Drive, off the edge of the map behind the horizons that I keep hidden even from my own view. I don't get to see what you may be looking to see; I hide my heart, myself. I speak. I yearn. Organisation is a fantastic method of synthesis. I am learning to drive. But let's draw parallels to what is happening in our existence and let's co- with peers and fashionable returns at greatest facile. Semiotic sensation, grasped like a worm from an eagle's point of view, vanished from gravity's bind, forgotten by the photon mistranslation and coronated well within. Drive me.
Aujourd'hui, c'est un jour de je ne sais. Pas, pas, pas, may je ne sais pas où I go. Ok.
It's a question to ask. I don't feel that drive to make something happen. I have been hiding my heart, trying to run away from answers, by using other answers, by making up my own answers. I don't know the answer? No, I think the fear I have is that I know the answer and I cannot find peace in it. I have to bring peace to it. Because it's not going to provide me with the seeking that I will not do to make it into something it is not. Philosophy.
I'm gay, a little reluctant to hold on to cage bars when I just numbed myself into a fire and blew away smokelling through, to gather in skies, to sail upon a bolta d'étoiles. I'm like a little kid, sprinting to misunderstanding from the freedom of his mother's lap. I'm the steps he's taking, and I look back and watch the footprints recede into the fibres forested in the carpet at the microscopic niveau, where mites live and parasites struggle (no they don't, they are.) Paracetamol won't cure my euphoric feeling of abandonment (that's what I've learned to call it), but I guess I grasp at straws and cancel out my word documents with the markings of the spot. Do me. I don't know. Generally, you'd find me wanting somewhere and trying to fix something up, but pas back, pas back, tendon hold.
Où sommes-nous? Où suis-je?
Who
Knows
Not beaucoup, I cannot describe what I am feeling, because every time I try, my mind incarcerates it and takes over the words and runs with ideas and then I look and I feel that isn't what I really wanted to say. It's only when my mind says nothing but the writing somehow flows from some 'puts' that I don't question it and just simply allow the flow to flow.
Je viens. Come to think of it, chiar este ceva la care nu m-am asteptat.
Vine dimineata. Sunt aici, astept raspuns, ca undeva cumva o sa vine o lumanare si o sa curga ceara in cer, aprinzand zorii. Foc frumos, fac frumusete din beteala de pedeapsa, din impodobirea cenzurata, din privirea oilor, din comertul de oala. Ma uit dupa ghiveci. Je cherche les bras de maintenant, je cherche à être embrassé par la manière de vivre vivement, acum.
Yet I am still walking, banded somewhere with un pansamment de punga de plastic transparenta et je me sent hardly progressive. Strange lump, strangled place. I want to express that I don't know what is happening. I want an answer that is fresh, new, that does not come from the old patterns of thinking, and this I have asked for. So I cannot sit here and sift through the folders of my mind for it, in vain. Puisque, en vain, si je ne trouve rien, rien ne me trouvera. Mais je veux être trouvé. Je veux être descoperit, adus in locul in care pot sa fiu, viu, sans amertume, with whoever. I don't have that drive to part with myself, though I want a divorce from the sentences I say to myself. They matter not, now that I remember that the most important thing about being is awareness, that past is gone and that now is all there is.
Je suis fatigué. Fat n' gay. Latter's a quizzical centipede, is it not? I asked you, before, to drive me to myself, but we seem to be going around in circles so I realise what you meant now by 'the state of consciousness is what matters most' so then it doesn't matter so much what I say here because it can be seen by others and yes, that's fine. My world's a touring globe, one on which I spin, around which I orbit, within which I boil, until I sometimes have to release. My words, they're all over.
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