Evidence
Sometimes the only way I can remember I existed before right now, is by finding scraps of things I made along the way. This is the appeal of songs, sound, words, photographs I guess. It's nice to be able to observe yourself almost from an outsiders perspective when finding something from your past. It's good to remind yourself where you were, how you've changed, and that some kind of progress is being made. You haven't been as idle as you thought.
This was from about this time last year.
Dec. 21, 2004
I've decided to give up computers.... at some point. Spending the past three weeks of travel and recording documenting experience via photo and words, all saved on this box of metal and plastic. and then the devil came down. and he ate it.
I'm standing on the edge of the mountain and there's fire below, embers burning up to my face. They are dancing for me, challenging my form with their lack there of, chartering a system overhaul on all my systems. The dedicated and fearless mind is a precious asset to the soul, but it will be the breaker that holds the clenched fist deep within the gut of the muse. Here I am with more love than I could ever ask for, and yet I'm eternally sad, alone, in question. A human possessing dense amounts of love and projecting that supply freely and without expectations, to the world around him is no less than a blessing. But at some point it becomes apparent the need for a reciprocation, in equal degrees, by relation of another breathing soul. What is the experience if it cannot be shared, and understood by someone else, who could only truly understand it if giving at the same level. Perhaps this is what makes for lasting love?
I'm battling between realities that do not co-exist. Two opposite worlds, both of which I seem welcome to, yet can't decipher which is most real, which has substance and which is only a mirage. Right now, everything in me just wants to surreder to the whim of youthful ambivalence,
This all starts and ends, again and again. Repeat. This all will recycle itself eternally. You'll never sleep with the comfort of certainty. There is no such thing. There is only love, essence, the experience you can depend on. Any promise of the return and perpetuation of those things is an impossibility, atleast that's what i've concluded thus far. I'm trying to prove myself wrong.
last night i fell to rest
to feel my body melt
freely into a borrowed bed
i was not the only one
your breath, an invocation
to the introduction
of your skin
your pulse, a lifeline
shadowed insight
to your crowded quarter's den
what would be found
by finger tips against
your unknown condition
This was from about this time last year.
Dec. 21, 2004
I've decided to give up computers.... at some point. Spending the past three weeks of travel and recording documenting experience via photo and words, all saved on this box of metal and plastic. and then the devil came down. and he ate it.
I'm standing on the edge of the mountain and there's fire below, embers burning up to my face. They are dancing for me, challenging my form with their lack there of, chartering a system overhaul on all my systems. The dedicated and fearless mind is a precious asset to the soul, but it will be the breaker that holds the clenched fist deep within the gut of the muse. Here I am with more love than I could ever ask for, and yet I'm eternally sad, alone, in question. A human possessing dense amounts of love and projecting that supply freely and without expectations, to the world around him is no less than a blessing. But at some point it becomes apparent the need for a reciprocation, in equal degrees, by relation of another breathing soul. What is the experience if it cannot be shared, and understood by someone else, who could only truly understand it if giving at the same level. Perhaps this is what makes for lasting love?
I'm battling between realities that do not co-exist. Two opposite worlds, both of which I seem welcome to, yet can't decipher which is most real, which has substance and which is only a mirage. Right now, everything in me just wants to surreder to the whim of youthful ambivalence,
This all starts and ends, again and again. Repeat. This all will recycle itself eternally. You'll never sleep with the comfort of certainty. There is no such thing. There is only love, essence, the experience you can depend on. Any promise of the return and perpetuation of those things is an impossibility, atleast that's what i've concluded thus far. I'm trying to prove myself wrong.
last night i fell to rest
to feel my body melt
freely into a borrowed bed
i was not the only one
your breath, an invocation
to the introduction
of your skin
your pulse, a lifeline
shadowed insight
to your crowded quarter's den
what would be found
by finger tips against
your unknown condition
posted by kristin diable | 5:22 PM
1 Comments:
i lost one of my notebooks one time. actually, i think a bitch stole it from me for her own selfish desires. i was really pissed. but a lot of writing has to do with the actual activity of it. you work through things, you discover new ways to express yourself, you get better. so the words themselves are not as important as the ability you carry with you. you can always produce more words. the inspiration for them is what is hard to come by.
why am i the only one who posts in response to your writing? i don't think it sucks or anything. of course, you are a bit snooty -- kinda like the holy roly types. as if belief makes you better or something. maybe that turns some folks off.
part of the fun of writing is getting people's reactions to your work. they say crap, you talk about it, blah blah blah. there's no point in only writing for yourself unless you desire death.
;--)
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