I’m prone to bouts of anger, short tempered, the overly sensitive type. Writing is a way to make sense of it all. While art is a way in which I can escape the thoughts that haunt me shutting off conscious thought and allowing my hands to guide me.
The consumer must clean away the germs holding their breath to block the fumes opening the windows allowing the wind to carry the toxins away infusing within the clouds the consumer is well aware a mask a pair of gloves protection is a must finding a place for the trash that piles because the producer they only produce solving the waste and preventing the toxicity isn’t their concern why must it be?
The consumer should be ashamed piling the cans breathing the fumes wearing the gloves being eaten away by the chemicals piling their plastics and their boxes filling overflowing cutting down it just isn’t fitting they should be ashamed.
The producers they only produce and the consumers consume the waste is for them for the consumer conflicted of guilt it is for them to break down to buy organic to be green to walk more often to fix as the producer produces although if the consumer stopped wouldn’t all their product be nothing but waste from the very start?
There are doors that allow you to open partially with chains as locks that stop the door from opening entirely allowing a peek yet never a stay because some doors don’t allow access because allowing anybody in everybody in it’d get overcrowded. The same as a mind if it remembered everything and allowed each word each voice each face to have a home within it would swell because it can only retain bits of information not all of it not every bit of it because a mind it crackles it wrinkles it grows and it looses it’s elasticity. It happens to all minds and rather than be aggressive it’s best to remember tolerance is meant for all minds. All doors weather they’re open widely or just enough for a peak the perception of kindness is only that an image and the action of respect is meant for everyone and anyone even those you’ve chosen to hate otherwise how can you expect what you’ll never give?
I only see as me I only hear as me I only taste as me I only feel as me I only smell as me. Inside another home It’d be different wired in by different connectors and the heart would have another beat. Would it still be me.. if the home was another body? Is the brain what we are or is all the parts together? If we could remove the squishy part that contains our memory and replace it within another would they be us or would we be them? If our brains were tampered with would we no longer be? Still breathing we are yet our desires and our thoughts scattered differently would we be another person completely? Is the brain everything? So fragile it is within a moment we could be lost trying to start over without any sense of who.
I have listened I have read and I have determined for myself I do not want.
I cannot bow to a supreme ruler I will not I simply live for this life this moment these people not a paradise in the sky I do not believe.
I live for this moment these people all of us I help when I want I abandon ideals and rulings that protect a flawed moralic sense.
I live for this I do not await the after I live in now I live for here I’m careful what I ingest I’m careful not to harm because we all have value.
I feel the guilt of over consumption as we survive alongside the other animals we raise to slaughter for luxury rather than growth.
I live for here and I will not bow to any of your rulers and your books I’ll read to build my argument and if you must bless at every goodbye |’ll smile and I’ll respect but I’ll never reciprocate because blessings are only words and in this place actions matter the most.
If I’m wrong and the ruler is waiting at my death I will stand I’ll never bow because violence and a hateful heart isn’t what I’ve lived for I don’t accept their afterlife I love and live for here.
I’m going to be angry I’m going to complain I’m going to tell you what upsets me and I expect the same of you because hiding it should be saved for relationships with acquaintances.
In a home we shouldn’t be quiet we shouldn’t hold in we shouldn’t hide away the parts that are rotted rather together we can scrape off the extra and together we clean we heal the parts oozing of life because it all is a part of living.
Being kind doesn’t happen by sticking the tape upon our lips and never speaking and never feeling all of it because all of it is living and without the truth of our feelings we cannot find mental growth.
I’m not always kind I’m not always polite for you I will be honest for you I will learn to swim through all the words all the thoughts all the actions of others to get back to here our home where we speak we feel we allow ourselves to break from the poisoned waters coated in lead and I’ll speak and I’ll scream as you speak as you scream together we will sit here knowing we cannot stop the outer stressors rather together we will swim through.
Normal is selfish. Normal is asking… How are you? Then politely slipping away because normal is showing we care and that we desire closeness. Although we rarely listen and we rarely want to know how you are. If it doesn’t give us a worthy sense of self. Posting pictures to give and receive praise showing that part of ourselves and the others around us that is happy as we hide the rest because we want to say we won and I must ask if you are happy why should it matter to the rest of us?
Red as it hits the air flowing with the tilt it stays within the indents.
It dries eventually we see the stain cleaners rough abrasives scrub the thought till it dissappears only red stains and if they look hard enough they’ll remember Is memory enough to keep from repeating?
No not when the emotions we’re bled out and once done it changes the mind breaking the barrier of right and wrong a fickle vessel and bleeding the kindness replacing it with a sense of worthiness only it depends who you speak to.
I cannot tell you why people are angry or why violence is released from oneself and onto another.
I cannot tell you why I can give reason and excuses and try to explain it but I cannot tell you why.
I cannot tell you why humans harm each other I cannot point to a human and tell you if they’re evil or if they’re good because reality isn’t concrete we can’t pour the cement and wait for the handprints to determine which ones belong to the good ones and the bad ones because people are neither because to determine good and bad we’d have to pick one mind out of billions and give that mind power to choose in which we would have solved nothing.
I have several sticks laid about the floor ready to measure the length ready to fill and overfill this little space grabbing out the paper measurer to determine the capacity and I know it’s there past what it can keep so I cut a hole within my head to let my skull open and my brain breathe filling the room already overpacked with all those thoughts emptied my brain will never be because each moment thinks another and each thought sprouts a thousand more reusing words because I live now and now we live within structure and the honor to choose the words to define an object is over because here and now we only speak for those that are gone left to lay their sticks within the rooms that have been built by those before filling their spaces as if we cannot create our very own in which I split the sticks breaking them releasing their dust and crumbling this place because this place can be ours.
The hardest part about creating today is that much has already been done we live in parameters of the past trying to fit within their outlines holding up to what we’ve been told are the greats taught in class as who to inspire to be we’ve forgotten that the power to create is within ourselves skill can be taught and trained that doesn’t mean we can’t break away and define ourselves art of today can break through the mold and create it’s own style why must we confine ourselves in and mirror what once was great?