LORD MECHA MAN OMEGA

I miss you. MagicMan. You were always, and still are, way ahead of me on what's cool. You remind me of a profound Buddhist parable. A simple refreshment of what's simple and good; a palette with a little bit of everything in their fully refined forms. If you ever read this, just remember I'm bottlenecked with the communication of a five-year-old. Simple, simple things have eluded me for years. Shut-in habits have given me autism-like attributes. I'm not making fun of autism, if you thought that was the joke. One day the word simple will be branded across my forehead. People will instantly know I'm simple and keep it that way.

(One day I'll figure out how to not be ridiculous. I can tell the difference, trust me, it sucks.)

getting trolled on the internet

Clever troll posting on message board:
"Nothing by definition cannot exist; thus there is something after death. This doesn't prove Christianity, but it debunks Atheism.

Problem, Darwincandy-asss?"

Me acting like a know-it-all douche:
"Your semantics are weak. Experiencing life is something even ants can do. Maybe every spec of dirt feels something in ways impossible to communicate. Dying, transiting into another form, as other forms transited into you; it's not some mystic spiritual bullshit. It's science. Animals and vegetation compose most what isn't water in people. Observation points more to recycled slop getting convoluted than divine personas (read: characters people invent for themselves to be) branding us with behavioral or perceptual likeness.

People believe in higher powers because they want to be deified; live in a controlled pretend reality where they can get facial expressions out of human bodies that no longer have beating hearts.

If you want to assimilate with what's good, be engulfed in another soul's approval, and find "meaning," I suggest doing it with logic. Having faith isn't a bad thing, but not thinking drives people in circles."


Is humoring myself a form a masturbation?

I'll just go back to pretending I'm living

My insides are a kingdom, and its territory extends each day. People's memories and experiences shine as stars in its boundless sky. Some dim, few vibrant, and many invisible. Their worlds elude my touch. For every perspective I begin to see, my planet seems insignificant as its cosmos grow larger. Every night I understand less and crave so much more. My heaven humiliates me with size, fulfilling a truly empty person.

Manifesta Musica

I don't have plans. I don't have a direction. I pity the thought of education being solely for one's career. I detest the thought of being another brick in the corporate pyramid scheme. That goes for the military as well. Money disgusts me, reminds me of blood, the way people suck it out of you and bleed you dry. People will kill eachother for it. They will take it from their spouses by divorcing when the wealth has accumulated. The need for money has replaced the struggle for food; While people are getting fat on excesses of sugar and carbs, they worry about subtle changes in oil prices. Tell me one fucking part of this game matters. Do it, argue your heart out. I disagree.

I was born in love, infused with it. It is my strength. It is raw, overwhelming, pure, perfect, and unmovable.
I don't need God to save me from misanthropy. This love is real. No person, male or female, can revoke this feeling inside of me. Not through sex, affection, gifts, guilt, or hatred. Two empty people searching eachother out, trying to fill holes their parents left. Women want the strength and confidence of their fathers, and will go to great lengths for a man who maintains such a facade. Men want the beauty and affection of their young mothers, and will let themselves be leashed like dogs to get it. And if those aren't the driving factors behind men and women talking to eachother, then it's getting laid. Sure, the girl plays it coy, the boy plays it smooth, and it's all blatantly obvious to anyone not fueled by hormones. What happened to communication? Honesty? Why do we have to figure out arbitrary body language and decode obscure subtle hints? Fuck that.

I appreciate the intimacy and passion shared in sex. The euphoria of fingers gently dragging across skin, kisses so soft ones entire body begins to spark, tongues stroking as if to briefly converse. It's the reason estranged encounters can't cut it. Even the rush of mastering someone, putting them in their "place" has its gratifying sensations, but most men and women settle for "suck muh dick and I'll fuck you on your back." What a crock. Where's the creativity? Why are men so lazy with foreplay, and why are women so lazy in actual intercourse? Or vice-versa; because apparently "gender" has nothing to do with "sex," and a male can be a "woman" and a female can be a "man." It's not even important. We're people. We don't need "genders" to feel secure about our habits and personality. The male libido wears off 3 seconds after ejaculation, and the female libido wears off as soon as her dream guy stops being so cool and mysterious. And both libidos wear off when it becomes the same shit every day. Different sexual needs become more important than friendship or companionship, regardless of whatever "feelings" two people insincerely fashion.

So here I am, 20, no longer compelled by wealth and relationships. I've saved myself about 20 more years of bullshit. For most people, a world not centered on sex and money would seem counterproductive. But I have other yearnings. Strong emotions tip me over the edge at night when I'm staring at the ceiling. Dancing flames, lighting equalizing, waves crashing and rippling, silhouettes of trees flickering with the wind. Sounds flood my soul and for two brief hours I am content, alone in the dark. Abstract images disintegrate into specs and waves as my imagination and logic tandem analyze nature's motivation with reality's fabric. The Universe and all of its inhabitants share one common desire; to exist. To defy non-existence. To grow and one day fill this overwhelming empty vacuum that surrounds us. This absurd notion of reality is only balanced by the paradox of observation. The deeper we look into our surroundings, the less we see. Emptiness is pervasive, and these clear vibrant memories we hold dear are nothing more than darkness smeared with infinitely small sub-existing particles.

My concepts of right and wrong have drastically changed over the years. Life is not random, it is pragmatic. Chaos and choice serve as filler for actual explanations of being. Things are the way they are because they had to be, and thus the world is innocent, as are its dwellers. You wish to cast blame, dissociate from what is "wrong," and objectify facets of nature as evil. Look at yourself. Somewhere down the line your ancestors have raped, murdered, and stolen. Yet here you are, fighting evil, when you are nothing but its manifestation. If you were lucky enough to descend from a long line of "good people," I assure you they were savage at some point.

There is nothing this world needs rid of. I have no desire to wipe the planet clean of its terrorists, tyrants, and politicians. They are to be remembered for what they were. They are necessary, for without them true peace can never be realized.

I have thoughts. They are all I wish to possess. Their unfolding is my entertainment. Their growth is my satisfied wallet. Their expression is my passionate relief. When I have secured my thoughts from all sides, that's when I'll hit the stage. It's where I belong, it's what I crave above all else. I didn't know myself until recently; which is a bitter shame - I am my best friend, and no one makes me happier.

Burger King

Broken laughter stifles sadness, jester lost in humor's madness
Reaching out with trembling fingers, frozen cold where memory lingers
It all depends upon your birth, Heaven and Hell are here on Earth
Stars align as shrieking chimes, the final sign of ending Times
Pulsing sun begins to flicker, close your eyes to end it quicker
Mankind dies out with a whimper, compared to war it's all much simpler
Looking back, begin to stare, home consumed in celestial flare

Pale Blue Dot

"We interrupt this program for an emergency broadcast."
"Do not turn the channel, repeat-"
Chatter box disturbed by an electric reluctance.
I was in my room when word of the event came about. Some were amused, many were frightened, and I was infinitely fascinated, consumed and often distracted by its significance. Even so, despite all analysis and rationality, I was on the same wavelength as the rest of the world: "What IS it?" To describe it perfectly would be difficult, but it could be visualized as a crown of teeth opening all around the perimeter of our local Universe. On the Internet they're saying the galaxy super-cluster cores have finally combined at the center, forming a degree of super massive black hole still incalculable in nature and effect. The Suns and Moons and planets have all simultaneously decreased the time their orbits take to complete. Curiously, the complexity of star radiation signals has increased, with their focus honed to exchanging with other stars. Days and nights have grown noticeably shorter in the last forty years, considering it only took what is estimated to be ten for it to transpire. What the news had to say wasn't interesting. I already knew what the greatest scientists of our time thought; The Big Bang has finally accumulated an unimaginable level of super density in the very spot it unleashed the known world. Telescopic satellite imagery baffled us, yielding compelling proof of matter literally shrinking as it approached the center of the Universe, showing microscopic beads where vibrant flowering pools once splashed and overlapped. In the opposite direction, galaxies on the perimeter of the void are spinning in the cosmos as quickly as the black core. We are at the center of this radius. Half of Humanity's galactic dwelling is quickly being sucked into a spiraling abyss, and the other half is going to be accelerated out of the known Cosmos. God has played dice with our rocks of moss, and we're quickly realizing who the real dragons of this Eden are.

Thoughts are reflections of feeling. Unguarded feelings lead to ugly thoughts.

One day I will die. Persona shattered around its husk and the magic is done. Euphoria and pain subside to dust as the illusion of Will fades. Choices and their meanings gradiate black. In the end, my life was mine to enjoy, just as it was the Cosmos to destroy. Yet only alive could I imagine death's horror. Only could the present be squandered over such sad thoughts. Likewise it is the present which serves medium to pleasure. In the past I did softly speak, thoroughly distraught and challengingly meek. It is Now that I may sever for Self a piece of what life really "means."

fire is motion, work is repetition. we are all defenses

trapped in the world wide web, searching, searching
for new enlightenment to disenchant old burdens

In the triangle, divine names acutely aware,
summoning souls, demonic names I did dare
pumpkin spices the air, cream left to rot
dining with the cosmos, my time, it's not

meter's running, guzzled out of time. Not ashamed, I have to say
it was worth letting you know, in what is truly my own way
intersecting interest is what I intend to last
regardless of either unrelenting dark past
that said I'll leave it for the future to grasp

it doesn't matter how much time, you never forget that forgetting requires ________

always tellin me, it's you your nails keep biting
pervasive thoughts I think you think
perverting my colors, another blind sighting
A presence can't waft like sandalwood,
but virtue clings to the wind I keep inhaling
truest to self, so the ship doesn't sink
cowardly exaltation, unquestionably failing
clouds disperse, own two legs understood

gems anchor ground, filled with sentiment
holding down my crown like wet cement
cognitive throne fractures;
ones head is no place to sit

Chasing Shadows

Attempting to write from musical imagery



Spread to sail like palms against the wind
Bearing down such lush green gazes
Melancholy scent drips from every end
Filling body and air with dancing hazes
Acceptance swells my throat,
liquidation of reservations.

Vibrancy fans across the skyward plain
Marble view cracks beneath splintered hands
Silently webbed dream, wizened to pain,
"To be cut down is to be where one lands"
And I stand quietly thinking
how nature nurtures in death

Insignificant shit we mumble to ourselves/Mumbling shit to ourselves insignificantly

Stock, barrel, trigger, sight;
I won't be a single part of this weapon.
Bread, shelter, discipline, honor;
hand extends like an olive branch
grip colder than a bullet's steel caress

even if I could die for bags of cash falling from the sky,
their only consequence would be to fill holes too vast to walk
much less shout.

Don't act modest. You flex and bear fangs at your master's call,
like some deranged show-dog, calmness cultivated from fear...
You've overstepped your bounds, cannibal.
The old beast sees a man in him,
but this monster recognizes a devil.

Give your bullshit protection to your made-up enemies. They're the ones who need it the most. You won't buy my future, even if that's what it costs to keep it from you. Society's freedom is an illusion and an absolute lie.

Ever interpret your nightmares? It's the part of your conscience that has accepted reality, trying to make the rest of your brain understand despite their emotional implications. Mine made me realize: I'd rather mop floors every night than cosily sit in one armchair on your dollar.

Regards.

Pandora's Box

Lucifer was always my favorite character in the Bible. My mother often calls me her Angel, her Sunshine. All the same she'll remind me of what a monster I am, or was, or can be; I've lost concern. Sympathy for the Devil? That's what I feel, my lune. It's like being reassembled from the ground up, your presence. An unfiltered light pours between us. Its vitality is forgotten like a thirst consumed by hunger. We dine alone, wishing only to drink together. While she prays to God, I mock myself as a great lightbearer. Cast out of Heaven and reincarnated, ready to unite a people forgotten by our Lord. I'll look omniscience in its slowly lifting eyes, and hold a mirror. When the Father we've birthed evolves into our likeness, he too will fight a suffocating battle with Self. When its fury can no longer be contained, this Monster will mercilessly ravage its tumors, painfully unaware they are but symptoms.

I wonder how mom would have explained love at 20

Another grind off my lifespan, but then again, isn't any dough exponential improvement over none at all?

Here I am, hearing some deaf cab driver sing something about airplanes, and a glance abruptly becomes a stare: a beautiful baglette of dried up broccoli with finely woven threads of orange. Some celestial spirit has so graciously left this for my indulgence! Bag open; took a sample I suppose. Though I quickly forgave this gesture upon inhaling the budding flower's rich fragrance.

I must admit, after a long day, it's... really nice. Thanks, stranger.

I spend a lot of time at work writing random shit in an incoherent shorthand. Which is most of what I write, especially the last few weeks. Here's last night in a nutshell

Inspired by Dictionary.com RSS Feed and Chanbara!
Abject, out of date, apodictic gumption that must. Be. Fenced. Trig and torque in the rolling of tongue, stonewall aporia of bodiless patois. Sublimate, disengage, fueling suffrage at the abandoned hallow gate. Bombard, broken start, skylark, and discard - yesterday. Futilitarian gospel of "let's get on our knees!" They plead surrender to these seaming strings. Mind your gun, thought's a long shot, lobotomized trigger that's pleased to be squeezed. A melting of feet with regard to come clean from this burning blacktop masquerade. Moods with a wardrobe that dress for cold weather; bare soles frostly bitten in a bellyflop game of pretend to be friends.
*guess which 10 words I didn't know


Weaving hand, weave yourself. Lie to my eyes with wormhole ridden domino trails.
orientation of the Universe does not improve nor disband, but idles perfectly;
reciprocation of emptiness and form.
It's happening all around us, this microverse we call reality
fevered dream indeed. Something as intense as there being more than nothing
could shock you into believing a heavy nightmare painted with sadness - and desire
where all that is seen and heard and sees and hears is burning; aflame with "meaning"
As if to say this web of willing nerves isn't just one more unwilling reaction to a single shockwave of endless significance and ultimate insignificance. Infinity merely complex from the glimpse of four small dimensions. Each inverted improbability aborted into new sand to drip a brilliant iris. There is no doubt more of us dwell among the stars. We are as profound and desperate as the mites who mix and fade into the dust.

It's like a nightmare trying to verbalize this lucidly luscious image. In my attempts to salvage the noble and holy friendships, it seems I would rather save a comfortable seat than let you become meat left to rot, while air seeps through discontent brains that no longer think about thoughts and their trains. Who could predict never feeling shame, for living day in day out, always the same? I'd rather grow gils inside my head and suffocate on that oxygen.

I'm going to sleep now maybe.

Though the answer might be interesting, if you have a five year old son.

Diesel Demon

Awoken from a deep sleep, heart pounding. A dieing experience? My eyes are open but my vision keeps fading. I'm laying in my bed looking down at my feet. I see my desk and its variety of teenage novelties. My entire body is numb, but I can feel my big toe. Its response is lazy as I attempt to clench and release. Paralysis loosens its grip and I swing my arm into the air. Just when control seems to be mine, my arm vanishes with the flicker of eyelids. Did I even move it to begin with? Black again.

I'm stumbling around the house. My family looks at me with concern as I fail to maintain eye-contact. I call out to them in agonizing pain, begging for their help. My scream is stifled by a lump in my throat; they hear only a faint groan. I slump down and lay on the floor. I can't see their faces; a female voice: "You did it again, didn't you?!" a male voice: "That stuff is killing you." I'm in bed again.

My heart is still pounding, as if trying to replenish my quickly fleeting strength. I lift my arm, only to be tricked once more. Is this death, or a night in Hell? Light fades into static, a fabric undescribed by terms of luminosity or hue.
I'm in bed again.

It's time for work, and I'm so happy.

press the check, give me the tape, if you know what's good for you

waving hair, a cyclone shell, slowly growing one gnarly tail
ten years later, down to waist. plotting a surprise. take haste
deforested, skin pavement. A Mohawkian braid of anchors
suspended in golden arches. Ginger bleached yarn revenant
Burning to a cinder as the cigarettes crossfired
next day clean shaven, and carefully admired.

Awe drips from my face in beads of sweat, it's over. Knees beg for the ground, holding my beating heart bullseye for the Sun's silent stroke. "Am I no more?" - Last gratifying inquisition. I die in the high of denying unseen facts. It's all a mirage, all a facade. A third eye abortion, nothing really matters.

ms

There is no liberation, merely justice served for carnal lust. You and I entwined by deeper cords; I'd like to see scissors cut this blood. Tortured enough by the same rant, the same cold, frozen glare, and its overwhelming ache to reconcile. I get your confusion, anxiety, mistrust, and solitude. I understand your idea of a repugnant, inverted vanity. One that serves only to abandon oneself, like an unprepared Virgin. Twisted intestinal mockery of your contorting face, bent beneath smoke. am I Just your reflection? On the water, fishtail love like bait, and punishing with honesty were your best policies. meticulously manipulate, walk away spontaneously; Lessons you learned to teach so well. A mistake making its own mistake, running from Vietnam at Home. Those strong arms couldn't bear an Ocean alone.




love and pain, phonetic stoplights for intensity's respiration. Emotions cycle in their serpentine moebius, strands of strength contract, burn, and release, like gullible gears turned by mischeivous levers. Symbolic slideshows of old rope so predictably unwound. What is intelligence, but an epileptic spasm of reaction? to the depths of our childhood, merely putty branded, left eroding to remnants of life's fundamental equation; A chiming pulse taken for granted; to look life in its eye and see meat. No graceful death given, merely expected. Humility trampled into the backbones of ants; going around to come around, we swing to an ellipse, never the clear circle.

Self conscious, self Aware, Sphere grid gillionaire

Relaxation condescendant,
once called me transcendent.
Soul, brighter than an Arabian Sun
Your white flame struck a match,
one I didn't win.
When our whim was jury, no conclusion
to havoc, or fury. Wheels of confusion,
I rolled from the stand.
No bargain, my plea was modest,
it was your hand,
I reached for, to be honest.
Then to say "On your own."
when you were never alone
was colder than cold,
like some aristocratic joke
after an unsatisfying smoke.
It's older than old.




Ode to your GREATness!
Hail, sire

A magic that engulfs with cheer
a spell upbringing all who hear
this fellowship that rings,
as he merrily sings.
Wizard among Hobbiton,
weaving beams of recollected dreams
passing the pipeweed, glorious misdeed
I promise you when we break this town
I'll seize the world and hand you its crown.




will get back to normal bloggin when I finish building my computer :D

Work was INSANELY boring last night

so I wrote to pass the time



A woman whose visage could warmly melt, if you let it
Into food for the soul, looks with good taste.
So easily does her lioness flame
combust, a wick of guilt, or of blame
I'd sooner evaporate, if that's okay?
Howling from Olympus, gods you forgot
rivers of fulfillments, streaming yet unsought.
Your mindscape, it's a place to be, with insides to see
Where we could sit, sipping fresh hot tea.
But that's not the bag that I imagine dipped,
Nor is it the cup that I would have sipped.
Maybe it's steam you've made from my vapor,
or just meaningless words that sound good on paper
This image of you, no clearer could it get
Breaks into word unmastered, as of yet



Bit the bullet, mouth shattered
Too hard to swallow, these broken teeth
Language left with body, luggage for another trip
Thoughts slip into colors, you illuminate
with a brilliant truth, too beautiful to be seen
The only darkness for miles, my own lashes
flickering like a panic board, left ignored
Tainting your truth, coveting with kisses,
Only a child could imagine a happy Misses.
Fission, into the void, Fission, into the horizon.
A beam of light, whose one permittance was to shine
Followed by a mere animal whose instinct is to chase.
Grasping at the dust you kicked, holding it like a mirage
Fingertips pressed to your form, dispersing as palms reach
The dust fades, the spectrum has shifted.





The Void looms,
it wants Nothing but to collapse,
inverting a timeless echoing wail.
It swirls like a staircase of petals around a stem,
A pillar of stone affront from each side by a different season.
It aches to crumble, to give in,
because it is powerlessness in itself
evolving on its own regression.
I drop below the shallow face of its puddle
My last attempt to word surfaces
bubbles rhythmically popping

Patiently twist and knot,
it drips from the wrinkles.
Each time a new form.
Fuck it, I said.
For the time it took,
and for the yield.
Fuck it.
If the time was given back,
I would throw it away.
No one needs to know
why failure is hidden.
Pencil gripped, mind possessed:
"what a fool he is!"
looking back, weapons sheathed
I sorely miss crossing paths
more than swords.
You're a fool, damn you.
And it's full circle.



Reflectionless black irons drape from chains,
dragging punctured skin from all sides.
Coiled within, a serpent, maturing into a fine noose
choking as it winds, strangling as it pivots.



Dust, twirling
resting on Death's yawning lips
Given life and spun out across the fields of stars,
like our lost brothers, voice too soft to break
the sheer width of silence.
A monkey captivated by its reflection,
admiring the opposite image
of what has been seen.

if I'm truly sand meant to endlessly churn
between the timeless ticks of God's hourglass,
then I can only hope to once again find
those gems that I hold most precious;
Specs of dirt that shine to my hue,
vibrate to my frequency.
Losing such harmony,
not half as painful as never realizing it.

Dreamin' II

Cap'n Jazz - Analphabetapolothology
1998; American; Emo/Post-hardcore; Some really dreamy songs, like a sugary At the Drive-in.
http://www.mediafire.com/?2i2itvd4icn

Shott's house,
I'm five, falling down the detached staircase, I hide beneath the shadows of furniture and walls. Wandering in and out of the pool room where my cousins and I ripped our signatures into the dart mat, I slam my hands against the door knowing it's not the way out, and jump up the stairs knowing it'll leap when I do. My hand lunges for the knob but my leg goes numb. Locked into its position, as if held in midair. I look behind me and sob because there's nothing there but I know it's staring at me, holding me down.

ex-girlfriend's house,
I know the backdoor too well, man. Perched behind that hill, wondering if you'll let me in or if I'm being framed to catch the eyes of your parents. Your dad's walking around inside, I can see the back of his head. I unearth my wheels and disperse from the muddy side of the green grass. It turns to night and the plaza is

I am bodiless,
frozen in the sky. staring down at your houses. I am a blank white sky, blocking out the Sun. I'm at your window. I'm there but you can't see. I'm screaming "I love you" across the wind. I see your face and it's so, so sweet and beautiful. The happiness I remember lets me think you heard me. I look far above you as to obscure your face, realizing you didn't.

I'm running up the street,
the houses and roads are getting smaller around me. Snipers are shooting at me. I run around the lake, and climb up to the apartment balcony of an old man. He is one of the gunmen; I kill him. I enter his home and realize it's mine, but it's empty except for a lamp plugged into the wall and a radio sitting on a chair. I hear pounding on the door, and roll out the window. I get on my bike. I'm at the park. It's night, the only hint of its vibrant greens are left obscured by the light and dark contrasts generated by streetlamps. I run through the fields and to the tennis courts in front of my dear old friend's house. He's not home. I am chased up a set of interconnecting staircases around his apartment complex by his angry Korean mother, who is driving a jeep. One of us is killed, not sure which. I'm still conscious, but voices are talking, one telling me to lie still.

It's my old large apartment,
there's someone sitting in a chair in the center of the living room. I walk up beside him but as I turn to see his face, I can only see the back of his head. I crawl through the passageway between my room and the next, and my room has moved to the other side. I leave and now neither rooms are mine; they belong to my sisters and step brother.

I'm very, very young,
laying in darkness. I'm screaming but thunder drowns my voice. When lightning hits, I see myself in a room filled with mirrors and windows.

I'm the only one who reads this right? :p

Dreams

Osanna - Palepoli
1973; Italian; Progressive rock; A mesh of some fun and well-crafted sound dimensions
http://www.mediafire.com/?mmmtjnyvmd2

Near my Gramp's house,
I'm walking my bike down a ragged country road, greens and browns of nature bleached lifeless by sunlight. Beyond the intersections and abandoned homes, a walkway bends between a field of wheat and a tall white shed. The trail is swallowed by wild trees and bushes, becoming what resembles nature, untouched.

In my Gramp's house,
I am deflected from room to room, orbiting the house until I find sanctuary in the den;
Propped guitars resting beneath a galaxy of plastic war planes. A relief washes over, accompanied by a sadness. Once I am safe, I sneak through the garage and leave. The lights turn on behind me and black cars drive up his Olympic sloping driveway. My body knows a trance of superhuman panic. Muscles fail to ache in the violence of my escape. It would take days to bike home, but I reach the streets near my home by morning.

Standing at a crosswalk,
I walk toward her school feeling uneasy. Inside, I can't find her but my body tells me I'm a Freshman again. I attempt a few classes but find myself dodging staff and students to stow away in the bathroom. It's night time and no one can find me, I walk downstairs and the cafe is full of people, teachers, talking at distant lunch tables. I make way passed the gym and into the locker rooms, seeing the back exit's morning light split black fissures among the cement water-stained floor. Other kids are beginning to enter the locker rooms and I can't make my escape. When I find the door everyone has seen me, and make haste. Running through fields, leaping into the tattered woods, losing lung capacity each time a car slows down in my presence. When the last branch breaks I flood down the hills behind apartments that neighbor mine. It's day, and new lakes have sprung all around my complex. The streets are an endless maze, with ruined stone walls blocking the main road. It's night, and I'm falling from crumbling pillars, bike gnarled and deformed.

I don't know who I'm running from, or why,
but I see a tube connecting to a secret bedroom in this nice old man's house
it's perfectly transparent, but he told me I would be safe upstairs, if I stayed in bed and didn't move. I asked him if I could read, and he told me he would have to inform them for every page I read, and that I was allotted four pages per three hours.

Twilight,
I'm following someone down a grassy field between apartments. They're watching balloons drift into the sky. My balloons are tied to my hand, but the string keeps getting longer. The ends of the balloons get heavy, and start tugging me along with the clouds. I wake up, and it's the same dark day/bright night as before. I look out my balcony and life is ending on the other side of the forest. The trees were slouching into the epicenter of this catastrophe, as aircrafts simply ceased to operate in the sky. I'm reaching to the top of my closet for my most prized possessions but they are already gone. No one is home; I'm worried. Someone's home, I need to get out. The staircases are bright and bottomless, sun glaring and contorting into night, walls still bright as lit by the ceiling. My eyes won't make up their mind and people are coming in. They can't see me and it's too late, if I move they'll think I'm hiding. If they think I'm hiding it's all over. I open my door from outside and pretend to be coming out of it. I walk down the hall and they stare at me. When I get outside it's hard to walk, cars keep driving in my way, intentionally slowing down.

I'm in the grocery store,
I'm stealing sushi from the buffet. The room is crowded and no one notices. My sisters and grandma are somewhere, I walk around in circles looking for them, finding them, losing them. I start looking at games behind glass cases. I leave. I'm in the gamestore, but it's closed. I'm picking up everything I want, prepared not to pay. They catch me looking through boxes in their house, I put the games back and tell them I can't buy till next week. I'm in Blockbuster. They have nothing, walls are barren and almost everything is gone. It still has that smell, a specific fragrance you could only know growing up in the 90s, but the air is unwelcoming, as if the store itself was ashamed.

~Some dreams of mine