Haphazard, Chaotic Attic

Isn't it easy, delving into your own mind when the world peels off the better of you? Isn't it done by magic, in a matter of only seconds, when everything you see becomes too sharp, too real, for your own liking? Isn't it easy to head blindly into imagination, when reality hurts, when mortality knocks on your door, when you're reminded how frail you are?


LIVE LIFE, you can read on my knuckles, Absolution, you can read on my wrist. Illusion and dream is written in my neck, turtles and lotus flowers are drawn on my arms. All of this art I've inked onto my skin, all of it on such different occasions for such different reasons, and still their message seems so incredibly similar in retrospect, seems to ring so incredibly clear. It all seems to come down to the same thing - reality, mortality, and making use of the moment. So why is it so hard to stay on the outside, to not float off into a daily dreamland, drenching ourselves in daydreams when we aren't allowed to sleep and scaring ourselves awake with nightmares when we're supposed to?


I wonder if everyone's dreamers, if everyone dreads to be entirely present, entirely absorbed by what is happening around them this very second. I want to be more like those people who forget everything but what needs to be done this here and this now, want to be more like those people who can care so much that they can forget entirely about themselves. I want to be in the moment, want to be here, want to be now. I want to be less forgetful, less abstract, less enclosed in a prison made of moving patterns turning me sea-sick, less chased by constant inner arguments, less troubled, less worried, less afraid. More than anything else I want to be less afraid. I'm so tired of waking up in the middle of the night scared half to death by my own nocturnal and haphazard visions, so tired of twitchingly tricking myself into sleep, so tired of counting minutes and seconds until the next time I'm required to present myself somewhere, so tired of not being able to choose what to think.


Is it supposed to be this chaotic? Is it supposed to be this dizzy? Am I supposed to shift this swiftly between emotional extremes? Am I supposed to spend this much time inside the messy attic I call mind? Am I supposed to latch on so easily to what lives and breathes?


"What you live and breathe is why you're dying"
~ Poets of the Fall


I'll leave you with those words for now...
POET IN THE CHAOTIC JAR

Dollhouse World

It's throwing your dollhouse world in disarray... so you can rebuild or conform

Isn't that the ultimate truth for me right now, with all these thoughts whirling about in my head. What's new, you say, what's new about having a buzzing head, isn't that what the Poet in the Jar's all about? Well, you have a valid point there. But I'm thinking differently about things now, more heavily, trying to rationally argue with the voices inside. Trying to make rationality beat tradition, beat instinct. Not logic thinking... rational thinking, thinking that makes sense. Taking a problem and weighing its pros versus its cons, looking at it from afar instead of from right in the middle of it. Trying to think objectively. Maybe it doesn't sound as hard as I find it, hell, maybe to some people it isn't hard at all. But it's a slow and sometimes painstaking process, for me, and Poets of the Fall's words just... fit. Dollhouse world, a world of perfection, the truth I thought I could deduct by observing the world - thrown into disarray, into disassembly, into disorder; turning every conclusion upside-down, even the ones I had made about myself and about my past.

It's a strange feeling to wake up one day and decide to start looking at things differently... if that's even what happened. I can't really describe what happened. At one point I just looked at my past in a different light, and at everyone who had surrounded me up until that point. Things started to click into place. I wouldn't say questions were answered, it was more like questions were added. But now I could tell which questions mattered and which were less important. Which to try and answer and which to let be. And that can make a hell of a difference, to a pondering poet.

The past few days I've been thinking of a few things, trying to "solve" them in my head. The first major issue has been what should qualify as love, is it measureable, what happens when love falls out of society's norms, and does love really need to be physical? The other major issue has been whether you should trust your head more than your heart when they want two separate things, and how to balance your own life with the lives of others. How can you be a pioneer and an individual if doing so constantly pushes you out of the social context? Would you still go for the higher cause, or would you sooner or later long to be part of the herd? Tricky philosophical questions indeed.

Other than all my heavy mental workload, there isn't too much on my table right now. I'm staying at my cousin's house for the majority of the upcoming three weeks, my aunt got me a nice job at a home for the elderly. It's going alright, learning as I go, doing my best. I don't think they can expect miracles from a summer worker who's only staying three weeks. If they like me enough and I do a decent job, they might ask me to come back, though. I haven't really decided how I feel about that, that's for a later decision.

Oh, I don't know, I just want time to be frozen... frozen like a bubble in a moment from the past of my choosing, possibly December 2nd 2011... frozen there and forever. Untroubled. Safe. Complete.

And I wish friends didn't have to move so far away and that it didn't have to be so goddamn hard just missing them. I really feel like having a second family in your friends is the way to go, and if you've got a setup like that, count yourself lucky. And treasure every moment you get to spend with them, young and carefree.

I wish time didn't go by so fast. I swear time goes by faster for each year that passes. Soon I'll be a hundred years old, still having a go at the typewriter.

With that I bid you goodnight,

THE HUNDRED YEARS OLD

POET IN THE JAR

Robotic Machinery

I've noticed my automatic replies to your questions
Like sometimes I can't even force myself to listen
Can't keep track of your rollercoaster ride
As it speeds along, with me inside

Can you hear how cold I can be
How warm I can be

Sometimes I care so much that it hurts
That it feels like I'm about to explode out of love
Out of recently acquired respect
The moment I stopped thinking of you as kin
And started thinking of you as human

But I'm always taken aback by your robotic machinery
Your generated voice that covers for your absence
Turning me cold again, turning me into steel

Did you ever stop to think how it would sound to me
How your words might look, their shape, their pretense
For the one who's supposed to listen, to receive, and to feel

Strange how I always said I'd be different than you
I said I wouldn't look at things in your narrow way
And never become so unpredictable and unstable
Strange how I found I'm so similar to you
Shifting between cold and warm just the same
Eventually gaining the exact same label

I'm hoping I've got more control of it than you
That my awareness will prove to be part of the solution
And I'm hoping I can bloom at some point,
Before my whole life has gone by
I hope I can blossom,
I hope I can try

And every time I long for you,
For comforting arms and soothing words,
I'll remind myself I shouldn't turn to you,
Your attempts of comfort will only hurt
I'll turn to what I know as true
To my own diversions
Away from you