Today I chose to be a writer

Tomorrow I think I'll Be a Fisherman


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A Static Hum

Beat sore, but still trudging along; the broken mends as time spirals outwards ad infinitum, and along I go- a writer, an observer, eyes wide and thirsty to see. Finding inspiration in strange corners of reality and fleeing one vice only to find the next, most days I find myself lost in thought for hours, dazed, and bewildered. Overwhelmed with love and hate, peace and anger, lust, madness, and all the other joys of being an insane ape. A teacher? Ha!! How can I teach if it’s all so unclear, what do I see which I can point to and describe? Better yet, who the fuck am I to say what that which I am pointing to is? and for that matter who is anyone? But, Here I go anyway because I Am! As Is everything else, as it should Be, for it could never not Be.

This is a mad house, a playground for thoughts and ideas, for brilliance and darkness- a game of polarity and duality. At some point in this game, a strange psychotic ape finds itself aware and able to assimilate grand ideas and express them with words and pictures and symbols (oh the symbols!). I’ve had insane visions through a keyhole, and saw through the eternal eyes of a tree, in a frenzied moment of schizophrenic clarity, the very fractal which drives our consciousness towards a defragmented and delirious end.

An ancient eye, watching the sun rise over a plane of eternal ideas blinks away ethereal tears of quicksilver into an unevenly dug borrow underneath the tree of life, and under that tree suckling on those mercurial essences are thirteen unholy bastards and their thirty three bastard children.

A Mad house I tell you, a static hum, an interference pattern, an ongoing cosmic orgy of dire explosions and minuscule annihilation, an illusory field of existence in which desensitization is appreciated as growth and wisdom.

Listen closely and synchronicity will speak volumes, let it rule and go where it takes you, this has always been my motivation. Alas! This illusionary field solidifies and is subjected, a spiral slowly digresses into a dull circle with no holy progression, and the thudding of marching boots overpower such a fleeting sound. Thirteen unholy bastards are hard at work and within their trinity we are all enthralled.

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One Who Sighs

Within the place we all exist ,

is a voice that whispers softly.

It murmurs ancient secrets into the ether.

listen well and you may hear

an eternal song of sorrow,

Telling the tale of a melancholic sparrow,

who could not sing but only sighed.

The soul reproaches it’s disconnection from the whole.