crunched and crisp the morning sings
of sugar sand and turquoise water;
the jaded refuse of a winter infuriated.
the streets ahead are paved with ocean,
ghastly white like solemn snow flowers
frozen and trapped in a glass jar.
that face reflects star-strewn summer nights
from the darkest lake's perfect reflection.
------------------------------------
She chases her shadow
across wadded sheets.
The whole room washed in blue,
even my mind-
in your absence.
Wherever she lands,
she pretends she was meant to be.
-------------------------------------
Decomposed and unfocused. A scattered blathering mess of incomprehensible nonsense. Too analytical, less feelings. All we can see is what we feel, so we immediately try to understand it. Feeling seems like something that can (and should) be bypassed, rather than something that should be experienced and left to its own whim- let it stay a mysterious creature with great, dark power. What does analysis do but soil all that is good?
Why is it that certain atmospheres are more conducive to creativity? If creativity is truly in our heads, why would physical environment be a determining factor in its' ability to flourish? Because nothing is purely from our minds.
Our minds are influenced by all that we see, the real and unreal. But we must see the real in order to see the unreal, and in this comparison (which produces one occurrence as unreal), reality must be analyzed and processed in such a way that it filters the mind upside-down.
...But isn't reality always upside-down? We all see different things. A slinky, a coil, a circle, shiny, amusing, annoying... In this vein of thinking, every thought, real and unreal, would have the potential of being unique. If each individual crafts his own interpretation of things based on unique experience, doesn't that mean every persons' filter is entirely constructed by unique occurrences? And then wouldn't our minds produce entirely unique thoughts?
That's the rub of it. Two people may have very different experiences and interpretations and still arrive at the same thoughts.
Isn't that truth? Isn't "truth" universally accepted concepts of how to interpret reality? How to properly construct reality based on commonly perceived insights?
It's funny how performing a specific action, smelling a certain smell, feeling a familiar feeling can totally recreate past scenes before you in your mind...
This place in which we currently live seems so base until you consider that time and perception (and truth- if truth is just a series of perceptions?) are constantly changing. The jingle of a kitty's collar, the buzz of a heater, the sound of this pen and the sliding of my fingers on paper, the pale green glow shadowed over ink, the feeling in the air... all these factors change from one moment to the next, and our minds change with the landscape.
Is stagnation of mind then a desirable trait? Are we truly ever done learning? Maybe there are stable, core pillars of existence, unspoken truths, and the rest is up for interpretation and constant re-evaluation- just to make sure interpretation is keeping up with experience. These things need to be monitored, and certain ideas need to remain fluid...
Brain breaks open
into side of skull.
Thoughts, dreams leak-
catastrophic accident of
brain mess soaked
into the floor.
Thoughts inhabit the walls,
sink into the carpet,
crawl into nearby flesh-
Dreams carry on the wind,
searching for a worthy or
unsuspecting recipient.
The brain mess becomes
a world mess and the universe is
forever contaminated by
our mental excrement.
Thoughts are a disease if they produce a shifting truth.
(It's just not practical to keep parts of yourself from yourself.)
-----------------------------------------
Psychosomatic.
The brain can do crazy, oppressive things to itself.
I wonder how often our brains restrict us from feelings or sensations that would naturally occur. But what would occur naturally without having been perceived by (and thus filtered through) our brains? All that exists to us is our perception. Existence is filtered, reality is skewed- there is no constant.
A skewed reality is all there is- but that doesn't mean it can't be pleasant!
-----------------------------------------
A broken canyon lingers on the horizon.
Melting air wave houses disintegrate into
a tidal wave of black smoke-
exploding into
the darkest burning night,
shot down by
the cruelest bleeding sun.
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I love when cats look at you and lick their lips. It's like they're plotting something, or see a fish in your place.
I only change it when it hurts. It’s a countdown to reclamation, not ecstacy.
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