Spread

We are an extremely complex form of life, a concentrated soup of universal energy that made this planet their home and claimed authority on every other form of life. We're a hell of a thing that is as much a part of nature as we believe we are part of the divine, or the intelligent. We look at the amalgamation of an incredibly miraculous series of events concentrated into a familiar form when looking in the mirror. Here's where we began; how and why we potentially moved; and what the climates of our travels did to those members of our species that lay the ground work for our ancestors. 

Fly

In two days I’ll address a small hall of people. 

I’m representing my graduating class and it hits me how much more education I need. “The boy needs structure!” yells my stepfather from the past. Without academics, I am just gel without a mold—more movement than substance. The after-semester lull leading up to this weekend’s commencement has been very grating.

It’s the good old times, but you know that while you’re having them because it’s just too good to be true. So many books, so much conversation. It’s about the general curriculum of all of life. Always graduating, always in school. Did you know the average four year old asks four hundred and thirty-seven questions a day? The release of a question, the seeking of an answer, the intake of solution, and the processing of experience all keep the movement youthful, and substantial.  This is how gel creates a mold.

I joined a long form improvisation class and it teaches me lessons about how to live. I am told to, ‘Follow my fear,’ and that I want to, ‘be a mirror for my partner, not make them look like a fool.’ That old phrase, ‘I am who I am’ comes to mind, and the ‘I’ is such a fluid definition. This is how gel breaks the mold.

I have to meditate again. I can hear the madman laughing. 

Relax

Sometimes I worry like its fashionable. I stay up all night pulling at my hair, wondering why I feel like I’m balding. Other times I get really anxious, like mini-anxiety attacks. I don’t think this has anything to do with life. No, instead I think it has to do with me.

I should keep these things locked away for some time. The deal gets better with patience. The new changes that come. The desire to free-form and throw up. I miss being twenty-four because bad grammar was a lot easier to tolerate.

Age brings the mirror more into focus. The years are spent making eyes to see with. There is a seduction in madness. Something that acts like a black-hole for everything I love to laugh howlingly back into.

It feels like shaky legs on a boat listlessly ambling away from harbor. I’m blessed to know water. Like a cradle moving back and forth birthing my sea legs. I can stand, but I wonder if I’m supposed to swim.

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The knowing when to stop and when to move on, the rubber band psychology. No one hears us and one day we’ll live like two corpses together in the ash of the world. You and I are the lucky ones. When I think about my lover, I always remember how much we’re going to hurt each other when one of us dies.

Love is almost too boring to write about but it animates my pens and papers into scribes for a teeming brain. I sometimes think like it's fashionable too. Haute Couture thinking. The eccentric I was becoming, lost in the eccentric my previous-self created.

I wonder, if the cascade begins, who can be foolish enough to call it to a stop? The stream rushes forward. These words feel like rushing water from a fresh rain picking up the debris in my clouded mind and emptying the fragments of millions of disjointed ideas from one source into the vast nothing. The journey of a long sentence and the thrills of its unexpected cliffs.