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Dwell

I never learned to swim.
But I always figured that…
I’d just stay away from pools.
But how,
how do I stay away from my own lungs?
Inflating like a balloon,
then stuck in your grip,
until it explodes like my heart,
over and over,
I don’t know that it will patch itself up again.
My chest muscle has been evicted.
The demons within me are all settled in.
I know they’re lurking around each corner,
but I do not look anymore.
I am afraid to because they look a lot like you.
And I suppose that’s their point,
but my fear remains the same.
Stagnant,
like the years I spent forging a key from tears,
to unlock the door,
in hopes of finding some explanation on the other side.
Nights spent catching my bodies rain.
Each droplet a word I’ve never been strong enough to tell you.
Evaporating like the release of your arms around mine.
I often wonder if I was born to drown,
or if you were born to drown me.
I have too often wondered when my next fresh breath will come.
But I’ve learned see in the dark.
I suppose I’ll never learn to swim.
And you’ll never learn to love.

Word Vomit 14/Didactic Duchamp

This word vomit is the most arbitrary amalgamation I’ve ever written. Some bits are transcriptions of a live video game feed, some are phrases and things courtesy of Sosa, but most of it is my vomit in the form of words. Some typos have been left in. Have a nice day. Thank you for reading.

Larry Sultan, “The Valley” Photo Series, 2004

njgnmjhgdgjmdsgku
Yee
That’s how it always begins.
Fuck.
Ah man.
Not fucking Marcel Duchamp.
Someone would say, you wanna go shopping?
And then you’d be like no, I’m so baroque.
Ha, oh man.

Days like today, I wonder what the hell it is I’m doing.
Oh my god, this is so ridiculous.
Ah, it’s the little things about life, wasting time.
Watching video games, not even playing them, just watching someone else play them because you’re too broke.
This guy’s French.
Alright, let’s do this.
Yes, you cxnan actually kidnap people.
You can tie them up and bring them back toi your hut and stuff.
I’m more surprised that there’s so much shit to do in this game.
Thre’s so much crafting in this game, it’s insane.
Like, you just keep upgrading and upgrading.
There were chests n the tree stump.
Oh kman, this is so out of context.
I don’t want to fall off and die.
Should I be the screamer?
Even thet armor could not withstand my ass.
We have a thousand wood.
We have fucking a thousand wood.
I’m going to transfer this to some of you guys alright, you guys pick it up.,
We’re going to bring it back to our house.
That’s a lot of wood, even for wood standards.
We need iron.
Alright , that’s iron, that’s clay, that’s oil, that’s my dick.
Oh shit, oh no, I don’t kjnow where it is.
Let’s go, let’s go peopollle, pronto.

This is not art, is it?
What constitutes art?
I have no fucking clue.
Does cussing constitute art?
Am I the Fantastic Mr. Fox?
Perhaps, perhaps not.
Perhapto.
Perhappening this time last time last night yesterday again.
What the cuss?
Bitches.
Putas.
The sexiest people I know, oh my god, so sexy.
iI keep him as a friend because of the stupid things he says. That’s the only reason I keep himj around.

There are moments when I stop to breathe, and then it occdurs to me that I don’t habe lungs.
The bees in their hives bring waves of esophageal love before the night is over and the sun has said hello.
I think the bees can see me from the corner of hte room where the light is dim and my face is barely illuminated.
I also think that I think nothing, but that is counterintuitive to everything I have already said, isn’t it?
There are times when I sit in a chair much like this one and I swirl around because that is exactly what my head is doing.
TThen I turn the pages of a metaphorical and figurative novel that will always be in the works because I am.
And then the screen transitions from red to some other color that I haven’t seen yet but will see shortly because the transition hasn’t hapened yet.
And then there are words much like these that spew themselves onto the counter like soiled milk that I forgot to check the date of before having frosted mini wheats at four in the morning because I didn’t eat sufficiently that day and got hungry.
And then psycuck appeared and I realized that I love psyduck. I also love ampharos. But who doesn’t love ampharos?
I used to be able to type one hundred words per minute. One hundreed is a lot, don’t you think?
I still wasn’t the best in my class.
I think sometimes that I am a wave, crashing on an indiscernible shore. I press firmly on each key of the board, reminding myself of the pain endured and pain not yet introduced to my feeble face.
Backpacks are an ugly thing.?
I mean, I have a backpopack, and I lve mine. And Sosa has a backpack that’s a Targus I believe, and that’s not bad either.
But there ar esome horrendous backpacks out there, I’ll leave it at that.
Competitive Pokemon Batling For Beginners
What do you think about all this?
I feel right now as if I could keep writing forever and I’d never run out of words to say, which is unusual and not like me but for some reason I feel this way right now and I have no idea what I’m doing but I am transcribing the processes of myh brain and I suppose that’s all that matters because I will read all this gibberish later and not know what the hell I was thinking at the time, but I am focusing on my thoughts and letting htem flow just as I am thinking about thinking about thinking about my thoughts right now.
There we go, that was a long sentence. Perhaps our lives are just one really long sentence, filled with lots of commas, and colons, biut not semi-colons because they are the hermaphrodites of grammar, accorging to Kurt Vonnegut.
i have no diea what the fuck in writing because i am doing a thing i have been doing a thing for many a moon.
And then there are moments like these wheremy keyboard is temporarily hijacked by someone else, and things get spwewed onto my canvas and give me more inventice to keep moving forward, because who walks backwards anyway?
Oh wait, I do.
That’s weird.
My apologies.
Who am I apologigizing to? The interner?
That’s unnecessary, becausee you are inanimate.
Ughsnsjfhjssdvn
benor benor bengay i am not okay this isa field report. back to you.
I guess I know what I’m doing more or less. Isn’t that enough?
Can we ever really know more than that? I don’t think so. I don’t supposre so.
I don’t know whny it is when I tyope that sometimes I barely graze the keyboard or I accidentally hit two keys at once, becase I don’t feel like that should happen.
But then it does, and then I’m reminded that things that you once thought couldn’t happen may actually be able and capabable of happening and then the world changes while you’re just trying to go about your day.
The bees are swimming to the lake within my mind because the temperature has cooled and is ideal for mating.
The naked men in the video game are reprogrammed so that they have clothes because institutions were a part of the last update.
These will be one liners, if I have anything to say about it.
Unless my keyboard suffers from hijacking again.
Suffers isn’t a proper word.
Oablo Picasso is an interesting man. Was, because he is no longer alive.
Why do you watch this shit.
What do you get out of it.
I am confused.
I suppoxse that’s a good thing.
Or may tthat’s just what I tell myself so that I feel better about my inability to understand the simple processes occuring around me on a daily basis.
you’d think that by now, I’d have a grasp, right?
You see, but I have terrible grip.
Mentally too.
But that means that the things I retain are even more special.
Stop creating gusts of wind behind me, we are indoors and the walls provided to me by the university have allowed me to avoid the types of gusts which you are creating. If I wanted to feel them I would be outside, but I am not, am I? Are we outside? No. I am indoors because I am a human who has forgotten her humanness. I have forgotten that people once endured the hot and cold before Lennox came along. That people handmade a fire to boil water before Electrolux did so in ninety seconds.
Life is kind of a shit show, sometimes in a bad way, in which case, it is more than likely becoming a literal shit show, and not a figurative one. Insert Del Taco here. Precisely.
yes
no, no.
double, double
no tomato
in and out and in and out aqnd in and out
most important meal of the day
Trumpet in my ear like the capitalization of p’s and q’s and r’s and s’s and t’s because how many letters are there again?
And then you type away because I am typing away and we always do what we see others doing because that’s what’s easiest to do, isn’t it?
If I were to type like this in front of people, I wonder what they would think if they could read my thoughts as they were being spewed out onto a page, and if they could fuly understna dthe things thart are actually going on in my head. This would make for an interesting performance piece.
I wonder which is better, looking at the screen while typing, or looking at yhour keuyboard. I don’t know which one makes it easier to not misspell things.
I would say that looking at another screen is really what does it well, not like you’re burning your melatonin at any slower of a rate that way, but I’m okay with that. This is gratuitous and I am aware.
I am aware of more than you think.
I think I am aware of more than I even think I am.
Flash cards are flashing like flash lights in the face of a thing that doesn’t make sense because we don’t know who we are in the end and we never cared to know so it doesn’t ever make a difference anyway.
But then things come up and things go down and things change because things are always changing, but this time, we can’t avoid it because we are what is changing, our environment is switching from view and it’s becoming something we didn’t expect.
Then, then, then you find yourself sitting, doing something out of the ordinary, for no particular reason, because nothing needs reason, and reason is derived from the goldfish beneath our feet.
Then I find myself retrieving thoughts from a previous self which floats in the ether beside waves of hair and analog clocks that tick in a tocking manner.
I’m going to get so drunk that I become sober.
Then when I am sober I will be drunk.
Repetitive cycles are not a thing of the past.
Wait, yes they are. But they’re also a thing of the present, and of the assumed future.
But I assume nothing.
And then before long, I’m in a chair much like this, once again, playing For Sure on repeat because I am repetitive in everything for as long as humanly possible, which is significantly long, because I am human, aren’t I?
Then my arm begins to hurt and I think that perhaps the walls are telling me to stop because they’re caving in and I’ll need my arms to hold them up and otherwise they will collapse.
But I am of no help to you, am I?
The keys of my life write words that are not keys to open the door which you have never entered since the last time you
My goal for Friday is to get so drunk that I access the quantum consciousness.
I don’t know if I want to think every thought at the same time.
Just these few thoughts are enough to overwhelm me.
Maybe, if we reach that level though, it becomes weightless.
And then you eat orange chicken because orange is your favorite color, until you realize that orange chicken isn’t even remotely orange, but you keep eating it anyway because you’ve voided the warranty on life.
And then you think you should go home,  because who stays up all night?
Oh yeah, that’s right, you do.
You do whatever the hell you want because you can.
You listen to For Sure another ten times on repeat because why not?
The trumpets sing in a way that does not remind you of death, and moves perfectly in sync with the clammer of keyboard in the room because you’re not the only one procrastinating.
Your hand begins to hurt again, until you realize it’s phantom limb and things are just a mere fallacy.
Just like my life.
Just like your life.
That’s exactly what it is.

Life Transcriptions #3 “That’s a shitload of atmospheric distortion.”

Number 3 in an endless series of life transcriptions. These are bits and pieces, placed in chunks because of different conversations that have happened, but aren’t in any particular order.
Torrin, Max, Robert, Olivia, Cesar, my thoughts (afterward) are both black and grey.

That’s a shit load of atmospheric distortion.
Actually, that’s just my vision.
Also, just turn your body 180 and then follow the line of the lights on the roof.
Oh shit, that’s fucked.
Enters fugue state.
The room where the memes never end.
That’s every room in our lives.
Sosa’s bedroom.
Yes, more specifically.

British people get so upset if you say you’re from America.
Do they really?
The state itself is bigger than the whole UK.
Is it really?
The summers would be 110 degrees, that’s not nice weather.
Is that really?
Oh yeah, you’re used to celsius, huh?
Are you really?
It’s hot as hell.
That, I agree with.
With juicy bits.
Orange juice-y bits.
And then sweaters are jumpers.
You can jump in shirts too. Are shirts also jumpers?
Oh my gosh, I love your pants. Trousers, trousers, I love your trousers.
Why thank you, they’re new.
K, come out, I’m not wearing any pants.
Why thank you, that’s not new.

Ass prolapses out of left eye socket.
No.
My ass prolapses out of YOUR left eye socket.
Please no.
My ass prolapses out of your mouth.
Seriously though.
Okay, please don’t.
Thanks.

It’s all fun and games until people start dying. Then it’s art.
Life imitates art, art imitates life. Death imitates art, art imitates death.
I was honestly just playing a fucked up derivation of pinball on my phone.
As if pinball to begin with isn’t fucked up?
That depends on how into indiscernible lyrics about decapitating children you are.
Oh, you don’t know me well enough.
I have one of those smiles where the only emotion it cannot express well is ‘happiness’.
That’s problematic.
Don’t have a laundry bitch, because that’s creepy.
Laundry to begin with is creepy. Necessary, but creepy.
My mom had to start hiding the matches. (bows head)
Easier said than done, but still doable.
I should go home and sloop, but I know if I go home, I won’t sloop.
I should sloop too. This is difficult.

C Ninja bombs got me out of hundreds of jams as a teenager.
Ninja bombs got in INTO tons of jams as a teenager. Tables turned, eh?
C #excusemewhileIdielaughing
#excusemewhileItypeoutanincrediblylongandindiscernible
hashtagforyourNOTenjoymentbecausewhywouldyouenjoysomethinglikethis?

C I can’t make promises as to what I am and am not, because the jury is still out on that.
Can I be on the panel?
C I won’t report you as a pyro if you promise to immortalize my struggle against the cricket.
Ouch.
C I’m using a bookcase of 100 year old treatise as a raft.
Good luck with that.

Life Transcriptions #2 “I just submit shit and get published.”

The second in an endless series of life transcriptions.
Emily, Torrin, Cesar, Roya, Robert, Brandon, Sosa, Cheryl, Farah.
Black text are my additions after the fact.

These aren’t peach rings. They’re referencing peach rings.
We’re references to each other, bits of disheveled selves creating a new image.
The Rabbit liquor awards.
And the winner is…
I just submit shit and get published.
I just submit shit and get some sort of fecal matter related disease.

I maintain, that if all the worlds leaders would just sit around a table that was loaded with pancakes,
we’d all be in a much better place afterward.
I maintain that I, likewise, would be in a much better place.
Like, you can’t have a bad conversation about reducing nuclear arms proliferation,
when the president of Egypt is handing you the strawberry syrup.
I think I had a dream like this once.
It’s a mathematical impossibility,
Mathematics is a mathematical impossibility.
much like my complete and utter inability to do math.
Will you still be my friend when I’ve got unkempt similes dribbling down my chin?
I will be your friend, till death do our similes part.

I am dissecting various subcultures of fuckboi-ism.
I am dissecting a baby shark. Flashback to 8th grade, oops.
Le fuccbois are eternal.
Ephemeral to us, yes?
Fuckboi prose poetry.
The only adequate way to externalize your frustrations with fuckboi culture.
Yeah, I hate people who use French words, like the French.
Logic is my middle name.
If you want more edgy shit, I’ve got loads of inspiration.
I need a protractor, actually.
Sosa just wants to give you his loads.
No, pls. I’m impotent. 😦
That’s problematic.

I was watching Rugrats.
Chuckie, Tommy, pickles, cucumbers. Mmm.
One of the books the kid was reading said quantum physics.
Quantum levitation is a cool thing.
And I figured, “that looks smart.” So I looked it up.
I talked to my friends dad who’s a quantum physicist,
and I asked him what quantum physics was.
And he said it’s the physics of quantum.
Now that’s some top tier logic.
I just want to be immersed in the pure blanket of truth until I die.
That sounds feasible enough.

I think I’m thoroughly convinced that my insides are made of sugar.
I should hope that this isn’t the case.
I think my soul is a mound of melted candy.
Life goals?
I want rotting sugar to be a thing.
I believe it already is a thing?
I mean, rotting teeth is a thing.
Yes, rotting teeth are are thing.
Obama’s top tier blasphemy.
I’m insinuating that I enjoy prostate stimulation.
How could you not?
I obviously have no frame of reference for this.

That’s Frida Kahlo on my calf.
Is she also on your cattle?
It makes me so happy.
Happiness is Frida Kahlo, as it seems.
Next time, I’ll get the Abraham Lincoln socks.
Four score and 7 years ago, I had Abraham Lincoln socks.
Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter, is a terrible movie.
I’m no rotten tomato, although I hate tomatoes.
Have a nice day.

Life Transcriptions #1 “You’ve got the makings of a very lucrative blog on your hands.”

This is a combination of bits and pieces of conversations had on a Monday evening with both Farah and Cesar, two friends of mine. Italicized is Farah, bold is Cesar, things in red are my own thoughts added after the fact. This is the first in a series.

C Okay, cool. That’s one way to simile.
Metaphor, analogy, personification makes me find holes in the ozone layer.
F I had bedbugs, but it was the best.
F What I did was basically cover myself in peppermint oil, and within a day, there were no bedbugs in our entire room.
F One of my favorite tricks is to put peppermint oil on my palms and you rub it in and you go like this and you breathe it in.
F You breathe in the oil that’s already on your skin.
The oil on my skin is catatonic, caustic. Disregard me.
F I always rub my eyes with peppermint oil on accident.
F Or I spill wild orange all over my notebook.
F And I just, ugh…
F I accidentally dabbed myself with balance instead of perfume.

F It’s not even the same container.
F You know, do you remember how I read articles and then my mood changes and I become an angry person?
I don’t remember a thing in the world. Well no, of course I do. That’s a lie. I lied.

C Context is overrated.

laughs indiscernibly
F You look like a twelve year old who got two black eyes because he got bullied on the playground.
F We just talk to each other after the thing.
F I am, okay?
F You know, you’re really lucky you’re really far because you’d have the plague by now.
F Hashtag long distance relationships.
C Hashtag short distance plague.
Hashtag hashtag, I’m such a hipster. Maybe someday I’ll be a hip replacement-ster?
C Oh Jesus, that’s loud.
C Ungodly sound plays.
C Jesus.
S Ungodly sound plays, not Jesus.
C Very much not Jesus.
C Shiva, who gave you a harpsichord?
C Who gave you a harpsichord without tuning it?
I do not know how to tune a harpsichord.
F You’re so clean shaven I could make an Archie comic out of you.
C That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s said to me in the last twelve minutes.
I like to eat lemons.
F Your headphones from this angle make it look like you have sideburns.
F Oh, what the fuck is that!?
Holy shit, what the fuck was that. What? What!? 
C I can’t remember what it was Torrin said tonight but it made me think in response “When in Rome, don’t be a minor” or “When in Rome, don’t be underage.”
C How shitty would it be to be an underaged child.
C When in Rome, seal your asshole with clay.

C If you’re a minor.
C Life expectancy in Rome is short anyway but I feel like it’s shortened if your ashore isn’t sealed by something.

C You shouldn’t be immortalizing my delinquency, let alone encouraging it.
That is the purpose of my entire life, didn’t you know?
C Consequently, it’s quite ironic how inconsequential the consequences of these sequences are.
C Fuck, what a concept.
C You just put it in your body and fun stuff happens.
C It’s like somebody pulls the blinders off of you.
I was blind but now I can see.
C I felt like a fish flopping out of a bowl of water.
I am a pisces. Don’t flop out of water. You’ll die, assuming you’re an actual fish. Are you? No. Don’t fret then. I am an actual fish. This human suit is impressive. 
C Everything looked familiar but it was all different.

C I was watching different segments of my life all bleed into each other.
C I told them, what’s wrong with this?
It would be easier to answer what isn’t wrong.
C What’s wrong with my watch?
People who can’t read analog…

C The numbers are gone, the arms are spinning.
C That sounds stupid, I would never voluntarily sign up for that. (time)
C What the hell are you doing?
What the hell are YOU doing?

C Appreciating the frailty of the human condition.
I am strong. Do not tell me otherwise, for I will not believe it.

C Whatever happens, remember that you’re going to be fine.
Why should I believe you?

Word Vomit 13/__________

I realized that I’m the only person keeping me from being one hundred percent,
all the time.
I am a floating being,
discovering new facets of this silver lining with each footstep.
Never knowing exactly where I’m going,
but trusting that there is something greater than me leading the way.
I am the glue that never dries.
I have shattered again.
Each time,
as I retrieve my fragments and piece myself together again,
I discover new bits of my being I didn’t know existed.
And so I try my best to fit them into the puzzle image that is my life,
hoping that some day,
they’ll come to form an sight worth while.
I need to forget
I need to forget
I am glue that will never dry
I shatter and you do not allow me to dry
I must hold myself together
I look into the abyss
I see my reflection
She does not know my name
I don’t know who I am
But sometimes I think I just don’t want to know
Things would be easier that way
Yes?
I am
I am
I am
Confused
I am so confused
I am happy
I need to be
Don’t I?
I should be
I am the only person keeping me from being one hundred percent,
all the time
But I am happy.
The only way for anyone to every be happy is for them to truly believe it.
And that is what I am going to do.
I often wonder
why it is that I find myself sitting in the bathtub at this hour
staring blankly at a wall.
I wait for something to surface,
and whatever does,
I speak to.
And I say whatever it is that comes to mind,
because I believe that whatever I think of first,
are words and thoughts that need to be expunged.
It’s a strange process,
I know.
One that must look even stranger than it sounds.
How would you feel if you saw me talking to a wall?
Not just any,
but the blank tiled wall in my bathtub.
Strange?
You should try it sometime.

Sometimes I just want to know what it is that compels me to say and do the things that I say and do. But more than that, I want to know why the hell I think the thoughts that I think. You see, being Non-Sabrina means that I am so much more logical than Sabmarina is. And being Non-Sabrina makes it so much easier to live, because she has a far more level head than any of the Sabrina’s. But she is ultimately the least fun for that very reason that she sees the flaws in all the decisions I have ever and will ever possibly make. Perhaps that’s a good thing, well who am I kidding, it’s a great thing. And not a moment goes by that I’m not thankful for the fact that I have a facet like that that is always figuratively looking out for me, but she is a part of me that I need to really put effort into if I am to access her. She is more succinct and rational in many ways, in ways that the other Sabrina’s are not capable of being. But I wonder why it is that I sit here on restless nights and wonder about humans that don’t wonder about me. I wonder why I am compelled to wonder. I wonder why it is I am unable to take my own advice. I wonder why it is that I am talking as I am typing. I wonder why the hell it is that I’m not in bed, even though I clearly should be. Existential crisis, or what? I wonder what you wonder about. I wonder why I am perpetuated as someone I am not, but choose to remain that way. I wonder why I am unable to notice that there are no distinctions between certain things. I wonder why I am wasting my time. I wonder why you are wasting yours. I wonder why I am even writing about this, or anything for that matter. It’s because I feel inclined to word vomit, and that’s the first answer I’ve given to any of the aforementioned “I wonder” statements I’ve made. I wonder who I am. I wonder if my reflection in the mirror is really a reflection of who I am on the inside, or if I am just an amalgamation of cells that have lost their way. I wonder why I am unable to fill in the blank. I know why. It is because the thing it must be filled with is something I avoid. I am glue that never dries. I am a thought that will never be completed. I am the ellipses on the end of a statement. A “to be continued” episode that you never got around to watching. I wonder why things are the way they are. But then I remember that even if I knew, it wouldn’t change a thing.

Word Vomit 12/Crescendo

This is a dual word vomit, and features very strange things transcribed from words produced by the mouth of another human. This was also typed without looking at the screen, so there are many typos and errors which have been left in/not corrected. Nevertheless, enjoy.

Bad bad not good.

Elements of my brain are going for a walk.
They have dropped their pens and chopsticks,
and entangled themselves in the vines of my subconscious.
I wander,
in search of emptiness.
The wisest man is he who knpows he knows nothing.
Tuxedos,
a mask.
A fiscade,
pretending that we belong in high rises,
when we are bottom dwellers,
breathing in dirt and sut,
engulfed in our own waste.
I am no longer as I was.
The pen has run out of ink,.
The cap has disappeared,
and UI’m glad.
Its ink,
need not be contained.
Mhy thoughts,
have laid dornamt for far too long.
Brothers and sisters of the earth will erupt
in a symphony of pigment and fear.
I have forgotten to remember that which is most important.
You dont fucked,

You done fucked. Do you realize how much youve done fucked the audacity of you not fucking paying attention to the fact that you didnt wwrite dank shit. What the fuck, I need to find this meme.  It’s necessary rfoe me to survive in the enxt 48 hours, if O do not find this meme I will split everyones wrists with my dick and I will not use the pointy end., I’lluse the jagged rusty ladel shaped end of my ballsack jointed to my penis listen to me I will fuck every child under the age of thrtre if I do not find this fucking meme and you there you bitch stop reading this. This is detremental to your health. Go seek a psychiatrist or I will grap your butt cheeks and separate them into two separate dimensions and I will plunge my legs into your asshole so far that I will create a paradox existing within your asshole and jumping into it stop typing this shit. This is tupid.

This concludes word vomit 12.

Word Vomit 12/In Heaven’s Stead, I Smite Clothing

Preface: This was typed without looking at the screen, so there are many typos and punctuation mistakes that I have chosen to leave uncorrected.

“Untitled” 1990 – Monica Majoli  Oil on Panel, 5″ x 17″ (12.7 x 44.5 cm)

Emperor Qin has ordered the removal of my brain. On a silver platter with your egotistical needs, my spine sits, ready to be cut into one bite samples. It is during moments like these that I am reminded of the blueness of the sky. Pastel shades in juxtaposition with red carnations emerging from within. Steam is filling the room, clouding my lenses. I was already blind long before you came along. We feel the dampness upon our skin, we are reminded that we are human. Although sometimes we wish we didn’t have to be. It is in moments like these that I forget what it is I have been told it is that I should be doing. And then everything comes to a complete stop. You see, it;s nice at times, to take a moment to freeze and remember what it’s like to breathe. To bring your head in from the open window on the highway and remove the h air from your eyes. Not anything to see but black, and yet the concept of the window is inviting enough to ruin our good (or not) hair days. Our days becoming a neverending daze of forgotten sunlight and misshapen  figures not on this coordinate plane. A line is never ending in two directions. A ray is never ending in only one direction. Eighth grade was my least favorite year. I remember everything, like it was only seven years ago. There is a pain in my side that reminds me that I have a liver. It tells me that it does not want to be abused. My arm shows remnants of a bruise. My liver does not want to be abuse, neither do I. And so I listen to it. We are in the same boat, more or less. Hoping that some day we do not drown. I am afraid. Water is my favorite thing in this world, and my worst nightmare. I don”t mind not breathing, only when I choose not to do so. I am Ushikawa and you are Tamaru. Deciding when I live, and when I die. Plastic, developed from bits of my recycled disheveled self. A rubber band is all you need to seal the deal. I have a say, with pen, brush, crayon even, but words cannot escape the tunnel. Before long, we are nothing but leaves floating along a river of our cerebrospinal fluid. In heaven’s stead, I smite clothing. It’s all I can remember. Perhaps it”s all I know. I am sure of nothing. I wonder if that is an irrational thought.. Shakyamuni Buddha has left me behind to spend eternity on her pedestal of gilt bronze. Prabhutaratna Buddha has long forgotten of my midterm tomorrow. I am on my own gyroscope, brain frying, served with bread and butter because for some reason, everyone expects that at restaurants. I expect nothing because that’s what I plan to rweceive. I’ve learned to not want what I want because what I want is what I will never have. Material possessions are a thing ofd the past. A thing most prevalent in the present because of the presents we receive simply because of our presence. We unwrap one after anohter, onlly to wrap ourselves once again in expensive this and thats. Shelter witha  more appealing exterior, I suppose. You suppose. Is that why you do it? Why do we do anything we do?  Our lives a giant, indiscernible puzzle, pieces thrown about. Never knowing just how many the final prpoduct has. An image that gets more confusion the further we piece it together. And that’s okay. That’s actually how I like it. This is all assumption, actually. And I don’t like to assume. I like to paint, and smite clothing, as iut seems. Streams of seams it seems are forgetting me just as I have forgotteh the world. Goodbye and hello.

Word Vomit 11/Hold Me Koala

Erect tangle:
Walk with me,
along Saturns rings.
Orbit around my mind,
640 degree axis.
Let go of me,
and simultaneously,
grip as tightly as you can.
This is all I want in life.
No it isn’t.
But it’s great.
It’s cold.
I’m reminded that I’m still alive.
I want to dream an impossible dream,
but I don’t believe one exists.
Hold me koala!
Tightly please.
Chew on the leaves so that I may share,
nutrients for my imagination.
It’s all that grounds me into an unsurpassed reality.
One of many,
and I’m satisfied at the prospect.
I am satiated on the occipital occurrences of my life.
I believe I am,
and what I believe to be true will inevitably become so.
Whatever it is I decide,
the executive decision has been made.
I will burn and be reborn from the ashes that are your tears.
Is that okay?
Will I survive?
Am I even alive to die?
Am I even dead to be brought back to a cycle of expected mediocrity?
That’s not what I want.
I have long since decided otherwise,
and that’s acceptable.
Acceptable to me at least.
In which case,
nothing else matters.
I’ve constructed my own subconscious,
free of outside influence,
devoid of the world I’m in,
and into one with infinite moons.
Moons,
choosing new coordinates in the plane of my vision each evening,
each morning,
and afternoon.
Because why should the moon be forced to contain its beauty for virtually half of my existence?
It deserves to be seen.
And if my existence is as limited as everyone says,
I want to grasp every fractal that floats in my peripheral.
I want it all,
within reason.
Reasons which,
I too,
decide to be logical,
or perhaps, as illogical as they come.
Which is more alright than anything I see and hear.
It’s alright.
I’m alright.
Right?