because the wound there is so fresh

the subtle scars lying between health and unhealth, between what you have always known you never wanted and what you could never want less.
these scars dictate, they
in a sense
pave our decisions our emotions- the few that are invited, their chords we dawn by choice not defenselessness.
we have these little wounds, these traintracks between what we have seen and known and what we may or may not choose to revisit.
at first glance they appear hazy, some memories- yes wretched bloody comely sweet memories all welded together like cold steel unlawfully driven into the lining of the safe walls of our fragile choices.
You pray for opportunity when you're stepping on the golden one as these words are being written.
you wish for a resolution, one both fair and futile. a resolution of such a peculiar nature that it would only be fitting granted unto one or say two equivalently peculiar victims of circumstance.



drifting through the fog barefoot and blinded and something cold you feel beneath the dust. a silver line. a silver line amidst an assembly of identical silver lines, train tracks train tracks train tracks train tracks train tracks. no train of course because that would be too humorous, too common to fit this odd chapter of the wanderer's existence. the tracks extend for miles, for months. you follow them, careful to walk beside and not on top of for each track seems to be offering some treasure of its own.
one whispers to you of the manner in which it's hair unceasingly interrupts.
another shares a photograph of a parking lot being rewritten in fresh fallen snow.
the 28th track down the line is humming a song, cant you seem im trying i dont even like it i just lied to get to your apartment. as a track, it is vocally ill-equipped and fails terribly to succeed in the correct expression of each individual note, strum, drum beat.
but you keep walking, staring at the tracks and as you do so you fail to recognize a heavy nothingness lingering in the N E A R D I S T A N C E.
you at last reach the very last track. you hear silence and see nothing and lean in close in case there is a photograph of bit of wisdom or torn letter stuck nearby. no. however something does catch your wild eye On the track. letters., hidden, dusty, in black ink, book antiqua font.
With a ready hand you brush the dust off and meet, eye to eye, a small word painted purposefully on that fateful last track. it eloquently reads,: Fuck.

perplexed, you stand and look around you. Where you have been where you have become to be when you have walked yourself with no one forcing you, No one telling you THIS WAY, you walked there. on your own. willingly. intrigued, conflicted, restless and real.
it begins to rain and all the dust soaks into the ground , small pieces of water rest on the tracks and slide down each revealing its own polished scar. an evanescent petrichor is present and fades, leaving you alone with the line of glimmering train tracks train tracks and that fateful nothingness patiently waiting a near distance away.
the nothingness clears its foggy throat and speaks to you, it says, finally, we meet, ive waited. My name is denouement, kind you. please, feel free, feel freely to paint me. for i am what you choose me to be.

the desert road

Throw your clocks back to about 62 A.D., because i have something amazing to tell you.
Once there was this apostle named Philip. An angel of God himself visited Philip and told him he needed to go south of Jerusalem to another city called Gaza.
while on his way, Philip met an important leader of the Ethiopian queen's treasury. the Ethiopian had just come from Jerusalem where he had gone to worship and was now 'reading' the book of the Bible that we now know as Isaiah.
Philip went towards the man, as he was instructed to do by the spirit, and he asked the Ethiopian if he knew what he was reading.
this is strange considering that typically when we see someone reading, we assume they know and can understand the text in their hands. Of course they can read or they wouldn't be..reading..
WRONG-,
"How can i," the Ethiopian told Philip,"unless someone explains it to me?"(acts 8:31)
He proceeded to ask Philip to sit with him and explain what he could not himself interpret. it was a particular passage of scripture that told of the way Jesus was led as a sheep to the slaughter, silent and treated unfairly. The Ethiopian man was so deeply intrigued, one magnificent obsession a great resurrection under his skin led him to plead to Philip to please tell him who this scripture was about.
How could he know?
Philip told him "the good news is about Jesus"(8:34)
The walked together, came across water and philip assisted the ethiopian in baptised. Once the Ethiopian rose from the water, Phillip was suddenly taken away elsewhere by the spirit of God. the Ethiopian never say him again. but he didn't need to.
"When they came up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord suddenly took philip away, and the eunuch (ethiopian from the upper nile region) did not see him again, but went on his way rejoicing." Rejoicing. The ethiopian had at last found his savior, all that had been in his wato y was worldly inability. See the way that didn't matter, how Philip was LED to speak to this man, to lead him, be a bridge of sorts to the Ultimate bridge to salvation: Jesus.
The Ethiopian, he simply didn't know. He simply couldn't read.
In certain parts of the world today less than 50% of the people are literate. leaving half that are not.
i find it beautiful that God does not allow minor worldly hindrances to interfere with his will nor with the calling of his chosen people. that with the gifts he pours unto us, (for example:literacy), he enables us to pour gifts unto others. he floods us with goodness to the point of overflow, so that the world may share in this sweet salvation.
He promises that whatever we ask for in prayer is OURS. suppose we each requested to be used, to be sent, to be restored to complete potential as a glorious instrument and servant of Jesus. i assure you, Our father is hungry to be invited into your life and Hungry to equip you with means to perform his glory.
promise.

the people here dont walk.
they sit in big machines.
and talk to little machines.
and almost every one has parents.
manerica, annishalty.
the people here like sitting
they like to hear other people say the things
that they wish they could say.
we like to have.

albeit

the most common lifestyle on this earth is not any such upper middle class. it is not poverty, albeit that is greatly vast. it is not romantic bohemia, it is not wealth nor venture nor disease, famine, communism, nor any other form of government or lack there of. the most common lifestyle in the world is oblivion. oblivion the great, the heavy, underlying overlying, cloud. the subscript of all opinion, statement and idea.
anyone that knows anything also doesn't know something else. that could be of equal, greater, or lesser significance.
this planet is so flawed, so wounded, and the fact that we've become comfortable with that truth just digs the knife in deeper. if you are completely okay with the way the World is, right this second-
there is something wrong with you.

i see now how guilty i am of this selfishness, blindness, and great oblivion to the way my brothers and sisters are living.
There are human beings existing in chains, they are being in bondage, living-if you can call it that- under so much constraint so much restriction for reasons that are not even their fault. know that, be aware. here on Earth there are endless things to learn and realise. We are constantly being provided with new situations to be concerned about, or things to donate and support. it's overwhelming, i know.
a friend recently told me that getting outside of ourselves, simply stepping out of our own way and routine in order to help or care for someone else is where life truly beings. We can find the truth within ourselves, but it is our duty to share it with others outside of ourselves.



'the people who are crazy enough to change the world are the ones that usually do'

the not king

"anarchy!" the king said, "in the UK. It's by the sex pistols. you should really check it out." "hohum, -yes sire" the congregation mumbled & they all sat criss-cross and somesaulted out of the castle. the sun shone through the grand foyer window and awakened in the king a familiar sense of hope. he imagined the sun stepping down from it's high seat in the sky and knocking softly at the castledoor. the king would open the door to reveal a light and a beauty so overwhelming that his crown, alas would be knocked off his tousled brown hair & fall to the ground with a great CLINK. without his crown, the king would simply be a man.
this comely position, so often regarded as insignificant had for years been the kings deepest desire. Not that the crowns golden splendor was unpleasing, nor its grip upon the skull too constraining. The crown was beautiful. And much, if not all, of the kingdom would give their left side to place it upon their own head. But to the king, the crown meant obligation. it meant a bedtime, and thick stiff, out coats. It meant cold tasting warm food and sharp shallow not friendships. The the king, the crown was a small death. and each time he wore it, that small death would travel from the crowns golden inards down into the kings messy hair, the death would then burrow deep down into the kings thoughts. From there into the back holding strings of his eyeballs. it would continue making its way through the kings strong neck, fancifully clad chest, and finally lay rest in his heart. Once the small death landed is his heart, King would once again be reminded how truly, how deeply, how greatly, he did not, at all, want- to be the king.

Page 11

sometimes mornings are worse than the rest of the day, like when you see someone for the first time and you dont think youre going to like them very much. then you learn who they are and then you like them way more than you thought you would. it seems like everyday i learn something, which is how it should be i suppose. That one quote from garden state like how family is a group of people that all miss the same imaginary place. i like that a lot. And i like the dictionary a lot. family is like..the people youre with whenyou feel like youre at home. those rare moments where you breathe and everything feels really still for a minute and you just realise that wherever you are is exactly where you belong. its really hard to find things that are exactly. and always. but they exist.
i am sure that they do.

may flower

selfish is the sea
mocking those who are not free
raging at the wind
when the two are such close friends
"i must stay, so you must too!!'
the wind hears from the sea of blue,
"please," wind whispered, "let me go"
"no" said sea from down below.
the wind could never stay so still,
unlike the sea who always will.
the sea had alwayse been so small,
while the wind continued growing tall,
selfish is the sea
who keeps the wind away.
selfish is the one who tells the wind that it must stay
selfish is the wind for always taking chance
selfish is the sea
for holding wind against the dance.