Etnies

I have a brown pair of Etnies. They're a size and a half too small, but they look fly so I where 'em.  The only weird thing about 'em is the button on the back. It's like the designer wanted to have an openable loop on the shoe, but didn't know where to put it. Sometimes, when I jam my foot into the shoe, the button clasp comes undone and it clicks while I walk around. Sometimes I don't notice it, but when my conscience is heavy and I'm listening—hoping—for the world to tell me what to do, I hear this clicking. I check all my pockets, nothin' makin' that click noise. I look down and realize which shoes I'm wearing. One more thing I did wrong today, I guess. Kinda like that Green Light's tryin' to follow me around.

Interpretations

You have to listen

Cause the words you heard

Don’t mean a thing

Unless you let them

Mean. 

We all hear a different

Story. We all tell one too.

A lot of that’s not real though.

But who cares? Lies tell something true.

What I want you to see.

Is it real or not?

Do I love you?

Do I hate you?

Do I tell you?

I can’t stand here and not hear.

I can’t have ears and not listen.

How do you do that?

How do you close your eyes?

Everything says something

Especially when it doesn’t say something else.

I’m sorry if you can stop listening.

I wrote again:

Why does tomorrow count more than today? In all reality, tomorrow has a continuously decreasing probability of existing for the individual.

So why do we look ahead so frequently? Would you bet your bottom dollar that you;ll be alive tomorrow? That's stupid: gambling your last dollar in a situation that provides motivation for murder. You might as well hand someone your wallet and drink the Kool-aid. Ya, the sun'll come up, but you might not. I might not. Nothing is guaranteed, and you deserve nothing more than what you make. Stop waiting. Change today.

Hahaha, I'm a hypocrite. I'm in love. She has no idea (Not Fish, that was a comment on infatuation). Maybe She'll find out tomorrow! Ya, I'll tell her tomorrow. Too bad tomorrow never comes.

Cube

I wrote again:

I like to ask questions and I like to write. I've not been wronged, but I like to write. I want to say something, but I have nothing to say; nothing of import, at least. What's wrong with me? Am I empty? Is the hollow bird on my back more than a name tag?

I am a vase. Flawed and imperfect. I hide my imperfections under gloss, hats, paint, clothing. Something to be seen, then appreciated, but unused. Not useful. Useless. Empty. Filling with dust. Why am I empty? Why can't I be the vase that houses and keeps alive the flowers?

This is what I want to be. This is what I want to do. This is what I want to create, and in creation, live. I want to live. Not survive. 

Archaeology

I have an archaeology course. Today, my computer died. Nothing happens in archaeology. Ever. Lots of free time to peruse the interwebs. So I wrote something. Like, with a pen. On paper. And since that never happens, I'm going to transcribe it here.

Trying to figure out how to indent on blogger right now.

It's the button that looks like a quote. Probably for long quotes. Anyway:

 Am I a wallflower?

There's a girl at 10 o'clock. She always starts class with a gameboy SP. It's silver. I don't know what she's playing. Right now, she's propagating art. Pencil sketch is most likely. She has a slim and pale face. I don't know her name. I probably won't. Shelby. Her hair is rich and beautiful. In a natural way. like she doesn't mean to be. she just can't help it. I think I love her. I laughed while I wrote that last bit. I don't love anyone. Except mom and dad. And Steve. And Mike. And William Shatner Haha just kidding. Topical humor. I have to make jokes.The world is empty and quiet without them. I wonder if Shelby looks at me. Does she see me writing this? Irony? Nah, maybe dramatic irony. She can't know. What if she did? She sits at like 8:30 to me. Maybe 9, I just looked again. A short glance. How often do I glance? Is she counting?

 Does she know I exist?

     should she?

That is all. Some clarifications: gameboy girl is not Shelby. I have met Shelby. Once. She didn't seem to like me. Well, that's not true; she was going to sit with me in archaeology—she even told my friend Gus that. But she didn't. Am I intimidating? Or repellant? I'm afraid of love. also.

That seems so raw to me. Like I just flowed through the pen. I think I'm a little more cautious when typing. I form myself. In a font with a size. I think in the pursuit of organic content, I might switch mediums (which I don't believe should be a word) and continue to transcribe/analyze them here. Thanks.

 

 

Today

Today is one of those days. When you go outside because inside is a prison. And you marvel at the impossible shade of blue that the sky is wearing. And you see art in every corner of the world. Every shadow is a silhouette of something beautiful. And you see greens, different greens, in a forest that was gray yesterday. And it would be a crime to put on sunglasses and tint the world your own way. And you just want to experience everything at once and live life right now and only right now. And you want to listen to the happiest music you have, but you also want to listen to nature, so you leave your iPod at home. And you walk around with a smile all the way across your face that everyone must wonder about. Why is he so happy? Maybe he got a promotion? Ya, or maybe he just got out of prison. Or maybe he just had his first son. What's he doing outside? That can't be it. He's weird.

I wonder if they see what I see. Is today beautiful? Or did my eyes just turn on?

Mediums

It's not a word, but it seems to be. What is it about language that gives us to freedom to believe something that simply isn't? It's dark. It's morbid. It's all lies. Every word that doesn't exist: meese and moslings, for one.

I left this blog. I closed my computer and walked away. I'm frustrated. Why can't I write anymore? Do I have to trade for my arts? My drawing has improved. Did it steal from my rhetoric? Did I forget any words? Could I remember which words I had forgotten? I don't think so. I'm really afraid of losing my words. They're my way out. My release. My pensieve (if only). I'm afraid.