Execution of Thoughts: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

72 miles of what feels like crazy. A journey to somewhere not on a map you can see with your eyes. An ambrosia of metaphoric of feelings. A transitional phase that cannot be measured by terms of reality. So what is the point? In truth I am not sure. The distillation and formulation of this illustration is awkward, crawling. Skinning knees bruising hands. The cost. As a people, we need to stop and think. Smell the Roses, the flowers, the dead people. Most of the time is spent blinking, mouth breathing, anointed with lust. the basic in-and-out. I want out. The constant prescription to over stimulation. Force fead at all times.

Wasting time. to waste away in time. Should have thought about that a long time ago. I can’t help, but feel a bit written off. I’m sorry I get scared. At this point I need silence. At a point that I am so gated and closed off I can’t see the light of day. What makes me stop talking? maybe it is the constant argument I don’t want to make people feel bad. Too hot to sleep. To tired to manage my thoughts. Demons in my bathroom mirror, watching. I am watching back. Trying to clear my head. Empty, whole. I cannot rest with my mind and body against me. Maybe I can wait this out?

I feel like I have been lieing to myself. Ever since I was 10 and got that concussion/amnesia cocktail I have had problems with memory loss. Maybe a relationship is not in my future. I like have some around to share life with. I don’t need someone there to complete me or any of that sappy crap. Don’t get me wrong I enjoy sappy crap. I’m saying I don’t survive on it.

well back to work and looking for a new place to dwell.

(Friday, July 11, 2008)