No One Read My Messes Anymore
Posted June 26, 2008
No one reads my messes anymore... If I know one thing, I know that I want to capture the truth, the decrepit, the pain, the heart, and the soul into each pixel, behind a lense. I would say that this is beyond satisfying. Satisfaction... Is it a possibility that I can find some way to make someone satisfied, happy without the issue of a figment, or idea of love being the brickwall, or, beyond any physical pleasure as the only source of a legit connection? That triggers me to mention that I appreciate the relationships I do have with people, but I do question them. I have mentally seperated myself from becoming at all comfortable with commitment. I have specifically sealed off the ends to the "love" box in my brain. I am in disbelief of its existence. I don't care to grasp the term too much. Is it inhumane? I am able to feel. I am able to fathom the feeling of pleasure and accord in someone's arms. I have had bantam experiences of comfort with a significant/insignificant being. I have an obvious phobia. How will I know when it really hits me? Will I want it to? I have heard from others that it is the best and worst thing that you could ever posess. I blame my past commitments and devoted time to unappreciative people for my disfigured outlook on just what love is or could potentially hold for me. I am tired of making seemingly perfect connections with those who are lost, fresh out of relationships, lustful, confused, and broken. Come one folks. Again, I am not ashamed of whatever it is I share with certain people. But the teasing, the confusion is too much to deal with. It just results in a bruised heart. And I bruise easily. The connections fade as my years of life unfold and domino away before my eyes. I love people, human existence, mankind. I am passionate about aiding to the survival of beauty in all of humanity. The disappointing fact: No one gives a shit. The truth is, I will eat you alive. With love. I know this love. I comprehend my passion, my virtues, my beliefs. This love differs from complete consecration, being "in love." I do not believe in the saying, "never look back." I refute immenesley. How could you never look back? One, the past and reflecting on it, sculpts who we are and who we have yet to become. Two, in a physical sense, curiousity leaves us no choice but to jerk our heads and get that one last still frame inbedded to our minds on just what it is we are in the midst of leaving behind. I write these things for me. I write out of passion and despair. Out of angst and boredom. I think constantly. No one reads blogs these days, or at least mine. Shall I give up on analyzing every single thing I encounter, and every obstacle?... I wouldn't know how to do that even if I tried. Contemplation is my sleeping pill. Prose is the glass of water to wash it down. For now, I am going to enjoy and savor this warm slice of cinnamon swirl bread. Chai Tea? Sure, I'd love some. I speculate. What will be my next life-evaluating composition? My near-future self-examining instrumentation? Will Christina Elena Rodriguez ever unearth the answers to the ceasless questions seeping through eah nerve, every pore, each day, and every night? Perhaps so, perhaps my questions are perpetually unsolved. Hold my hand will you? It is going to be a long, strange ride.
