Just.

There's nothing that makes less sense. Weather written in perfect grammar, with adjectives describing details with precice precision, sealed with no blemishes. Nothing could make less sense. How do you suppose I might understand, with a hand covering your mouth, rabens shading your eyes, your legs crossed, staring ahead. The impossibility is impossible, everything is paradoxal, and you sit there, unaware, calm, collected and alone.

Time floats around you, like a hot air balloon dwindling in the breeze, so much hot air and energy enfusing to power it, yet it just floats effortlessly. Taking all for granted, a great trait of yours, but you don't even know. It's ridiculous, because it's not. I try to understand, but I'm not sure if there is anything to understand.

So why do I write? Why do I think? Why do I type? Why do I sing? Why do I wait?

Confusion has always been complacent in my life, but never so overwhelming. It pours over the edges with subtlety, so subtle that it's evidently obvious, just like overfilled chocolate licks, waiting to be licked. But for some reason, I can't taste an creamy chocolate on my tongue, or endulge in sugary goodness. Help me understand.

Insomnia, but I'm fine. A plane trip ought to do, but how would I know. Relax. I breathe and melt, my hands twitching to the clicks of my trecherous mind. I think, tensely. I hope, tenderly. I find a path, of soil and crunchy grey leaves, the tips of short strands of grass tangled in my toes, and the white clouds so bright my eyes hurt. I can't walk, or run, or move, until you link my arm and we skip.

We are lame, but not lame enough it seems. There is nothing perfect about anything, but at the same time there is. No heart is being crumpled or torn or shredded or crushed beneath reckless feet, because your heart is playing hide and seek with itself, while mine dances to the sound of my song, with no chorus, and no direction, just the same three simple verses about a bird and a dog and a boy.

But, It's confused, like me. The final verse, it is never complete, and my heart, pauses awkwardly and cringes, embarassed. And then she cries, just like me, crying in embarassment, and crying more in further embarassment. It's too far away from the end, and too close to a misleading path. So it cries until it is dry and baren, and I hold her between my thumbs an hum the final bars, quietly.

"Somewhat Beautiful"

I would write a blog about you, as the title references a referenced quote from me to you (ps. with love from me to you, beatles are mai life), but I'm pretty certain that I'm not stupid enough NOT to notice that you're actually a lot more than somewhat beautiful. You, are kind of my everything, and an entrancingly beautiful face to accompany it. *hums saxophone duo music in head*

So, this is a blog, for someone anonymous, so anonymous that we don't know eachothers name's apparently, and I have no idea who you are. None the less, this is for you, sir.

A small girl walks, in a that tempting way that drives you crazy. You love the way her shoes move accross the floor, like a puffy cloud, gliding sweetly accross the morning sky, as she walks past you. You can't take your eyes off her, the most perfect thing you have ever seen, it seems.

The glint in your eye travels discreetly up her long, perfectly slender legs, over her rippling skirt, only to rest gazing at her waist, wondering how you could hold something so beautiful in your hands, how you would protect it with all your power. You watch her shake her hair out of her eyes, and love how pefectly it rests on her neck, and you yearn to see her face.

You spend what feels like years imagining what her face might look like, hoping that it belongs with the beauty of the rest of her. Untill finally you hear a familiar clicking of heals, and a laugh that melts with the wind and gives you a rush of, something beautiful. You turn to see her smiling at friends. The most perfect teeth glittering in the sun, lips of the sweetest kind lifting rosy cheeks.

Then, you are almost shocked at the intensity of her glowing eyes, the deepth of happiness to which is displayed as she is hugged by her friend. You watch her fingers squeeze tightly into anothers back, and wish she would hug you too. You feel faint, like you're on some acid trip.

Out of the blue, she walks again, in that amazing way. And as she walks by, she clicks her heels, and rests her eyes upon you, smiling politely and continuing on. You stop breathing in fear, regain composure, and smile back, but by then she is gone.

You think about her, and lust over her. And she remembers you.
It is somewhat beautiful, one might say.

erk's adventure

I am here, and here is me.
Just sitting, just being.
I like to think that I'm something out of the ordinary, something unforgetable, somethinig perfectly imperfect.
So I sit, and feel.

An explosion, like a rushing cloud of cigarette smoke, flattens my mind for a moment, and leaves me distorted. The feeling of a piece of glass being wedged into your big toe, your fumbling steps of mindless pain, the short, quick expression of that slight hurt, rippling up your ankle, curling around your knees and accross even your belly button. A second and it's gone. But for me it lingers, flowing through quick jolts and twitches in elbows and tired shoulders, and I feel isolated.

This seperation is somewhat beautiful, in the same way that old, pretentious women find souless "art" beautiful, or the same way that a plastic bag caught in the wind is said to be. However, it is not aloneness or solitude I feel. Just lack of, anything but myself.

I cringe as the circles under my eyes deepen of their own accord and my fingertips become more harsh against the keyboard. My eyes feel like paintings of fear, and acknowledgement, and regret, and craving, and loss, and lust, but mostly understanding. They understand what happened, and what continues to happen, following each breath with an heir of curiosity, or perhaps blind idiocy. The understanding seems mediocre, and useless, but is deeper than it appears to be, deeper than it is willing to admit.

Confusion rises, as hesitation falls, almost systematically. The wonder for what is really up is overwhelming, so much so that I look up for answers. The ceiling is bare, cream and calm, the lights nearby burning my eyes and distorting my vision. My feelings remain the same, peachy with a touch of brilliance. I cling to this painfully perfectly imperfect feeling, and it feels like nothing.

But everything. It is everything. And everything is extremely wholesome, but empty. The thoughts are frightening, yet happy and playful. The pain is heartwarming. So, I sit and enjoy, hoping and waiting for some sort of real feeling, in intense patience. Willing to ache in hunger, or for my heart to swell in some sort of compassion or sickness, or for something bad to happen.

Nothing happens, so I stop sitting and waiting and breathing and being and feeling.
For just a moment.

seven minute blog

Words
That's all it is, words.
Long words, short words (ironically, long is actually a shorter word than short, and short gets longer as it gets shorter)

And here are a few, about something new, some are true.
But most aren't.

I've found as of late, that lying is much easier in the written form, and bullshitting is just nothing when you write it down, because really, everything is bullshit once you've bothered to write about it. And worst of all are pieces of writing, boxes of words, packets of letters, about other pieces of writing.

What is the point? All this recording, figures, descriptions, sentences about nothing at all but, well, everything. They're just black marks on white, nothing special. Sure, they can become sounds, and music, and evoke emotion, but is it all really just bullshit.

I think so.

So, in this short useless post of uselessness and ridiculous things, that is, words, I want you to learn something, or atleast pretend to, or maybe just scoff and think how stupid I am
So, here's something, I can't touch my nose with my tongue, but I can

sorry, time's up...

Can you lie next to her and give her your heart?

I'm no keyboard warrior, but I do have something to say.
And you might not like it.

I realised today, that whatever I'm feeling, whatever's running through my heart to my head, whatever I've wanted to do. There is no fault, in loving with my whole heart. So, there's no way that you can be mad or disappointed or angered with me, at least not forever, so what am I so worried about?

This whole thing, whatever it is.
Actually, stop right there,
I know exactly what it is.
A lot of nothing, with substance. A great feeling, tingling in your toes and rushing through your eyelids. The feeling before you cry, but imagine, that feeling aboslutely dominating your entire world, and then some. A big white duck, barking like a moron, watching a planet die, that's us. No one understands it, except me. That's why it's stupid, because it's actually not stupid. at all. It's like watching y's scatter across the screen, amongst a few u's and t's, maybe a h, as I struggle to press the y key back on, because it falls of sometimes on account of I tried to clean my keyboard by taking all the keys off one time. But, you don't understand, only I do. That's what this is. All of me, and you're sitting next to it, and you can see it and feel it, maybe even smell it, but you don't really know what it is. But, I just want you to see, for a second, really look, and maybe you'll understand just one part of whatever it is, you know, me.

So,
This whole thing, whatever it is, whatever you want to call it, me maybe?
It's not dramatic at all.
It's just a whole bunch of life's living together on this big rock with a little rock spinning around us, as we watch a happy light in amazement. We run around in circles because we don't want to stop, we don't remember where we started, and we can't fathom where we will end. Just like you. And I'm watching you, running, waiting for you to turn around and see whatever I am, and love it back, with your whole heart.

Sometimes I type so fast that my keys fall off. I get lost in a moment somewhere, and I don't really see things falling apart right infront of me. It's hard to look straight ahead when so much is going on, when you're so happy your crying and so sad your laughing, and whatever you might have been watching is so barely visable that it's not even there. And then you sneeze, and I'm covered in snot and your sweet breath, and you can't open your eyes, so I run away.

So, now I'm sitting behind a rose bush, with a thorn in my back and some rotting petals by my feet, and I'm about to scream. When I scream, you will hear me, and maybe everything around you will pause for a moment, and that is the moment I'm counting on. The moment you might wonder what whatever it is is, and you might come looking for me.

But, I don't know what you will do, because I am not you. I know you so well, from staring you in the face for so long, but well enough to know what goes on inside your head? Definately not. All I can do is anticipate what you might do as I shake amongst the shrubbery, shuddering in cold solitude. And all you can do is be yourself, do what you do. So, I take in a breath, preparing to scream, filling my lungs with smokey, swollen air. And when you don't come...

Really?

You stand and watch.
You see the sky and the birds and the tops of trees and you think, isn't this lovely.
You breathe in the pure smell of morning sun and you close your eyes for a little bit.
You are taken by the feeling, you want to run and jump.
You want to be free.

It is wonder that surprises you, wonder for what it would feel like, the last time you feel.
Would you cringe to the thud of uneven concrete on your skin, or sigh to the force of wind over your body, or perhaps smile with the adrenelin. And what might you taste?
You imagine it would be something similar to sour lemons mixed with grape juice, or cheese and vegemite and honey on toast. Would it smell nice?
Just like the breeze drifting through the strands of your hair.

You are distracted by a sound, a giggle and mumbling.
Something familiar but shocking.
You want to be sick when your eyes catch up with your ears and you finally realise.
It was all a joke.

You said once "Maybe this is a joke, but a nice joke, and I like it."
But did you really like it, if it is a joke?
I don't think so.

You become teary, and kick yourself because there is so much more to be teary about.
The horrifying events trickling through your life that freeze your soul as you squeeze your own hands.
You can't be brought to tears by something so ridiculous, so insignificant, such a joke.

And that's when you remember.
Something small, but so big and dominating that you shun away and cover your eyes in fear.
And you don't understand how you could have forgotten.

Some say love is a figment of the imagination, but you believe otherwise.
You have felt it streaming through your veins, and tumbling around in your bloated heart, and swirling through your mind and dancing in your thoughts, like an unbearably perfect headache.
And, you unfortunately still feel it.

And there he goes,
on with his life,
and you yours.
So, what's the problem?

You open your eyes and stare into a haze as crowded voices cloud your thoughts and they slowly drift away.
You bite your lip, nibble a bit, and walk away, in your awkward way.
Your life goes on, not parallel to his, but at an acute angle, just the wrong degree from where you need to be.
You whimper softly inside and walk on through life.

Seven Days

It's like trying to fall asleep with your eyes open;
Reading the words, feeling the emotions, understanding, and yet.
So she folded her arms and hummed a tune about black birds.

Something to make you uncomfortable;
The note in the distance, sounding as you involuntarily pound in sincopation.
Warm socks with cold toes and burning sweat, trickleing.
A secret, meaningless, yet untold, curious, without a care, angry.
Small pages, a tear, an apple, a friend. Lost for words, lost.
Walking towards a beautiful rainbow as it fades to nothing.
A kiss on the cheek: A punch in the concave of your chest.

Metaphor;
What if she rejects me?
She won't.
What if she turns me away?
She won't!
So, I approached her and asked if she was ok.
She's not.
She said it was fine.
She's lying.
Goodbye.
I love you.

Lots and lots of words;
Sorry.
Bagel.
Fountain.
Scarf.
Rain.
Tissue.
Cuddle.
Stare.
Wince.
Glance.
Forget.
Forgot.

Animals;
Jump on eachother.
Play.
Hide and go seek in the sky.
Down to the creek for a bath.
Smelly feet.
Fun, loving, friends.
Jealousy.

To the point;
Wednesday the ninth of June,
is awfully awfully soon.
There may be a surprise,
so i'll close my eyes,
And look into the great big moon.

Inside i see a rabbit
I wish that i could grab it,
Hold him tight
and kiss him good night,
And realise your not a rabbit.

Where freckle and lip do meet
and hair is never neat
I whisper in your ear
something you'd hate to hear
and i frown lightly in defeat.

Eager to please
with a moment to seise
yes, it's true
you love me too
and my life is at ease

Then i open my eyes
and what a surprise
reality is here
to fill me with fear
and the birthday girl sighs.

11:11;
i wish i wish i wish.
but, you know it is not possible.
The whether man said himself,
that whether or not, is not that whether,
whet her, wet her, wet hair, wet bear,
whether you will or whether you won't,
the impossible depends on whether
you sleep with your eyes open,
or not.