Memories in Motion and Finally, Meliorism

There’s a window and the night waltz comes, just a little too drunk,
so there’s nothing much to say but the words of the insomniac,
and secrets that cannot interact. The moon is quiet in the sky,
but like an egg uncracked.

Here is a story, made up inside my head.
Failure and glory, but it’s someone else instead.
Dirt under my fingers from digging in the night.
But beauty lingers, petals falling as I write.

In and out again, he floats as a cloud right by, made up of memory.
Hello stranger, may I ask why your greeting
is a just as good a goodbye? And your words of love
as concrete as the sky.

Here is another tale. I think this one may be true.
You were fractured on the inside and I took care of you.
I know those were your secrets and those I’ll always keep.
I know there will be sometime you’ll visit me in sleep.

So I’ve gathered the remnants of your stay,
thought of destroying them by May.
But no matter why you proved unkind,
you know the inside and out of my mind,
and I’d never give a moment or memory away, for I love blind.

Don't Think Twice about Love Letters

Love letters are the kinds of things I can only write at night. Hello moon, how do you like these lines? Insomniac sentences who always wear muddy hems, refuse to reveal more than absolutely necessary. And only what’s necessary counts. When I write them down, I want them dirty. Gritty. I want my recipient to find dirt under fingernails after reading. Maybe some behind the ear. Tongue coated in saliva. Do you need a bath, love? Your skin’s looking a little grimy. My love letters aren’t fluent in softness, sweetness, regret. They’ve a bitter edge, tartness. They only lift their dresses when they shouldn’t, are only addressed to who they can’t have. What, moon? Love and her letters aren’t always as pure as you and your Cheshire grin.

Meaning in Life Questionnaire Results

Conducted at Penn State University, I took this psychometric test. These were the results considering my Presence score was 21 and my Search score was 29:

If you scored below 24 on Presence and also above 24 on Search, you probably do not feel your life has a valued meaning and purpose, and you are actively searching for something or someone that will give your life meaning or purpose. You are probably not always satisfied with your life. You may not experience emotions like love and joy that often. You may occasionally, or even often, feel anxious, nervous, or sad and depressed. You are probably questioning the role of religion in your life, and may be working hard to figure out whether there is a God, what life on Earth is really about, and which, if any, religion is right for you. People who know you would probably describe you as liking to play things by ear, or “go with the flow” when it comes to plans, occasionally worried, and not particularly socially active.

Little stories

All the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born. But before prehistory there was the prehistory of the prehistory and there was the never and there was the yes. It was ever so. I don’t know why, but I do know that the universe never began. Make no mistake, I only achieve contentment and simplicity with enormous effort. 

Reality prior to language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded the possession of silence.

Where does music go when it is not playing? - she asked herself. And, disarmed, she would answer: May they will make a harp out of my nerves when I die.

They often talk about falling, not floating or flying but falling. Falling up, falling down, falling all around like wishes or kisses or ash. What goes up, must come down. She falls over her own feet. He falls off rooftops for her and she waits at the bottom. She falls off faithfully for him but doesn’t always find him where she lands, if she does at all. Is this love?- she asks or herself- or self-destruction like the white-coats say, or hope, or blindness, or admiration? Maybe even madness. To face the possibility of falling everyday and always climbing up up up.

“Every window in Alcatraz has a view of San Francisco.”

The story of a girl with the same diagnosis as me- BPD- played by Winona Ryder who is manipulated by a sociopath played by Angelina. Brilliant. Watch it.

Some time

Some hours, then, perhaps days, your bones were only my luggage.
I carried them and would have continued carrying them to the end of Forever-land.
How long would it have taken for your will to burn out, turning my truths to  lies=
Museums of tendons, ligaments, joints, bruised shoulders and a bag of fool’s gold.
We saw countless midnights but here comes another, the only one since
Before I can remember that the keyboard hasn’t been bearing it’s gap-toothed grin
In the shadows between one black hole and another. I wish now that the water
We had let take us downstream was fresh, not a wishing well of whisky.
A snow-globe storm of portals to other cyclical natures of our affections-
How we afflicted ourselves. I used to think cutting myself open to watch
Red petals bloom in the sink was my worst affliction. Or disappearing, day by day,
Suicide in slow motion. How silly to think that it was always my failure to
Accurately weighing the inequality sitting right in front of me. Once it’s too late,
Though, arguments go to dust. Internal, introverted silently bleeding,
and eventually, eventually dusting off and healing.

“You never get over it, but you get to where it doesn't bother you so much.” 

Dear Higher Power

Dear Higher Power, Dear Higher Consciouness,
Please, make me useful? Make me unhurtful?
Turn me into a bare white wall so that I may be
vigilant and harmless, so that someone, someday,
may punch a hole right through the middle of me.

I dream up cities on top of cities on top of cities.
I invent mercies and miracles and monsters
and in my mind, everyone has good intentions,
perhaps just poor execution. I'm still trying
to invent a word that means: I will be better,
I will love better, I will prove myself better
next time. If there is a next time.

The future wants to kiss you on the lips.
The future wants to kill you in your sleep.
Everything that exists on this earth
is in equal measures both good and bad
depending on how brightly the light shines
or the angle at which we are tilting our heads.

a poem

Inspired by The Bard

These violent delights will have a violent end
For now is the winter that we contend.
With fire and powder, explosions resume
Which, when we kiss we will consume.

To die, to sleep, perchance to have dreams.
The stars shine darkly, shedding their beams.
In malignancy of fate, what dreams may come?
Slings and arrows and a coiled mortal thrum.

I cast a plague on both your homes
When the summer’s day counted my bones.
My conscience made me afraid to speak.
Not wise, nor slow, just stumbling and weak.

It must be ancient grudges, a new mutiny.
The way the stars cross with dignity.
Just the same, please alter me no more.
I have one foot in the sea and one on shore.

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
Nothing is the love and all is the fear
That will strike once wound, the watch of wit.
This new world has such brave people in it.

Don’t know what we are, just what we may be.
Taking arms against the troubles of the sea.
Yet it is on this stuff that we build our dreams.
The good faces are the deadliest, it seems.

I’m a witty fool and I’m a foolish wit.
Some become mad, some are born into it.
Whatever piece of work is man?
We defy the stars whenever we can.

In forty thousands came all the brothers.
Though God gave me a face, I made up others.
Light will break from yonder window tomorrow.
Until then, goodbye is such sweet sorrow.

Beware the leader banging his war drums.
Something wicked this way comes.
This above all- just to yourself, be true
And doubt the stars are fire, not that I love you.