Brain Emotions

     I take out a dress to put on, it's flowing silk with cotton paneling, it's a gift - sentimental value is woven into it. But out of the blue (or rather, red, it's a red dress) I ask myself - is silk cruelty-free and vegan? No, no it's not! I could, naturally, justify the industry and the process, just out of reasons of exploration, nothing else. There is, however, a stand from the environmentally-conscious point of view, and that is: upcycling, reusing, recycling the fabric. It's silk! - it's gorgeous, sensuous, strong and, if you're into that sort of thing, expensive. It's also art. So, being gifted unknowingly, buying second-hand, keeping out of the landfills - could one stand the use of silk within those terms, gilt-free?

Hologram Me

     I feel like there are at least ten people living inside of me... Don't! don't label right away, wait. Reach for that spot where, when tickled, boredom turns into curiosity. It feels like ice cream to me, that process, pink in flavour. What a distraction.
     In simple images, when a situation is encountered it becomes a whole little world of its own - it's completely self-functioning and whole, yet nothing without a thinker who thinks it. Of course, one can argue that, but is there anything that can't be argued?
     So. I can't show you the whole situational world in just an interaction. I can't. It would take so long, that ice cream would melt. Instead, I have to pick and choose words and gestures and facial expressions to kinda-sorta relate the hell or ecstasy or beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep of that world. And the rest is simply lost. You see, we did degrade, as humans, with the use of the alphabet. Because we lost the art of communication. I know, that might not make sense on paper. For some.
     But my brain is sluggish. There's so much information out here, my anfractuosities and crinkles are getting over-worked. Because of that it takes some tick-tocking to express just the right thing in just the right manner. I've never taught myself that! I'm struggling. And finally it comes out, but bitchy and just plain wrong. People are confused. Half the stuff remains unspoken. Can I write you an e-mail instead? I swear, I'll follow the rules of writing in which an idea quietly and smoothly makes its way to you and doesn't jump or tear, fade or bite its own tail. Head. I'm saying "head" - I just flipped a coin, because I fidget while I talk.
     I just lied up there, in a sentence above. But it's almost unnoticed, because it's just words. There's no image that I can share mind-to-mind. If there were, you would catch that lie. I file and trim my nails, I don't fidget. I used to bite them, but now I use that time wisely.
     Now I can say it: if I were to explain it all - the whole situation at hand - one would think (or dare say) that I could think there are at least ten people living inside of me, or ten emotions, each with its own desired outcome. So don't pose "Can you just tell me what you want" on me. Or some other such thing.  Because I wish I could just hologram you, in all the senses.

photo credit unknown

   
     

Love & Cigarettes

     It was such a perfect night, in the world's eye - dark sky sequenced with shiny dust and spirals, cozy set-up outside the front door, and sticky aroma of a two year-old cigarette in my hand. My head wrapped in a shawl and wearing layers of fabric to protect myself from the consequences, I tried it. Tried to smoke. It was a perfect set-up yet it failed. That's the humor of life unfolding. I was turned off by it all. And then the meticulous teeth brushing, and fast-fast hand scrubbing...
I killed the romance of the cigarette...

"Reincarnate Now"

     Emotional suicide is what it's coming down to. So much pain in the last few years and I'm feeling empty yet full of anger which, when subsided, leaves nothing in its place. I am earning for freedom in all aspects of this dimensional existence and beyond it. I came here with a mission, once upon a time; now it seems like it was a dream. Instead, I'm stuck in hell of thought and manifestation of things against true self. Against everyone. Time for change has come once again. "Panic carefully". Or not at all.

This is getting so old... to death

     Christmas is like a mass rape. In the name of God, like most violence. You can't escape it, it's forced upon you. Try to put on a pleasant face, it's not that bad. And, just in case you're not religious or not particularly into traditions, here's something else for you: it's for the children! Now bring out the presents!