Puzzle pieces

The walls built to keep out the cold now close in and smother the warmth.

The doors once open now but windows through which I look out into the world as it passes me by.

I stand. Enough. The walls were never there, just barriers in the mind now no longer necessary.

I step out into the world I have seen through the eyes of one who wanted to participate yet felt unable.

Like a puzzle piece taken out of the box I search for my place, but the world is ever expanding and more pieces are added every day. The image is unknown but slowly parts come together. The corners, first, but you are the center. It may never be complete but that is the beauty. Puzzles are merely paintings pixelated in parts and once an image is complete it may, itself, only be a piece in an ever scaling tapestry woven in DNA. Each one of us contains the pieces put together from the very beginning of the Universe and not a single part is insignificant.

Everything comes together to form the present and perfect you. Without you paintings upon paintings will be left without blue skies and green grass. Like the Mona Lisa without a smile you are the key, the most quintessential part of everything that will ever be from this point on. Within you is the power to repaint the sky, fill the ocean, and shine as bright and as fiercely as the sun but you have to find within you the strength to go on when the sky darkens and rainclouds threaten to wash away everything you’ve accomplished.

Disturbing the silence

It is the darkness Simon and Garfunkel sing of;
The steroid to my senses that creates thoughts without fences.
Like a mad horse without a saddle, my mind goes back to the battle,
And with that singsong rattle and unsolicited prattle,
The mind starts talking again.

As eyes close, vision clears, sometimes with tears
caused by the fears over the years, now, simply…
pixels on a screen placed there by machine interpreted… by you it now seems.

You may be the reason I type, but you are not the reason I write.
In my mind and in the night, such thoughts emerge with force.
These incredible and powerful feelings of such deep understanding,
stemming from the time allowed for leisure spent in mental seizure—without remorse.

This thinking hits a nerve, and the light once again takes hold.
I feel it, and behind the glasses and behind the face, it illuminates the hand.
I  value the cards, think of the bet, and fold.
Now these words, for a reason, not written in sand.

Writing

I enjoy writing. I find the whole process to be therapeutic. However, I feel that I do not write enough. The truth is that I do not write much at all, and sadly, I’ve noticed that while I often fell like sitting down and writing, I never do. And whenever the inspiration strikes, and I have an idea for something—anything really—it always seems to happen when I am exhausted and feel like doing nothing else but sleeping.

Right now, for example, I feel like writing. I am tired.

Late night
Dark room
Loud neighbors
No sleep

Toss and turn
As soon as I reposition myself, I feel uncomfortable
I glance at my clock, it reads close to 4 AM
I contemplate asking my neighbors to keep it down,
But I throw that idea out.

What could it be?
Why can’t I sleep?
Is it the heat? The sound? The stress?
What could it be?

I decide to take a walk.
The destination does not matter,
The beginning does not matter,
The trip does not matter,
The clarity of mind that comes, now that is what matters.

I put on my slippers,
Grab my wallet and phone,
I groggily walk towards my door,
The sound of a television from down the hall now even more clear

I step out into the hallway,
Surprised, I see that the hallway is adorned with confetti.
I venture a few steps further and I see a trashcan knocked over,
The contents of which have spilled out onto the floor.

I step over the trash, and navigate through the confetti,
I open the heavy suite door and walk out into the common area,
Again, surprised at what I see.
Chairs, knocked over. Lamps, on the floor.

I shake my head and continue down the stairs,
I can feel the draft from the front door now,
The cold air trying to breach the bulwark of this simple dorm.
I purchase a water from the machine, and step outside.

There is something magical about the air at 4 in the morning.
It is fresh, clean, and feels as if each breath is new.
It is as if the air that you are breathing has never touched another soul.
It is almost as if the air is telling you, “Forget it, just breath.”

Well, that’s what I did, that night.
I took a break from worrying,
I took a break from caring,
I took a break from my life,
I walked around at 4 in the morning
Wearing only pajamas and slippers
And it was the most calming experience of my life.

 

In the words of Chaplan, we think to much and feel to little. See, there is a whole amazing, fabulous world out there. And there are so many amazing and truly unique people out there. There’s been much ado about the meaning to life, and the meaning to lots of things, but screw that. Life has a meaning because we give it a meaning. A joke is funny because we give it a laugh. A cake is tasty because we take a bite. This world is meant to be seen, heard, touched, smelled, and tasted.

Take a drive down to the shore. Walk on the beach at night. Stop, stare up at the moon and the stars. Listen to the sea breeze, smell the sea air, hear the waves crashing upon the shore. Think, that for this moment, nothing really matters. The world will keep spinning, people will continue doing what it is that they have always done, and none of this can be reasonably changed. What can be changed, is our perspective.

Drop the bias, drop the negativity, drop prior conceptions of certain ideals, hear everything as if for the first time. Smile, be happy, be spontaneous, live for the moment because the moment lives for you.

 

This is the kind of shit that I like to write when I feel tired. I do not think it important, and I do not think it worth sharing, but what I do think is that it helps me work out what’s going on in my head. The stream of consciousness is like a gurgling brook, sometimes outside forces interfere and make this brook diverge from it’s normal pathway. Sometimes heavy rain falls and make this brook overflow and rush like an avalanche rolling down a mountainside. Sometimes the cold air cuts and chills the brook until it has lost some of it’s will to move.

Sometimes, others come and see the brook, and sometimes, these others are thirsty and they drink up the brook.