When I was twenty-four or one of the other ages when some say you should choose who you are, again or for the first time, I was walking home with thoughts that went a little like this:
Wintered into action, sprung into flower. Passion for a season, lust for an hour. Hunger for a reason, but with every must I cower. No one is seeking me out to
Ask me how I am. The contradiction in description would be fiction not fire. Not tiny metal canisters saw my moonlight desire. I'm wild like a flame, but by twelve just a lier. Rested on request from empty streets I tire. I confess I forget to ask how you are...
If something I say, do or create can enter the vicinity of others, I will often overthink or underplay it for fear of lacking the required clout. You could characterise this as insecurity or, at a stretch, as perfectionism. My internal speech filter can sometimes sound like an officer of the law:
But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.
I'm slow to text back because I fear judgement of imperfect opinions, which can hinder friendships or potential relationships.
I believe perfection in romance can't be achieved outside of hindsight, wine-sight and loveisblind-sight. Passion is controlled by blustering impulsive wind that doesn't keep direction or pace. The best thing to do is soar or battle towards functional loving relationships, but also understand that the effort to do so will never end. Although my love life will never reach perfection, as a romantic I will keep on striving towards it.
In business, perfection isn't the goal, so shiny things outdo clarity. I'm discovering that decisions are rarely made with rigour because of an abundance of pride and ego. It seems progression is easier to achieve by abusing context than by being diligent. Rhetoric is easier to understand than a process, so as long as deception is resonant, the substance doesn't matter. I'd rather spend longer than necessary working on a report, satisfying a creative need to the detriment of cut-throat capital.
Blogging is a creative outlet with more freedom. When writing I'm in control, as I can fail and improve until there's something I can be happy with. Like in life, I don't know where to go until I've been there. Unlike in life, if phraseology good is hidden in a mountain of crap, the crap has no reason to still exist. My process involves caressing up, addressing around and softly messing until the fruits of the moment become as fuzzy as the time between their conception and recreation.
Thanks for coming to my presentation
for those who don't know me
I'm distant and here
if you do
expect the expected to not be surprised
this session would be most beneficial if it was interactive
but it isn't
so buckle up, you turgid listeners
I put my repression in a slideshow
then presented a self to the town
It overran and so am I
with all your sneering would've thoughts
you look ugly when you hiss at me
and when you don't
imagine if I were any better
than dishwasher proof glassware claiming not to be
if smashed I'd be lucid to you
I love London
probably because I don't live there
its streets of global collaboration
pulse as the centre of everything
pieces of all that's human.
Now with a sliver of tomorrow
there's a fuckton of poverty
and baby faced posh boys drinking in pubs
time to go
I drag a mouse all day to meet an end found in the heads of boys who are paid like men to get up from bed with work that's just some made up free time. I went to work for nine then did more at home till when the phone's clock still in my coat said it's a new day since thoughts of rest were had as if it could be done.
The foetus months felt like only days. Incubation seemed so vividly memorable, until outside took its toll. I've seen old photographs and made new ones with all my camera phones. Snap snap. My time with no direction has given me seeds of natural selection. A warm welcome to the brood of years to come.