demons

the ghosts of my past seem to visit most frequently in the late hours of the night

stirring

The ocean comes with its gentle greeting.

Different thoughts come to mind as one views the setting horizon.

The ocean waves, once again, come with their gentle greeting.

Never lying.

Not capable of doing such.

The viewer comes to grips with the propensity of time.

Much like the ocean openly embraced the space it occupies.

A space which it consumes.

Things only change as much as time allows.

but in that regard, time is always passing. Dribbling on.

Each moment escaping like a breathe from a dying soldier.

"Give this note to my son," is his final will.

And his comrade, unaware of his impending fate, promises to do so.

No quicker does he stand to reassume his position does he catch lead.

Grasping onto a note which would never find its owner.

Misplaced words that never found their home have a way of being more painful than words that were never spoken.

seething

A seething anger. Growing increasingly large as each tick of the larger hand makes its round.
Each thought reflected over the past mistake amplifies the pain that you deal with.
Maybe if one thing had changed differently an alternative outcome could have arisen.
An alternative outcome; isn't that what we all dream of?
The thought that some chance incident would lead you to living a more satisfying life.
A life which holds content.
Something which few people possess.

And the seething anger grows.
Multiplies.
Becomes a disease.
and ultimately cripples.

What I See

Unexplainable beauty. Encapsulated in such a figure. A figure that cries
"Fuck Me; but do it softly."

It's something that can't be explained unless it is witnessed first hand.

Maybe it's the blonde hair, or the way you know me. Understand me. Read me. Breathe through my entire essence.

Every line on my face reveals some detail to our relationship.

Calling, God?

sometimes I like to try to convince myself that something greater is looking out for me.
Then I realize that I'm alone; and I've come to the conclusion that I'm okay with that.
An authoritative dictator in the sky doesn't really have my best interest in mind.

The concept of God is people's own perceptions of their selves.
Ever notice how every Christian has a different take on God?
It's because they all modify him into being what they want him to be.
It's because they don't have the ability to draw strength from their inner self. They are dependent.
Dependent on something which doesn't exist.
Sometimes I like to try to convince myself that something greater is looking out for me.
And then I realize; I don't need a God. I need something tangible.
Something which I can grasp; something which I can treasure.
It's called family.
Family really is all someone has.

pretty terrible writing

The rustic door is opened. The protective glass screen to keep bugs out can now be used as a viewing to spot the insects on the nearby light.

I've never understood why insects are attracted to lights; the light always lead to their ultimate demise. But they don't care, they die doing something which encapsulates their whole being. In that aspect, insects can be respected.

But for all other reasons, fuck insects.

Opening the screen door properly is key to the entire operation. If bugs are let inside, you have to deal with the constant fear of awakening to one next to your head. Or even worse, crawling out of the toilet seat while you are using it. Nothing worse than feeling arachnid legs delicately traversing the outer skin of a bare ass.

So the door is opened cautiously, so as not to let the insects in. A quick escape from house wall is necessary in order to avoid the large mesquitos and other air-borne creatures of Satans creation. 

Walking bare foot from the smooth concrete patio to the heavily eroded rock walkway is comparable to drinking cyanide while realizing that the plane you are riding is going down. All the while, you have the looming fear of catching West Nile from the blood-sucking vampires. An equally unpleasant experience is what comes next.

Do you either walk painfully along the eroded walkway, or chance walking in the dew-soaked grass which is littered with dog feces. Walking on tacks is painful, but the thought of having warm shit leak between the crevices in your feet is an almost unamiganble alarming situation. So much so that taking tacks through the feet seems to be a comforting comprise.

But you've made it successfully. Made it from the front door to the car door.

Now you are surrounded by the darkness of night and the yells that are emitted from the forest which lies at the base of the driveway. The little light provided by the lights on the top of a vehicle only serve to increase your paronia. They seem to alert the animals of the forest; Here I am, Come Get Me. 

Come get me.

US-42 North of Cullman

And it was a warm day. The air gave its embrace like an old friend.

Time to assume the old-life style and make my way down that winding road. A country road isn't a country road unless no speed limit is enforced.

Maybe I'll drive like I did that one night. Remember?