Rapid Eye Movement

I just. In a moment of fury, a stupor of stupidity, did away with months of writing. Got to remind myself never to read what I write if I always roll eye-balls and react violently towards any of it. I was talking to this girl, and she said something to me like - that - I didn't have the right to do that, to roll up on what I'd written. It was sweet of her to say that. Consequently, I fell in love with her.

The good part of it all is that I know the contents of what I'd been working on, so just need to sit down re-draft and write it all up again. And I love doing that. It makes me feel intelligent, important and sht (HAHA).

Its Summer. Things are drying up, in the evenings the trees start crackling. Tubes and pods start falling noisily onto the roof. Droplets of oily sap or something starts to sweat off flowers, you feel it falling on you when passing under trees. Every thing's dry and earthy. The wind sways its warmth around the place, it cuddles up on the kids, picking them up with its force, causing pink cheeks to tan. The evenings are longer, the nights are shorter. The mornings are 4AM bright with constellations likening a series of ear-studs, as usual the air is fresh and cool with the dew-ness. I find myself asleep in strange places. Mostly on the floor. I've been dreaming interesting dreams; Islands, lighthouses, vast seas, noisy ancient trade ships - real stuff - that finds me waking at the early AMs to think it all through... I stay up long enough so that I go back to bed and into the same early stages of sleep where the REM kicks up again - Dream Sleep.

I find myself spending time with a new circle of people. Chaos Artists and Mad writers all of us pitying each other // and it gets worse with us all reading Dostoevsky telling ourselves how "ridiculous" our stories are...

When stars draw swords

This is the best part of my day. It is about 6PM and it is Summer. The sun has just begun its decent, and in its pass is turning everything to gold. The shadows stretch over the earth and the heat seems to take a breath. Soon, the sky will be a dark rim with pink and purple in the horizon. The stars will begin to unsheathe themselves, and as it was yesterday, a scimitar moon will rise.

The night will draw itself up and about, and at 8PM I’ll go off for my run. In the morning, at 4AM – when I awake, the air would have been cleared of the smoke, the dew would have settled, having dragged the coughed up air to the earth. The stars at that time of the morning, they gleam their brightest, and they just stand there, all of them, so many more than you’d think there could ever be.

dysphoria

Like a rabbit that enters a burrow, that sees and feels clues, the hints and suggestions one by one, before they all come together in realization, that this isn’t a burrow. It was built, indeed constructed by something else. It panics and flees, deeper. The air gets heavier. It feels fear, and the depth of its construction.

This is an ancient hole, one that came about, and still comes with realization. The hole is fear itself. It is the kind of void; that is most specifically shaped, it initiates and completes its own circle.

There is no way from it but through, and the promise of light on the other side. Somewhere along the way, the rabbit must find itself an area to re-burrow, re-enter, to construct its own path, channel a new river. Most likely through the new hole, a new fear, there’ll be, some kind of new genius or realization.
Although many holes have already been dug, written into. But there is light on the other side. Even when it comes up into the night, the constellations fall away, and the nearest star unpacks itself.