Dear Friends,

It has been a grand year + a few months here on blogspot/blogger/whatever. I appreciate all the feedback I've gotten from people from using this, and the writing has been a big part of life and dealing with it for me. It is time I moved to tumblr though. I do this to follow the crowd/be more hip/add more to things or something like that/move on.

Upon reading my old posts, I've realized it's time to leave those thoughts behind and take my new ones elsewhere.

Come see me

reconstructionpaper.tumblr.com

One Metric Mile

I've got an apple in each hand. One is plastic; the other is poison. Both are oh so tempting. Trickery of the eyes leads to a bite of the forgery. Desperation leads to the poison. Neither will solve anything.

I'm still waiting for a fresh apple to fall from the sky. As hunger grows, I feel myself slipping from the earth's face, but I don't mind.

The world is a disheartening place with a stomach so empty.

Tearing it Up

I've lost my words and my thoughts are all the same; always the same as the day before.

This unhealthy air is destroying my insides. My perspectives are distorted and I can't tell where the compass points. I wouldn't have the patience to follow it anyway. I keep myself lost with the hope of rescue, but the team will never find me so far off course.

I'm ready to dig, but all the wells are dry. I throw my shovel aside knowing the time is never right.

Great Excape

Pressure is building up and catastrophic failure is imminent and eminent. Much like a man at a dead end, things can not keep going in this direction lest they end up dead and at their end.

Outstretched arms, closed eyes. Motions, no emotion.

We don't leave until we get the job done. And it's about time we get the hell out of here.

Speak Less

These days, I guess there just isn't much to say.

"And you should not say nice things if you don't mean them,
and you should not say mean things at all....

Leaving me speechless again"

Natural Order

An old man who never forgets sits on his porch and watches as passersby pass him by and time follows closely behind. He used to perch himself atop the crest of a hill and take in the scenery, but his bones are too old to make the climb now. Now he just sits on his porch, remembering.

He could have settled somewhere else more suitable for his desired mode of life, and as long as he thinks this way, he must avoid death so as not to be buried with his regrets. He is old but he still has lessons to learn. He still has demons in his head and a closet teeming with skeletons.

Enmity is not the remedy, he knows. Searching for the solution leaves him in confusion and the deliberation leaves him debilitated.

He is not who he once was, but he remembers. Oh yes, he remembers.

The Story of a Life

A boy stood with his whole life before him and he wondered how he was supposed to catch up with it.

Life teased the boy by showing him what it'd be like if he could just move a little more gracefully. It showed him beauty and love and passion. It told him he'd figure it out one day.

The boy believed it and waited patiently. He waited and he waited and he sat and he waited. As he sat, his limbs lengthened. His face grew hair, which turned gray then white as the surface it grew on became wrinkled with time.

As he sat, he learned fear and he learned doubt. He discovered the potency of their combination and realized he was no match for his own mind.

So life laughed at him and the man tried to laugh back but failed. His mind went blank and he gave up on his eyes. He fell on his back and tears rolled out the sides.

Life left him there alone on the ground.

A Life of Botany

There is a gardener who takes great pleasure in watering his flowers. If he could, he would spend all of his days tending to these plants and watching them blossom into beauty. The problem is that they can only drink so much. Too much and they'll drown.

The poor gardener keeps repeating his mistake of over-watering his beloved flowers. One after another, he watches them die.

The gardener knows that maybe if he let someone else tend to the flowers, they would thrive. This thought shatters his heart. He should walk away. He should give up. Maybe he can try raising a new kind of plant.

He just loves those flowers.

Clifford Jumping

I have forgotten myself. The clouds have been speeding me up and everything passes around me in a blur of transient art.

Sometimes I must remind myself. Breathe.Look.Listen.

I have been sprinting toward an end with complete disregard for the means. It's a good thing I caught myself at the edge before plummeting into the ravine of repercussions ready to wreak havoc on my bones. I'm in a delicate, precarious position.... and I want to jump. Let's just make sure I jump and don't fall.

26 Broken Strings

Our pace slows and our eyes grow heavy making it more and more difficult to see the end of the line. Those observing from the sides wonder why our eyes fail to focus and why our feet falter as they progress forward. Our minds are clouded and they cannot see.

The ghost behind us knows our pain and our pleasure and she wants us to remember the former. The suppression of the latter is her objective, and she is good what she does. So long has it been since we started running that we have forgotten the taste of water and the meaning of leisure. Somewhere along the twisted paths, we forgot where we were going and why we were in such a hurry.

Waiting at the end of our journey is a beautiful maiden who knows how to drive away the dreadful apparition that pursues and torments us. She is in a place free from doubt and full of fresh, cold water. If we could find the right path, we would remember the feeling of knowing where we are and our reasons for being there. We would remember what it's like to be at peace.

A Mind Without Substance

Hang your head low, brother. Tonight, we raise the white flag. Tonight we are dead. Don't bring the shame home to your family. Hang your head low and don't make a sound. Tonight we mourn.

Tonight we embrace our mistakes, and we learn to showers ourselves in hate.

Four Curtain

There was a plan once. According to it, all would end up well and we'd end up together. Things had other places to go though. First there was all; then there was none. Then there were three and the three had fun.

Now, the plan has shifted and, more honestly, evaporated. Each day is a song played by ear that's simultaneously being created. The real paradox is the lack of life in our living space. My rampage was an attempt at opening some eyes, specifically my own. I know some won't approve. Go ahead and judge me while I fill my head with something different, but don't pretend you didn't judge me before.

Here's to tomorrow for still being there no matter how many times we betray him, for sticking with me through the failed plans, for not hating me when I hated him.

I have a craving to write about my big plans and my desire to do or be something new to the world. The problem is that the plans are just an idea that can't materialize and if they did, they would just mutate into something hideous.

All I know for certain is that I know nothing for certain.

Hanging From the Top

The dream ends and his eyes open. The pain in his head and his stomach make him regret the night before. As memories creep into his head, he finds reasons to lament each and every one of them. He asks himself why he did what he did and finds that there is no answer. He then applies the same thought process when he asks himself why he does what he does.

He gets out of bed and skips breakfast. The pain in his stomach infects his heart, and the poison in his head seeps into his mind. The day ahead is daunting, and the days behind are disheartening.

He thinks back to the dream he was having. All of his friends were there and they were all smiling. He wonders why the universe decided that he had to wake up and his anger grows. He gets into his car and thinks about all the places he wants to go. He wants to visit his true love and destroy his pure hatred but instead finds himself performing mind-numbing mediocrity. He returns home and waits for the dreams to take him away again.

"The plan was to drink until the pain over, but what's worse: the pain or the hangover?" --KW

Return to Sender

I've been trying to write about so many things lately, but can't find the words to dress them in. It seems they will have to go unloved and forgotten for now while other things are given attention.

My head is dancing in circles and my heart aches for stability. In twelve hours, my life will change yet again. The pace will quicken and stress will rise. The faces will change and I'll rearrange them to fit the memories of things I long to see again. It's just not the same. It never is.

I feel cheated by time. Life is a series of moments and time is the one that keeps these moments transient. Moves us through the bad and shoves us passed the good.

As soon as I'm settled, accustomed, and content, time ruins its own precious moments.

I Was Born

No longer will I keep myself locked up for fear of happiness. Both of my feet are on the ground, and my head is level. The pieces of me are ready to be rearranged.

The wild side is beckoning and I will not deprive it of my answer.

"I am uncaged. I am uncaged."

dinferences

A new age brings new thoughts. I have a foot on both sides of everything and I'm being stretched beyond my body's capacity of elasticity. I've got to develop some decisiveness before I fall into the middle and find myself stuck in a purgatory of ambivalence.

Despite the confusion, I still know what I want, and I'm still chasing after intangible thoughts. As long as they are unattainable, they will be irresistible, and I will be drawn in over and over again.