Poetic Masquerade

After writing this piece & stumbling upon it once again about a week or so later I tried to recollect how I was feeling the day it was created. I was surprised to remember that much to the opposition of the poem, my mood was completely content as it was being thought of. It made me wonder if we suppress emotion enough so that even our own minds cannot detect it anymore. That there is an ingrained torment unable to be confronted, but merely imprinted into the psyche. Anyways, I'll stop being all philosophical & deep and just let you read it.

Internal violence

an aortic shrapnel attack

a flood into veins of regret

for everything never said

and erruptions of irrationality and harshness

For the lack of everything you needed

and the person I would never be

For the days when we were infinite

and now... as I lay hollow

Nothing to reconstruct

only fragments

junk

biological rubbish

senses causing an inferno of emotion

To see is to be burned by memories

To hear- be deafened by silence

To breathe- an inhalation of remorse

an exhalation of nostalgia

What I'm Reading

Although skeptical at first about what validity Brand had to offer for an auto biography, the experiences, emotion and of course comic entertainment are both raw and powerful in their read. What is most surprising is the talent that Brand exhibits within his writing, with witty narration and a personable yet narcissistic outlook on his life.

Love at first sight isn't a fairytale, nor a gift of fate- but merely the practice of flooding ourselves with superficial nonsense.

Great Sound.

Random little thoughts.

You wake up. You breathe. You inhale. You exhale.

You open your eyes to the world organized through each fibre of your iris, each compartment of your being, and you breathe some more.

Through your eyes, your telescopes of perception you guide yourself through the everyday certainties and surprises of life, of your destiny, or your prearranged path... of whatever you would like to call it.

Everything is organized.

Your calculated inhalations and exhalations

Your blinks, smiles, words

Your sentances of criticism and compassion

Your books, music, religion

Even your chaos.

Each thought filtered through cerebral tunnels and files to fall off of your lips

Each movement characterized and placed through correct alignment

Each feeling of passion and desire, lust and hate channeled at a pre calculated level

You get out of bed and walk to the mirror analyzing the symmetry of your face, the paired eyes, ears, lips and cheeks...

You walk down the street to the left and right

to the left and right

to the left and right

to the left and right.

You stop

You go

Inhale- Exhale.

What I'm Reading

Stranger than Fiction

You would think that with the one definite fact or our lives, that fact being that one day, we'll all die, more people would want to write. You would think more people would want to be published, be retained in time through something. But we don't. If anything, most people are content with giving up their lives without any credit. Without any preservation. You walk down the street and you pass twenty, forty, hundreds of people and you realize in that moment of grim revelation that you'll probably never know anything about them. That their existence is only visually confirmed. We could all be living and walking amongst thousands of phantoms and never be the wiser. City life becoming the world's largest optical illusions. Where Tokyo would be just one giant house of mirrors, never knowing the difference between something with a pulse or just another lost soul. Paris would be like entering a nightmare and New York would be encircled by the River Styx. The population of the world may only be a myth. Perhaps 6 billion is only a trick. Maybe there are only a couple thousand, a couple hundred, or just you on the earth. Maybe... Just maybe.

" Don't ever let anyone fuck with your soul"

What I'm Reading

Coincidentally, I seem to be picking up literature that takes place in Montreal. Perhaps a sign telling me I made the right decision about where to spend the next chapter of my life? Perhaps a warning?.. None the less- very cool. I haven't read a lot of Canadian literature I'm impressed by but this book is heroine through words.

What I'm loving.

Indie photography.

The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.”

Life is nothing but an elaborate game of russian roulette.

Eventually, you get so bored, so drowned with routine that you decide to do something else.

you make a choice.

These risks, these choices are when you feel most alive.

If you're lucky, you'll choose something that you won't regret.

That you'll thrive with. Revel in.

or you choose something else

miscalculate your destiny

and lose.

Eventually, we all have to face the fate of the rogue bullet.

Eventually, it all has to end. All the risk, all the choices.

Even if you stay in your boring sickening routing, your luck runs out.

So what do we do?

Repetition or Randomness

Structure or chaos

It's all a choice, it's all a decision.

God's just there holding the revolver.

Laced pillows hold no more mystery

Only a cradle for her labyrinth of a mind

Flowered patterns are not kaleidoscopes

Only warmth in the night

The architect of such a memory’s hands

Are withered from time

Filled with compassion

That is quickly diminished by her iced wrath

Smoke and mirrors of

A relationship

Materializing malicious exchanges

Between the two

Some repaired and

Some never forgotten

Stained into the walls of the house

Reeking of salted tears and shame

She has grown

Grown into a constant confusion

Warped into familial hysteria

Looking for herself

In a world that rejects such a quest

Experiencing a world she in no longer held from

By her pixel captor

She is different now

Almost unrecognizable

But sometimes she still wonders

As she stares into the stitching of her pillow

Of who she used to be

What I'm Reading

Striking beauty is underrated.

Noone has the time to reflect into the subtleties. We want something striking, something powerful, something instant. Photo frames of visual satisfaction. Captivation has transformed from the written word to cheap billboards.

We want sexy

We want impulse

We want luxury

It is a human impulse we have inherited to focus on the straightforward and trample upon anything that takes a moment or two to digest.

Fawning over tacky advertisements and airbrushed reality instead of paying attention to what's infront of our own faces. Blinded by the fog of media's illusion.

We are being hit by the plague of beauty illiteracy.

Blocking the fine arts and binging on limelight fantasy.

From a few generations, we've skipped from Madame Butterfly to Jersey Shore.

Shakespeare to Perez Hilton

Emmerson to The Simpsons

Chopin to American Idol

regressing faster and faster.

What's really to be proud of? The fact that we have variety from millions of different entertainment... or the amnesia of artistic talent.