I feel like an eel hiding in the deep blue abyss of the sea wrapped in a variation of Godzilla’s burnt victim survivor skin. Another layer of wrapped snake patterns consume the essence of the atmosphere; it’s been fueled by an axiom. The answer is plangent, beatific, and laconic all at once. It’s the frozen fire that swells in your muscles when you commit to breakdowns of all the worst possible scenarios. This is as harmful as it is addicting thus it’s sublime.
As an only child, the evolution of hardening into the being I am now resembled that of igneous rock solidifying amongst the ridges of a volcanic crater delved deep within the Pacific Ocean. You see, I once trusted virtually everyone. Coincidentally I had no self esteem. Now, I’m a rich man – recognizing my right to ascend into dreams – and consequentially trust a finite list of people. People see me as a romantic. Do you not see my cynicism?
It keeps me up at night. The knots within twist and turn and all the failed games of mental chess dawn to be my very achilles heal. Perhaps it’s been my lack of writing lately – I feel naked without it. I try to be like and even better than Alexander Hamilton on a regular basis. My writing is still the attempt of drawing that perfect circle with no outline. Flawed just about everywhere, I have so much to learn. It’s not the educational part that keeps me up. It’s the sloppiness that I tend to convey in my work that plays like a nuked civilization’s fallout.
I’m really trying. People are so weird. Everyone needs a vent. This blog series is just one of many for me. I withhold copious options for vents but I don’t need anymore beyond that. I yearn for the romantic life again:
I’m ready for you – you who hide with shyness and smirk with the charm of DaVinci’s work; I desire to delve into what makes you what you are behind your Mona Lisa! You, with your seduction of precipitate choices that cause me to feel just as defiantly raunchy. You are the dreadnought that pierces through glaciers. You are the monstrosity that reminds me of my goals. You are the oriental, errant desert flower standing unabashed amongst miles of sand. You and your poisonous touch that sends sagas upon words into my cerebrum. You, with your lethal eyes that tell the beginning, middle, and end to your means. I’m ready and waiting for you.
And when all of this is accomplished, maybe then I can feel like me again. I haven’t felt like me in so long. I try to “Keep it simple, stupid” but can’t when it’s my time. Out there – of course, I’ll really try. But this is for me and I’ll do as I will.
You hear that? The beckoning crescendo of the opera? Mozart is cueing me. The ending rolls credits. The beginning revamps as the projector claws in a new reel of film. I have new doors to ponder upon now.