why go home?
It is warm here... I would be on the net anyway. I can’t eat junk. Only fingernails. I feign at study. At assignments. I bite I gouge... I try. But I don’t do.
Why don’t I do. When I have no one. That is all I should do. Do.
But I do. Have someone. This one. The only one I know is real.
Today.
What to think of it all.
Me 27
What?
Two children
What else?
A mind
A heart
An openness.
The love.
Breathy intonations. Into dust. I wonder of all those. Those I have left in the dust. The pain I feel at my crimes of neglect. Not calling. Absorbed in my own. I want to let people know how much I value and love them I want to do things. I want to be there, I want to go to James’ wedding. Too late. That they may see. How much I care. Because I do. I want them to know. How can you do that, yet remain authentic and not get lost in sentimentality? What does it mean to be a man? What does it mean to be a friend? To love?
When will I love?
When I saw her. That was it. I knew.
Always the imbalance.
Ever unbalanced.
I am searching. What for? Two strangers – turning into dust? No. I don’t desire just anything. I don’t know what I desire. Want. What is it? What can I realistically have? Who cares about realistically... that word is a word cowardly people use to hide behind. Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by incapacity. Realistically everything is possible. Realistically that is the truth. The truth is I am scared. I am scared that I am already dust. Dust in my eyes. Dust in my children’s’ eyes.
The good part is only I can arrest this. That is also the bad part. What do I do? I don’t do...that is what gets me stuck. The not doing. Not the without ado... the not doing of things. But I do do. I think. Not really though as thinking implies process.... progression. I ruminate. I stumble on the treadmill. Over and over again as I apelike apply tools to the skin around my ruined fingernails and emasculate myself and repress the warrior in me. I am powerful.
How feminine is the workplace. We are all slaves in the kitchen of life. Sorry feminists. It is true. This is bullshit. The sheer passivity. Obviously I don’t advocate that for women. The feminine is a beautiful power. So strong. So radiant. The moon. My god the Moon is my muse. The workplace. The office. A place of sitting and taking it. Responding to emails. Adhering to a list of tasks. The man is outdoors and indoors. He exercises mind and body in his work. His work is a system noun. All encompassing. His work defines him. It fulfils and drives him. Or he turns into dust in the office. The dandruff on the backrest... the crust between the keys. A man feels work. Not stress. Stress of the mental anguish, oh I have so many deadlines to complete. That is not stress. Stress is pain in the muscles. The pump as you lift and as you bend and dig and pull. Breathless and sweaty as you strain. The gym. Feminine. Dehumanising. The office – it robs us of our essential selves. We sit in this cubicles. Staring at a sheet of plastic. That is where the world is moving.
Online. Into dust more like. Everything that is bad is happening to the world. Get me away from computers. Into the rain. Into the grass. Into the nettles and the shit. What would the world be once bereft of wet and wildness? Let them be left. Oh let them be left, wildness and wet. Long live the weeds and wilderness yet. Under the dust of the rubbish of our comfort. We choke on the farts of our progress. The Earth our Mother? No. Our toilet. Our days, our bounty, our freedom? No, our enslavement to status, to the ideal, to shoulds... Sellouts all of us. We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! Why shape our loves according to artifice? That I meant to write lives is interesting. The great vowel shift. Lives over loves. That is what it is. What do you live for? Very little. My life is basically a sleepwalk.
Wake up man. Get mad as hell. Stop taking it. Working indoors. The whole front of the system... the corporate dream. For money. The idea. Hanging it all out. People think this is the sensible option. How is it though? It is so risky. I am risking my youth on the fact that I will one day some day hopefully have enough money to do what I really want. That will surely turn into dust..200 years and nothing has changed. 2000 years and still we are driven by fear and selfishness and greed. I don’t understand my motivation. All I want to understand is motivation. I strive to know why people do things.
Unpack that and then maybe I can help them see the truth. Really? Do I even know the truth. I used to look to someone for the truth. Not anymore. Without going out of your door you can know the ways of the world. It is all in. Hologram that I am. Though why do I act or not act in a way that runs so wildly counter to who I am. Who am I is the next one? Though maybe that is the essential dilemma who am I relative to who I want to be or who I see myself to be. Ashes to ashes.. Starstuff/dust. Starlight star bright, first star I see tonight... envelope me and know me and fill me. My god if only this environment did not flay the love of my skin. If I could be Me. Who is Me? I am a Man. I am a Man who believes and who feels and knows with utter conviction that breathless and hungry and sexual and powerful I am. I am. This is. I am you.
You are that. God is. The dude abides. Into dust. We are all literally, physically and spiritually the same thing. One. I am scared. I have doubts. So do you. That I can understand, empathise and feel joy are indications of this. That we can see shared beauty. Know the mysteries of the world. Love. Fuck. Smile. Laugh. All indicators. All the same stuff. Residual memory of what is. Star stuff imbued with the miracle of the genesis of the cosmos.
How incredible is that. I am 4 and a half billion years old. Maybe. Well, constituents of me are. Diluted. Homoeopathy like. Though the signature remains. I am connected. Where do I end. Why do I try and halt my progression. My nails. My hair. My love. My happiness.
Realistically is the ultimate limiter. Where where the limits 200 years ago? What do we really need? If you shape your life according to nature, you will never be poor; if according to people's opinions, you will never be rich. Limiting to what people think, expect. What do I think? What do I expect? My wants. Are they compatible with others’? Realistically it does not matter. All is dust. Yet all is magic dust. These little combinations of fairy sand mixed together to create the tool – the ultimate utility with which to engage in my realism. My realism. Not realistic. Unreasonable. To everything there is a season.
Be in season with your life and your humour. This is the yellow brick road. Me the coward, me the brainless, me the heartless..into dust with those thoughts. A heart a brain and courage and wisdom to know the difference. The yearning begins, the search for another one. Why one. In me I have everything I need. Male and Female. Ranginui and Papatuanuku reside in me. I cleave myself apart in order for light to shine and the children of my ideas to grow and prosper and flourish and go on to colonise brave new worlds of thought, conquering hearts of darkness. Constantly looking to dust and embracing the dust of our crystallisation. The birth into form and coalescing from vaporous notions, dreams in the ether and then the dreams of those dreams and dust comes and brings with it life.
Into dust.
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