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This blog is and will all ways be hopelessly scattered brained :D
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The time that once was fuel for motivation and spirit is now just a clock.
you can read it
it tells the time and states the numbers proud and elegantly
but a clock is but a place holder farce
a surrogate metaphor for time its self
in my life, Time no longer feels like a rabbit to chase out of instinct and competitiveness
it is but a metro-dome
sounding out the tic toc rhythm counting down the seconds of my legacy
long ago the last ember was carried by the conspiring weight of the wind
up in to the blue sky where it lost
its self…
its heat…
its way…
and reduced to ash
it vanished into the wind it self
time was reduced to
…tic
…toc
…tic
…toc
…tic
Today I hated someone
Today I played a bigot and a racist
Today I elevated myself, my race, my sex, my orientation, above all others
My religion is right all others are wrong
My way of life is right and all others are wrong
My “right” is right, and all others are wrong
Unless of course
You ask someone else
For everyone hates
And every one is a bigot
And everyone is a racist
To some extent
It just depends on who is defining the words
But to err on the side of human
Is to know in your heart of hearts
That you love your fellow man
I wish it was a lie, the person that peers back at me from the glass of the mirror looks older then he should, like his youth was drained by forces of time and hurt. Like supple skin and six pack abs have been robbed from him the last time he blinked and in a cruel twisted joke were replaced with the pitted cheeks and girth of a much older man. I wonder if I am just vain in thinking it should look like something else, Or if it can somehow now be changed. My life seems to conspire against me, I feel as if somehow I am already dead, because the image in the mirror is no longer one I recognize. Am I old enough yet to accept that I will one day die and everything from this point to that is simply grasping at the wind?
One upon a time I thought that meaning was purpose
That life existed to extract a calling from it
To take that badge and pin it to my flesh
And to walk around proudly with it displayed for others to know who I am
But soon the trail of blood from the pin started to stream down my chest
And soon people only noticed the blood and not the badge
And soon people started to only know me as the man with lines of blood running down his chest
And soon that was who I became
But now as I look in the mirror
I can’t remember what the badge even meant
And all I see is the blood myself
But it represents only what I have become
And not who I am
I have lived my years being me, never really knowing who that is. I have completed tasks feeling uncompleted and have left lose ends to dangle in a breeze of complacency. I have fulfilled a purpose unknowingly, fucked up the end result of someone else’s destiny and found the last piece of the puzzle on the floor behind the desk moments after I gave up looking for it. To say the least, I am unsure of everything except for the things I know by heart and my heart always hurts with a feeling of being clueless of the things my mind can recite without looking at the notes. It all just seems… pointless sometimes but I am afraid I can never really say which times to be exact. I really just do not know.
Buenos días / Good Morning (by MMXXI)
