its not just the sun that makes the flowers bloom, its the dark and the rain that helps them grow.


i am rediscovering methods of confusion. its the paradoxical discord of believing something because you are told to versus believing in something because you have emotional/life experience to substantiate your beliefs. its the red queen again. you can never get anywhere being complacent. self-medicating with music, with words, with writing, with running physically and metaphorically, with chemicals only gets you thinking that those are the only little parts of you life you can hold together. i used to think about death a lot. i think you cannot embrace what is presented--the potential within every moment, every breath, and how it is a gift, if you dont look long and hard at death. it changes you though. perhaps it is an inherited sadness or rather a nurtured depression that has made me who i am. the only quiet is temporary found in between the despondent works of elliott smith and my own. i discovered aquinas's treatise on happiness on my own before i read it. i discovered the philosphpical underpinnings to more of his works before i read them. what does that make me? someone who contemplated death as much as he did. i suppose you can think that we are born to die, and living is just that, dying. every breath is like filling your lungs with one last satisfying chest full of air. or you can view it as an attempt to perfect one human soul and the world as best you can to hope heaven stays close so when you reach out at death they are close enough to pull you through. "you dont deserve to be lonely". i suppose its cause i am selfish, something must always bother me and keep me from myself. but we should strive to not exist. if anything has prodded me along in my faith it has been aaron weiss. i suppose it is the ambiguity of his screaming and poetic genius that has tapped something inside my chest to want to live as a radical Christian as well. and i wonder why i do not. i gyrate. and end up back in another circle of confusion. hoping things work out. i suppose its because i think do not know how God wants me to live in every situation that presents itself to me. am i too selfish to want anything for myself. like a career or anything. i abandoned everything. and nothing but the still quiet suffering emerged and stayed with me. and the reoccurring theme that finds me is music even when i do not seek it out. i suppose that was a cry for help and maybe a hope to change something other than myself. words are meaningless. i suppose it is the action that matters. maybe i am meant to be alone. i suppose i will just wait now. wait and float on what i can. "shine on me, baby cause its raining, in my heart" i do not exist. i faithfully insist. sailing in our separate ships and in each tiny caravel there is a tiring of trying, a necessary dieing, like a horseshoe crab in its proper season sheds its shell, such distance from our friends, like a scratch across the lens, made everything look wrong from anywhere we stood, and our paper blew away before we left the bay, so half blind we wrote these songs on sheets of salty woodCaught me making eyes at the other boatman's wives,
And heard me laughing louder at the jokes told by their daughters.
I'd set my course for land, but you well understand,
It takes a steady hand to navigate adulterous waters.
The propeller's spinning blades held acquaintance with the waves,
As there's mistakes I've made no rowing could outrun.
The cloth low on the mast, I say I got no past,
I'm nonetheless the librarian and secretary's son.

The tarnish on my brass, the mildew on my glass-
I'd never want someone so crass as to want someone like me.
But a few leagues off the shore, I bit a flashing lure,
And I assure you, it was not what I expected it to be!
I still tastes its kiss, that dull hook in my lip
Is a memory as useless as a rod without a reel.
To an anchor ever dropped, sea-sick yet still docked,
Captain spotted napping with his first mate at the wheel.

Floating forgetfully along, with no need to be strong,
We keep our confessions long, but when we pray we keep it short.
I drank a thimble full of fire,
I'm not ever coming back...
Oh, my God.

"I do not exist," we faithfully insist,
While watching sink the heavy ship with everything we knew.
And if ever you come near, I'll hold up high a mirror.
Lord, I could never show you anything as beautiful as you!


i do not know what comes next i suppose i am just not yet to watching sink the heavy ship with everything i knew, not there yet again. maybe it swells with the next tide. the dull hook in my lip.