Cursed Sundays

I hate waking up late on Sundays. I know that it is the norm on Sundays to wake up late and just kind of taking easy, relaxing. But my days goes to a waste when I wake up past 9, where I lazily try to catch up and well, wake up. I walk around like a drunkard, wondering were the day went.

I know that some people don't like to walk when it's windy and out in cold weather. I couldn't have liked it more though. To feel the cold air in your lungs and the reality of the world swirling around your skin, under layers of clothing, and the wind slapping your face against your will, reminding you of the past, regrets and the dawn of the future that could make you, one that's just around the corner.

Senseless

Writing senseless things seems to be the current itch of mine as of late. The irresistible currency that seems to leave me uncomfortable when I am done writing and when time doesn't permit me to get to pen and paper, and or here, I seem to lose partial bits of my sanity into the abyss that's been eating me for the past few weeks. I just am not sure what is there left to think, analyze let alone write and talk about. Everything is out there, flown like a wounded bird, halfway soaring through with heavy wings that no longer could carry it with it's broken pride and broken goals to fly across the Atlantic. Within this unhappiness, there is absolutely nothing left to think about and nothing to feel. Just what is it that I am trying to get out of me...that even I am not sure.

I've been meaning to write poetry, these few lines have strung together that keeps repeating in my head over and over again, but I haven't gotten the true inspiration and motivation to actually sit down and write those few lines and possibly that will become several poems that will eventually end up draining me emotionally. I just don't feel like I have anything left in me, which is counter intuitive to detrimentally block my own creative expression and productiveness.

First Snow of the Season

On Wednesday, the first snow flakes of the season fell pretty rapidly, fluidly and for a long time. Only it was too wet to accumulate down here in Madison, where it's warmer in comparison to the rest of Wisconsin.

It snowed and strings of my heart were touched and they sang the same old melancholy song for one more time, but a little bit more profoundly alone this time. A little bit more discouraged, a little less hopeful and still resisting to give in, still fighting for that time just around the corner that I've been waiting for a long stretch of time...to my credulity. Let's face it, no matter what I do, it will never get better. It's just the psyche and fate of humanity. While some things might look better, feel better, I will never actually be better than what I am today. On the other hand, I am not arguing that I am at the apex of my self growth, quite contrarily. Though my growth will continue to be retarded by life's never ending circumstances until my nerves one day quite decidedly agree to give up on me collectively, leaving me bedridden and clinically in depression, perhaps with a shattered mind, with my memories wiped out.  I might have a more positive and closer affinity with fiscal monetary seasons, I might become more secure after safely landing a career oriented job. I might age slower and continue to look a long younger than my age. I might gain a few pounds. I might live in a bigger apartment, with better materialistic things surrounding and meeting my necessities, even beyond the essential requirements. But I will never be able to let go of the past, these hounds of my past immorality and the never ending darkness that keeps gnawing at my soul. The secrets I shouldn't hear, the things I shouldn't see.

It snowed, impure. It wasn't a full round snow flake, white and pure, advent of a season of carnival. It was tarnished, watered down like soup, with much of the content and the core missing, snowing just because someone told it to snow. Perhaps, God decided it was time, hence we barely had any rain this fall. It only served the purpose of wetting the ground and reminding me of the momentum I lost while selling my soul to the devil to earn a few bucks to earn a living, not even comfort, quite pathetic, isn't it?

But I can't help it...I feel so dried up, so fed up, hardly have any energy left to keep going.

Into the Winter

Fall has been here with it's rich colors, the cooling heat and the scent of the burning logs have surrounded the neighborhood. Halloween has come and went and Thanksgiving is just around the corner.

Autumn has always been my favorite time of the year. There is solace and comfort in it, artistic creativity and a stir in my soul that could only be comforted by creating these boundaries that makes me feel safe, secure and bound. But Fall is slowly leaning into winter and leaving the warm and cozy feelings carefully snugged within my dark, deep and well, cold corners of my soul to a hollow abhorrence and abandoning the creativity that moved my very passions into a dull mind where curling up on a couch and reading seems to thoroughly challenge my spirits.

I don't like feeling this way, I don't like seeing the loss of motivation in the past few weeks that have sapped into my living energy due to an idiotic boss that annoyingly gets under my skin. I'd like to return to that recovered sense of self that I had so longed for months, even years. The freedom I had discovered, the sense of feeling lightness I had come so used to feeling, all gone and I don't know what to do recover all of that...It hurts and feels like I've failed once again.

You can't fix me

Sometimes there are things you just can't fix in me...When things are broken, they are broken and no matter how much you leave the darkness out in the light to seep through it's core to alter it's personality...but it won't change.

Certain traits are written in stone, you can't alter them. No matter how much you want to remove it from your traits list, or how much you want to tweak it to give you an advantage in life...

I am what I am with the good and the bad. You can't expect me to be like you and try to put me in these molds so that I can become an ideal type of person for you. If I am not catching you as I am, guess what buddy, you and I are not going to make a good match. Because there is so much pretend I can do before it all comes crushing down, taking the two of us in a spiraling hell that just will become our own abyss (well one of my many endless ones).

A person can be inspired to change and be a better person as a whole by an event, a person, an idea or a movement. These are all necessary in human life many times over to keep our growth constant and fruitful. Regardless though, the person has to want that change. You can't make me someone who I am not to make me more desirable for you. This cannot be a negotiation.

I am spicy and stubborn. This is who I am. If these qualities bother you, just move on to the next person that makes you feel something. We don't have to end up blissfully together. For all I care, I am not interested in you that way. But I am sick of people trying to fit me into molds and being hard at work to change my personality, tweaking traits and characteristics that I value to begin with, and sometimes wanting to change the bad things about me too, regardless though, these are changes I must want myself. You can't change me for me. That is a decision only I can make and you can't try to make me feel bad for deciding not to change and being perfectly content with being who I am.

Page Breaks

I haven't really written here in a while. I had some drafts and even those got delayed publishing as I seemed to have well, kind of weighed down to the depths of the ocean due to my insane and unbearable boss. I lost interest in pretty much doing everything, barely getting through the essentials.

Losing the joy of living, the energy to be happy is a solemn thing that's not only fleeting, but also easily breakable. It makes the world go around, it allows things to get done, move on and well, make me happy.

I feel cornered with no options out and the oxygen in the room is being withdrawn by predetermined time periods. Trapped and trapped within insolvable problems that are not disappearing or getting resolved on their own, hence the word insolvable, and I digress. I am excited to be taking the initiative to write again, but my mind is not here, my body is definitely aching and I am not sure where I am left with a dread that's growing by the hour of an upcoming shift, that seems ceaseless and a torture from hell even I couldn't envision. I can't leave this job, I am not finding a new job, and I still have to live, pay a shit load of expenses and the debts are not even getting any lighter.

Its the same cycle over and over. Its sucking my very breath of life.

Pure Ramblings

Who can blame sleepless nights when the light of the night seems to be incipient within our consciousness, slowly dripping through our mind's eye and flowing through our finger tips, craving just one more page of Poe's macabre work that's just so tiltating, focused and, perhaps over-abundantly used undefined illness, madness and stock characters, but still, so structurally established that it's hard not to give way to his structural symbolism and the Gothic Literature that everyone is bound to find glistening in the dark hours of the night, attractive like a Siren who is certainly deadly and certainly the soldier is aware of the potential drawing threat, who is ready to embark on his new sexual conquest, hoping, almost confident he can get away with it?

The night, thus stretches into the morning as our credulity thrusts us into the next line, pushing us into the next page, perhaps creating images that stirs our soul in all the right and the wrong ways, in a miraculous way that seems resonant to our antebellum mind, a little rebellious but further craving the black poison that we just can't do? Finding us at the advent of the morning, not so much in glory and in welcoming, open arms that we seem to hate the ending of our sizzling adventure with the cadaverous existence of death. After all, who doesn't think of Frankestein, or Dracula every one in a while, where the impossible seems to come alive, quite probably with a little proving and a little straining of our credulity all in a night's work to open the mind's eye to the way words are strung together on a string of pearl, reinstating a cliche as we turn to run away from in...what's there to be original about after thousands of years of writing?

The night is alive, stirring, it's dull and saddened, it's imbued with evil, fused with the possibility of chances and opportunities. With a little jazz in the background, one or two vanilla spice candles burning, scars of the heart that we all secretly wear, a little wavering hope that seems to flicker with our fleeting emotions and the changing status in the world, it's so logical how the night influences the very existence of our beings, the core of our souls like two windows staring out from it's throne. A little red courage to keep us going, the way it shines in the glass, romantically charming and so fluent in all the languages that we whisper within words and breaths, the ones we refuse to speak at any cost, even if it costs us tears and love at the very end....With so many doors to open, unending into eternity, morning only comes to soon...

So who can blame the night? When such lurid and lustrous creatures, living and non-living seduce us, tempt us and succumb to our own whims and wishes that we follow it through all of its incarnations, blindly like following the Apostles' creed, forgetting Night has her own creed which is unforgivingly punishing.