of
music you're inclined to,
inherently... without any mediation
of the other's opinion...

    dunno... ****** music...
the sort of music that feeds the expectation
of binge eating, fast-foods,
comfort digest...

   but this conundrum will never be
solved - because it is not supposed
to be solve: rather? mediated.

the mind = subject + object
the body = subject + object -

in the latter sense:
it's subject to infectious diseases
(a canvas, also one of those
things that are both subject, and object,
subject to a paintbrush) -
but it's also the object of desire -
take me out having watched
a video with a **** au pair from
the continent...

but i don't trust people who constantly
champion objectivity -
like it's all, all of it, life,
about Newton's third law of motion:
for every action,
there is an equal and opposite reaction -
that's objectivity,
spewed by alt. media outlets...

and no... i'm not for the subjectivity
of the main media sources -
but...
            you think that subjectivity,
bias, a hindering aspect doesn't trickle
into the objectivity basin?
of course it does!
   the mind can't, somehow, magically,
solve the duo-and-dicho complex -

schizoid?
   bi...             lingual...
    and since the term schizophrenia no
longer belongs to the psychiatric
establishment -
     and rather... to the media and political
carers of cut-throat Brutus career
seekers...
             dichophrenia...
nice term...

                        so...
what do you get
when you
                -tomy into a duality?
you get...
                               quarters -
and once cut into: never to be put back
together in some coherence of
equal truths, shared by either of
the extremes...
   always... always three quarter muddles...
of which there are two,
three quarter muddles -
    each... always exercising an exclusion
of either the mind,
or the body - since the subject-object
titanium bond, is...
unbreakable -
   not because it's has the property
of a dualistic fluidity -
          
                but the concreteness of
a rigid dichotomy.

in the unrestrained tornado
i heard the scream of a little girl
she screeched and screeched and got louder with every breath she took
i heaved deeply
so deep i felt my ribs crack a bit
but it didn’t impair me
because i was too locked in to her helpless and terrified yet determined screaming
so locked in
that i didn’t take a moment to breathe

     and that’s when the winds died down
     the roaring halted
     stopped
     the shouting of the young girl was all gone
     the uncomfortableness that i felt, dissipated
     into the shadow of the night
     no damage had been done
     everything is all good now
     i didn’t know natural disasters could be
     created inside the mind of a poser

They ask me,
How do you live like this?
I live like this because I do not choose to,
Because I am a slave to my thoughts that are trying to **** me.
How can you destroy your body?
I can destroy myself because the hatred runs so deep it feels deserved.
I need to self destruct in order to feel okay.
How do you sleep at night?
I don’t sleep at night. I am haunted by my fears and the uncomfortableness in my own body.
How can you hurt those around you?
I do not choose to hurt those around me.
I love them but they no longer see me the same, bridges burned and trust broken.
I live in a prison and I am the creator.
Leave me to build my walls as I’m swallowed whole.