Hours Move Slowly
01/16/05 1:08 AM
The hours move slowly when you are waiting for something. Times escapes all definitive confines and you find yourself moving much slower toward nothing at all. The divide between past and present no longer exists, and you are of free form, free mind, drifting endlessly into your very own imposed state of exile. This free disaster won’t wait for a more appropriate time, for an appointed place, because it never had one to begin with. You just tried to make yourself think it did. So, here you are, in the heartbeat slowly palpitating, as you listen, while trying hard not to listen. Comfort does not know of this place, and hope would only be a transitory stranger who accidentally rested his head on your doorstep due to lack of better options.
You pause. Take note of surrounding conditions, and quickly consume your hands or lips with something of interest. A lover, a guitar, a pen, a piece of literature, a song, a pat on your puppy’s head. It doesn’t matter. Anything to bring you back to some other thing’s vision of reality, rather than being lost solely within your own. You write your proverbial ransom note, to yourself. You create the existential, spiritual, transcendental works of the solitary mind. A plea for redemption in a world that you must share, and learn to give and take part in. A reckoning of intent to all in the world that has been imposed upon you, yet has given you the breath beneath your otherwise jaundice, lukewarm skin.
And perhaps reality can only be defined as a place where one person can meet others. The solitary mind has little use for reality and the luxuries reality may afford such eternally single souls. But it is our perception of our collective selves within the paradigm of this plane of reality we find each other within, that often keeps us tied to such measures as time, dates, and moralities. By your existence and my undeniable need for you and others, we are drawn down by the gravity of other’s minds, words, and emotive executions. And we meet here, on our glorious concrete bound earth. But what do we have to say to one another? Should we perhaps just retreat back to our personally designated wavelengths and stay there? Avoid the confusion of body language and misinterpreted interactions. Avoid this whole thing completely, and live a little bit more peacefully, knowing at the very least, the solitary self. Or would we ever truly know that without the contrasting bodies to challenge it and give it its nutrition for further fruition?
And as dark as I have seen the souls around me, far beyond these transitory states and inconsequential incongruencies of perception, I can’t help but be cradled and rocked to sleep by the immortal prospect of the beauty that may be to come. Somehow the ghostly prospect of that alone, with no promise or certainty, can keep the futile heart running for infinities. Faith. Hope. Progress. Potential. The potential to one day, redeem all of these moments of absolute lack of willpower, control, understanding, into riches of wisdom beyond what your currently feeble mind can fathom.
We have spent lifetimes questioning why we must endure such ambivalence in love, and in personal discomfort. What are we really trying to accomplish here? When do we really make our minds up to come to a plateau that doesn’t only have plateaus stacked above it for ages?
The hardest hand to hold is often, your own. Kamikaze gifted lives, is what we have here. This is all just a test in make-up, in potentials of old souls given freshly formatted conditions of further confusing compositions. But we are here now, there’s no way around it. As hard as you try to cheat the hand you’re dealt, you know all the hands, and just what place and purpose yours holds to your trembling fingers, and only your own.
Truth is not a smooth, softly coated pill. It’s a bastardly dagger, and often every bit just as asymmetrical and horrific as it is healing and pure. The blessed can only enjoy their privileged state after long periods of terrifying vacationing within the gut of their respective curses. They don’t exist independently. For every smile you are gifted by, there was once or one day will be, a symbiotic deafening tear to compliment it.
Welcome to your life. There has never been a better time than right now.
The hours move slowly when you are waiting for something. Times escapes all definitive confines and you find yourself moving much slower toward nothing at all. The divide between past and present no longer exists, and you are of free form, free mind, drifting endlessly into your very own imposed state of exile. This free disaster won’t wait for a more appropriate time, for an appointed place, because it never had one to begin with. You just tried to make yourself think it did. So, here you are, in the heartbeat slowly palpitating, as you listen, while trying hard not to listen. Comfort does not know of this place, and hope would only be a transitory stranger who accidentally rested his head on your doorstep due to lack of better options.
You pause. Take note of surrounding conditions, and quickly consume your hands or lips with something of interest. A lover, a guitar, a pen, a piece of literature, a song, a pat on your puppy’s head. It doesn’t matter. Anything to bring you back to some other thing’s vision of reality, rather than being lost solely within your own. You write your proverbial ransom note, to yourself. You create the existential, spiritual, transcendental works of the solitary mind. A plea for redemption in a world that you must share, and learn to give and take part in. A reckoning of intent to all in the world that has been imposed upon you, yet has given you the breath beneath your otherwise jaundice, lukewarm skin.
And perhaps reality can only be defined as a place where one person can meet others. The solitary mind has little use for reality and the luxuries reality may afford such eternally single souls. But it is our perception of our collective selves within the paradigm of this plane of reality we find each other within, that often keeps us tied to such measures as time, dates, and moralities. By your existence and my undeniable need for you and others, we are drawn down by the gravity of other’s minds, words, and emotive executions. And we meet here, on our glorious concrete bound earth. But what do we have to say to one another? Should we perhaps just retreat back to our personally designated wavelengths and stay there? Avoid the confusion of body language and misinterpreted interactions. Avoid this whole thing completely, and live a little bit more peacefully, knowing at the very least, the solitary self. Or would we ever truly know that without the contrasting bodies to challenge it and give it its nutrition for further fruition?
And as dark as I have seen the souls around me, far beyond these transitory states and inconsequential incongruencies of perception, I can’t help but be cradled and rocked to sleep by the immortal prospect of the beauty that may be to come. Somehow the ghostly prospect of that alone, with no promise or certainty, can keep the futile heart running for infinities. Faith. Hope. Progress. Potential. The potential to one day, redeem all of these moments of absolute lack of willpower, control, understanding, into riches of wisdom beyond what your currently feeble mind can fathom.
We have spent lifetimes questioning why we must endure such ambivalence in love, and in personal discomfort. What are we really trying to accomplish here? When do we really make our minds up to come to a plateau that doesn’t only have plateaus stacked above it for ages?
The hardest hand to hold is often, your own. Kamikaze gifted lives, is what we have here. This is all just a test in make-up, in potentials of old souls given freshly formatted conditions of further confusing compositions. But we are here now, there’s no way around it. As hard as you try to cheat the hand you’re dealt, you know all the hands, and just what place and purpose yours holds to your trembling fingers, and only your own.
Truth is not a smooth, softly coated pill. It’s a bastardly dagger, and often every bit just as asymmetrical and horrific as it is healing and pure. The blessed can only enjoy their privileged state after long periods of terrifying vacationing within the gut of their respective curses. They don’t exist independently. For every smile you are gifted by, there was once or one day will be, a symbiotic deafening tear to compliment it.
Welcome to your life. There has never been a better time than right now.
posted by kristin diable | 4:08 AM
2 Comments:
Kick ass entry. I came to a show out at the Living Room and apparently put myself on the e-mail list, and just happened to wander my way over to this link tonight. I don't understand everything in the entry, but then again I don't always understand most of the stuff I write myself; but what I did understand spoke to me. You're a nut. Dig it.
peace
Beautiful beautiful beautiful.
You write like you think. Circuitous. I really like your writing style, I think you'll go far.
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