My Dear we're slow dancing in a burning room
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Thursday, February 24, 2011, 4:24 PM
Stand in an empty carpark filled with tired ghosts trying to catch falling leaves in the half light of the pouring rain. The middle of the day proves once again to be the epitome of boredom as I sit on the rough cement pavement, I feel the cracks on the surface beneath my fingertips and I trace them with closed eyes wondering where they'd take me if I never left off it. Maybe it's too early to be thinking about things that won't leave my troubled head alone but as I sit waiting for you to reply my texts, the feeling is involuntary. Another song comes on and my neurotic attention span shifts ever so slightly into the direction of wherever the song will take me. I need something to shake up my system. Like taking a bus to the airport and buying the cheapest plane ticket to anywhere in the world and just for fun, I'll ask if you want to come along so I can put myself in a whole other situation filled with suspense and worry. Me and my stupid mouth.
Monday, February 21, 2011, 11:43 PM
Hiding behind dirty trash cans and alleys that smell of violence and sex, bloodstains and bullet shells alternate themselves around my feet. Frightening sounds all around me, screaming children and shouting adults, verbal war in front of me, words turn into weapons before my eyes and the glow of the moon isn't enough to illuminate the pathway to destruction. Emotions are high and on the surface, every tiny trigger is blown up into catastrophes in my mind, a world of inner conflict and yet still I sit hidden beneath sight lines, below the line of fire and hatred. Voice begins to croak and crack, hoarse like a sandpit grinding itself into a black hole of noise, iron bolts thrown into a blender drown out the sounds of little children screaming from the abattoirs beneath the bleeding earth. Tasteless pudding being fed to me through a plastic tube that I pushed slowly into my arm with a rusty needle, there is no one around me and yet it sounds like I'm in the middle of a market on fire, people spinning round and round spewing their innards out like a sprinkler burst open at the pipeline. I cry to myself on two different planes of existence, I wake up soon enough to a warm pillow and the rattling sound of an air conditioner blowing slowly above me. I'm awake and alive but the nightmare doesn't stop.
Friday, February 18, 2011, 2:10 PM
In the bright of day, sitting in a room full of locked doors and dying from the unquenchable thirst of desire. It is not morning and it is not yet evening, events come to a dead standstill as the world waits for itself to turn a new day over and an old one anew. Stuck in an anti-gravity neutral that doesn't seem to make much sense to me. I know what I must do and what should be done but I'm just not moving. Watch from behind a poorly dug trench as the people around me get sucked back into a mind-numbing routine. Breaking rocks on a chain gang in the middle of nowhere. So few left alive, free to kick and scream and sing songs of our freedom. Nothing to hold us back, nothing to push us forward. The not so glorious part of liberty is the question of motive and continuity. Where do we go from here? Start from the beginning? That just seems counter-intuitive and muddies the subsequent joy of the freedom. If I'm going to start a career helping people deal with their mental unsoundness, I might have to start grappling with my own first.
Thursday, February 17, 2011, 12:30 PM
Cover your eyes and close your ears and blindly lead yourself through this maze why don't you. You're doing just fine with pretending and so am I. I've spent too many nights lost in a hurricane of thought and I think I've exhausted all I had left of my logic until they can no longer support the words coming out of my mouth. As each day passes, even I get the feeling that I'm slowly loosing myself to the spur of the moment. Temporary highs that fill the in between gaps that exist in the mechanical routine. Beckett and Chaplin got it right. Two of the greatest men in this world, geniuses in their own right. One knew life was a pointless tiresome routine of unchanging circumstance and the other knew life was a big joke. No Aristotle or Plato can surpass them in that field. They got it right. Music's the only thing that makes sense anymore. Nothing else seems to tie in with this bigger picture of completion or logic. You and all of these feelings, they're all temporary highs that fill the in between gaps. Tell me why in the hell do I even bother?
Monday, February 14, 2011, 12:17 AM
The clock struck and the birds flew. Red roses rested on rusty iron bars and chocolate balls rolled down hills of gold. Boats carved in the shape of swans swam slowly down a lazy river and there was a feeling in the air nothing could compare with. Even for just 24 hours, love overcame all obstacles. On the more factual side, no large bouquet of roses and no cheesy box of chocolates. Not even a loud declaration of love's true sight in the dead of the night, steel strings on wood and fingers desperately trying to keep time with the voice. No spectacular display of affection or wealth, no surge of effort to grow love, keep it alive, keep it from dying. Nothing but a whisper, a quiet understanding vow of love from one heart to the next and louder than any unforgettable number, old blind cupid heard from afar and smiled. 'Will you be my valentine?'
Friday, February 11, 2011, 11:40 AM
A game of choice. Two sides to a coin that could pull or push you away from your preferred destiny. A question of logic. What keeps a man from walking across a road filled with fast cars? What keeps a man from placing his neck under the wheels of a bus before it leaves the stop? Plastic barriers can slow down action but cannot prevent a man from jumping into the train tracks and wait for a locomotive to come. One breath or two away from figuring out the answers to the million and one questions that don't stop coming to you in the dead of night while you sit eyes open and stare at the ceiling. Why do we bother with the transient and the temporal? Making your bed, sweeping the floor, taking a bath, it's all gonna get dirty again eventually. Love and romance? Nothing ever works out in the end. Forget about the love stories you've read about all these years. Some talk about everlasting love and theories to support how one man's destiny is somehow or rather linked to someone else's. Comforting, sure. But when it comes down to it all, when you realize that's not going to happen for you, you panic. You look around and see nothing but the foul wasted number of hours you've spent chasing some unreachable dream. Transient. Temporal. What makes a man pursue this notion of love and happiness? What makes a man against all odds fight like hell against his own demons to chase away self-doubt? What makes a man love and what makes him hold on to that for dear life? I can't answer it and neither can you. So why not we stop thinking for a second.
Saturday, February 5, 2011, 2:33 PM
The conductor bows, taps his fingers twice on the soft side of his palm, the orchestra begins. Curtains. The audience claps and cheers. The harlequin walks onto stage, half his face a smile, the other half a downward cry, his eyes a hollow black that made someone in the third row dizzy with fear. Yet, he stumbles upon a basket of apples and the snare drum goes. Everyone laughs. He turns to his left side; melancholy, slices his chest open with a white hot blade and removes his beating heart from his chest. Silence. The blood ebbs downstage and into the orchestra pit. Prepared, the conductor steps aside and it collects in a pool underneath the stand. The harlequin places his bleeding organ into a box and slides it upstage to the young lady in the red dress. She picks up the box and grips it tight, and in one steady motion, smashes it onto the ground. Blood and wood splinter apart at the base of her feet, staining parts of her dress a deeper red. 'High fashion.' She exclaims. This time, the audience laughs nervously, unsure which part of the comedy this belonged to. The young lady turns her face towards the harlequin but does not smile. She moves her hand slowly to her chin, feels for a grip then pulls off her face to reveal another beneath it with a different expression. She repeats this several times until her face is just a flurry of changing emotion. The audience giggles as the harlequin tilts his head sideways in confusion. At last, she pulls off her last mask to reveal the face of the harlequin, beauty beyond all reach but burnt to a devilish red on one side. 'Am I beautiful?' He asks with a heavy and deliberate tone. 'No! Siete un mostro!' The young lady replies and turns away. He grips his chest in a panic and falls to the ground. Orchestra begins to play again, a mad cacophony of untuned instruments. Like an abattoir filled with screaming children. Brass section, wind, strings, percussion. The snare drum tears apart, the tubas bend over sideways, the trumpets melt into hot liquid metal, and the violas snap into pieces. It crescendos in a haunting climax and then stops. The harlequin's diamonds shine brighter than ever and he wails in pain. The audience laughs but does not know why. Cue roses. Curtain. Fade to black.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011, 12:28 AM
I hear the silence of a generation ticking like a time bomb hidden under the seat of mannerism and conversation. I fear the inconsequence of your deadening smile that thins too close to your lack of words to comprehend without losing sleep. Your good intentions like rotgut concealed behind a paper bag, slowly dissolving into pulp from the condensation. I am the man standing behind the mirror in the monochrome sweater and dirty sneakers you try to avoid with your gaze. I see now what you are and how your game works and goddamn if I stick around to see the end of this tragedy. It's not too late to turn back and so I listen carefully to the warning signs that plague my mind. Sure, I'd be denying myself the possibility of my own happiness, but it's worth the effort. You're not worth what a rat could spit and through all that noise of the silence, a drop of blood on the sleeve of perfection breaks away the barrier and music begins to play again. All is right with this world.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011, 1:58 PM
Walls. Brick and mortar, nothing else. They're everywhere, visible or not, they exist all around us. Walls help keep us in, keep things out, prevent the ceiling from caving in. You lean on a wall when you're tired, punch it when you're angry, place things on it to make it look better, tear it down when you get bored, we do with walls what we want, can and will. Nobody ever appreciates the wall. Maybe in some warped universe or state of existence, walls have feelings. Deep down inside some semblance of emotion and feeling that they use to try and penetrate our hefty exterior, to touch the deeper part of our being. Calling out to try and connect with us, tell us they need us sometimes more than we need them. Maybe walls can breathe too, and every time you walk away from it or go to another wall, it chokes a little on the inside, heart beating a little faster. Raindrops hide tears and so blinded you walk away in the pouring rain as the wall comes crumbling down. Hold on tight to the hand of the man who walks by your side because look back and you'll find that the wall is no longer there, and all that you once held dear behind those walls spill out like a disaster and you'll be left with whatever it is you call love.
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Vanity isn't a sin, a little narcissm wouldn't hurt.
The World would be a much lesser place without corndogs and pizzas.
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Andrew. Music. Food. People. What more could you possibly want?
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One day when i wake up and find the motive and time to link anybody, i'll let you know.
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An accidentality production
Inspiration from DancingSheep & BONBON:D
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