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.

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Parallel Perspective

We thought with emotions painted on paper,
Thoughts from a place devoid of structure,
Formed from disjointed views and parallel perspective,
Screaming to be heard but speaking to be ignored.

We knew the form and but not the function,
The words but not the meanings,
The sounds but not the feelings,
But this is not true.

The form was old and the function too,
And with the words, so too was true.
The sounds from our mind
Only insight of our time.

As a child looking up to the world,
We were parallel;
Not yet looking down,
But no longer gazing up.


Just to say a little about this, I just had what could very easily be described as a bad day. When I returned home, in an attempt to get my mind of what I had just been through, I cleaned my room. I am often seen by others as being unorganized, but in my own way I know where everything is. My desk is covered in useful material, all placed conveniently…see by others, my desk is covered in junk.

Anyway, as I was putting everything back where they “belong”, I came across a book. It was a compilation of poetry written by High School students from Spring 2009, and as I saw it I remembered that it was given to me because my work had been published. I took it off the shelf, sad down on the couch, and started flipping through the pages. I found mine eventually, and was shocked when I realized that I am proud of what I wrote. I was still in a bad mood, the whole drive home I had been thinking about how I had always been so naïve and continue to be, so I naturally assumed that I would cringe to read something I wrote in tenth grade.

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So many people seem to know what to do,
So many people must live in a zoo,
So many people go along with the crowd
And so many people keep falling behind.
That world is so fake.
Someone smiles
Someone laughs
And someone knows it isn’t real,
That they don’t care,
That they won’t wait one moment to walk away,
And never see you again…’til the next day.

Oliver, Grade 10

I continued to flip through the pages, and I began to see that these were the thoughts of my generation as we grew up. These were thoughts from people who have now lived for more than half of their lives in a world that felt the shock of the attacks on September 11th,  and for nearly 2/3 of their years we have been at war. Some talked of life, love, spirituality; others of loss, sadness, and angst. Mine was nothing special, simply the view of a lonely kid in a big world and a small school.

Collectively, these were the thoughts given form by those of this new generation just starting to see the world as it is.

I sat down and thought about all that I had read, and it flowed, so I decided to share it. Thoughts?

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.