Grated, But In A Pretty Way

This is a photo of my brother and I. His backpack near mine, together I suppose, with ideal plants shaping our personalities with each other and the world. Complete on a road to remain — I love him, you know. 

It looks like he is to remain a little longer. 

But a prospect of slight assurance is coming from another end 

Perhaps crap things happen here so better things can emerge there 

It’s a lesson learned everywhere I suppose, in all tales with rising actions and climaxes. But the resolution isn’t this one 

I want to shape mine, make sure it’s perfect — I need to make sure it was composed of its purpose, all the intelligentsia and deed in tact (I pray he might be back before then) 

Otherwise I pray to meet him in a prettier place — 

My Lord is Merciful and He is Kind. He has blessed me with a girding type of kindness, enveloping, slowly embracing, thank you thank you thank you.

I didn’t think he wasn’t to return sooner, but it’s okay, it has to be okay if I am to fulfill whatever that is, everything I suppose 

No confoundedness. No anxiety. Thank you thank you for the perfect cuts, the bad blood oozes out, it’s not too coagulated, thinning as it leaves the body

The earth shrinks and slows its revolutions

Then it’ll be black and there will be honor

There will be all the honor. 

To Jolt Now Is To Die A Pleasant Death

I have stopped counting the days,

Talks of a husband underwent a resurgence

A teeny tiny vascillation 

So minuscule it’s almost not there 

But it feels nice I suppose as some sort of

Background noise 

Jolt out of a state into another

Out of stagnation into fire

Droplets of blood, charcoal dark

And coagulated 

A cleansing — purifying thing 

There was no pain 

But it was heavy I think, like 

Lead 

I couldn’t move my arms. 

Jolt out of the jolting into a calm 

Good friends and laughs 

I had stopped counting the days, I really did

It was the distraction I wished for from the start 

Only it wasn’t a distraction it was a pacification

The kind I needed not knowing how to desire it — whatever 

I thank my Lord for the jolts

Like slaps of alertness 

Consciousness

He hasn’t returned yet but he will

They’re fighting, I should be with them 

They smiled at me and tightened their fists,

So lovingly told me to be patient,

I will meet with you soon

My heart is waving at this universe that is revolving on an end

A halt fastened with that pixie dust we secretly want to believe actually exists

It does in that sense I suppose, 

It smiles as it eases to its finish

Please come back to me — but I must learn,

I must learn to be patient and to remember my brothers and sisters 

I must jolt that jolt and rest there for a while 

And rest there


https://dailypost.wordpress.com/2017/04/17/jolt/

One Month

Disclaimer: this feature photo is one I took at some vintage boutique where they sold everything rustic. I photographed that frame in hopes one day I would paint that scene — it had imbued me with such a tranquility the first time I glanced at it, but I never began the project. Of course I didn’t. We writers love talking those talks. 

It has been one month. 

Well,

Two days to a month– 

I miss him and my leggy heart is feeble

Oscillating with its lame arms hanging like string 

The month was thought to feel like a year but my spatial perception of time has felt nothing 

Yesterday, it speaks

He was only gone yesterday — but before yesterday no sensory motor functioning gears up in the recall center

It is as though a chunk of placid procedural memory, a non thought induced or selectively attended memory, has turned blue

Depleted of its energy of function 

I think it is grey now — gradually ripening and drying to soon break off 

And dissipate into the rest of the rust 

I wonder if other things are dying too 

Perhaps enough will stay until a Miracle 

My eyes have started wincing from an intensity — I’m not sure which side it presses from 

But I’m certain it’s stomping on all of my sides

Slowly breaking me inside — perhaps waiting for an implosion with nippy fingers and a concealed smile 

But this pain is auspicious somehow,

I think it is the dark before that dawn? Or whatever the expression —

I await more darkness then, I suppose

A deeper incision until the blade becomes a part of me

No longer armory 

I think this is a happy post,

It is a little straining to breathe and my larynx feels wrapped in sandpaper 

As it mixes prose yolk with a fork until it turns runny, 

Probably illegible

But definitely transparent — predictable 

Flatulent, I suppose. 

I’m a charlatan writer who rarely exhibits the emotions she pens

But tonight my fingers seemed to have tapped a buildup of vocabulary describing a petulant patience

Perhaps I should change the title of this post to that truth,

For once.

Test

It’s a tough one this time. Really really tough. 

I love him, him and Ibi, 

Nothing else matters but them two

Tests are remembered as more facile only 

Because this one is the toughest. 

Really

Really tough,

Ah, man this one is tough. 

There is not much more to say. 

Patience, righteousness, firmament

And he will return. Gosh, why worry?

He’ll come back to you babe. 

Still A Teenager 

University starts up again tomorrow. Hopefully after a few weeks in there, my syntax and vocabulary will undergo some much required resurgence and I’ll be able to produce any form of good writing. Anything. I do not really understand the reason I have decided to post about this — perhaps little retrospect was the point. I have been doing a lot of not that recently. It isn’t some lingering exhaustion of the mind that I feel, or perhaps it might be, but it is just the imminence of a novelty that is keeping me on my toes. 

There are concepts of war I had never been exposed to before a few weeks ago, and it is as if something poured some washed-out oil paint on a haggard canvas, not qaint or old, but vile on many standards. In that illiterate metaphor I am trying to figuratively “paint” the idea of how I feel about retrospection — I feel almost incapable of it sometimes, because there is little memory of how I used to think and feel. It is a chosen form of dementia that keeps many ogres and trolls at bay. I guess it doesn’t matter if any of this crap makes sense or not, the point is I am wherever I am now with a goal I never had before. 

I wake up in the mornings with the consciousness that I have been preserved by God, and that I am moving with the will of Him and breathing and speaking and eating and drinking. I have entered a realm of mind that swirls only faith in a pretty glass bottle of incredulously palatable sparkling water, inviting as many others as it can, and I am grappling to remain. This is what this is about.

It is about me attempting to value and devalue and revalue in appropriate accordance to a nascent comprehension of the universe. A new existence, so to speak. I want to live better, I think is what I am trying to say. And I don’t want to do it on my terms — I want to want the written terms, because I merely want to pass safely into the firmament. 

Ah

University starts tomorrow and in some auspicious literary word vomit concoction it will be another “start” — take a deep breath, blink a few times, turn on the mental gears and leap. 

Endnote: this feature photo is my own photography. That’s a heater, I suppose meant for representing the ‘fire’ a stupid teenager continues to carry even without speaking. Blah. 

This Is Tough

To the past few posts that were solely built on personal experience and clenching thoughts, I apologize. I know I said I was going to drench this thing with wincing humor, satirical teas and cool information to pretend as though I have some form of intelligence — but things are tough. 

I suppose when “things” are tough, optimally, all forms of patience and silence may be preferred. And I can’t really know why but it’s some secret purification that constructs a seal, shattered if divulged, maybe. I don’t know. I guess from far away, strong hearts always seem so capable. They look composed and wise, and their “things” are sure to be tougher than anyone. I think that picture is how I want to be when “things” are the way they are. But I don’t know anything about it. 

I do not swim in some squander or effort that evaporates — I am just afraid that time is dripping down from my fingertips the same way the last droplets of water do when I’m done washing them. There are so few of them left, I can’t exactly pinpoint how much or know when I’m to wash my hands again but right now they’re slipping away into the sink of charcoal. I think that’s how it is. 

I have become so much more ambivalent about my decisions — my mind shivers at ideas sometimes. There is so much left to learn. There is still so freaking much left to learn. And I haven’t even commenced a proper process — I have only been vascillating a convoluted confusion, weighing options and choices and not lucidly comprehending their consequences. I suppose I never used to comprehend much at all. It’s true, you know, how environment shapes almost everything — it shaped my charlatan facade, where I had assumed that I understood behavior because I read a few pages and listened to a few people. 

This is tough. The point is this is really tough. And it’s not because I don’t know what to do. God has blessed me with guides and I know what’s to be done. I just can’t understand why yet I guess. But it’s tough. 

I’m assuming objectively all these stupid words seem exactly that: stupid. I hope they are. I hope I can look back at this with that strong “wise” and quiet heart that I see glistening from far away. And I don’t want that balance for this life. I don’t think I can want things like that anymore — this is for what is after. I am blessed to have detanglerizers next to me. I am blessed to have the heart I do. This is tough but I am blessed. 

I think that was the purpose of this — a quiet imbued with thoughts that are translated inaccurately. And so it is only tough by perception — and if it is not then I still win prizes of patience. Be patient be patient be patient. The heaven you desire is to all who can be patient. This is tough — be patient. 

Ma

Disclaimer: This is a little reminiscent of my CWM series, but remains separate from it in various ways. Who cares anyway, right? I didn’t wish it so, but most of this is a played out reality. It reads a lot more melancholic than it is now — these are my thoughts spelled out as amateur analyses of memories I don’t want to completely let go of yet. And isn’t that what evincing is for? Continue reading “Ma”