Twisting Along a Straight Path

I think that, perhaps, life has gotten to me. I used to believe in love, in life, and in living, but now I find myself in disbelief of myself. I’m a shade, a 2 dimensional shadow of who I could be. Perhaps the world does not fade around me, but I instead fade from the world, a god whose worshippers lie dead beneath rotting stone and whose temples crumble beneath snaking ivy. Such a being is no being at all, for he who needed temples and worship to live was never really alive. Reality has won this round. We are all mice running in circles, except the mouse is intelligent; it just lives. We must make meaning from living, we must find patterns and rules for reality. But I now see it all for what it is. Life is random. We do not spend life attempting to fulfill a greater meaning, we spend life attempting to create a meeting when the true challenge lies in accepting that there is in fact no meaning. The whole of life is the attempt to make sense of the senseless, to make meaning out of the meaningless; it is, in and of itself, the creation of reality from a dream and perhaps most importantly, the creation of a dream from reality.


I started writing a book, but I haven’t been able to see where I left off. The story was never defined, yet it was so clear to me. But now as I try to write, the keys make no sound. I cannot understand where I am in the story. Perhaps the problem is that I am trying to write a story that has not yet been completed.


I want to see the stars.
Not the bullshit couple-of-stars-over-the-suburb, but the real stars, the raw stars.
The squeak and groans of a 20 year old truck door being open and shut
as it hums to heat the occupants who shift in and out of warmth
the dirt road curving around the mountain
the city lights in the distance, too far to pollute with light
the silhouette of hulking peaks, distinguished by their blackness in a thick blue sky
the grinding crunching sound of dirt beneath rubber soles
the cold of rough granite upon the nape of the neck
the clouds of white frost that are exhaled on chilly mountain nights
the valley below, as if the whole world is beneath your feet
the sharp outline of trees against the sky
the curving heavens,
awesome and incomprehensible in their magnitude,
that hold a thousand million twinkling stars.
I live for those cold nights where I am dwarfed by reality,
the whole of it,
in its infinite glory.

Consistent Inconsistency

For the record, I was never inconsistent.
I liked a girl,
I loved a girl,
I lusted for a girl,
I was hurt by a girl,
I lost love for a girl
Always in order,
consistency in rhythm.
A rhythm without repeat.
I never hated the girl.

Perhaps if you punctuated
And made the ends clear
You wouldn’t get tired
Of ceaseless ends
and interminable beginnings.

I cannot make sense
Of one sided conversations
Cryptic poems
Ignored texts
And cold shoulders.

You only made one thing clear: