Writing On The Wall

music is love is drugs.

Being used never made me feel useful.

It made me feel temporary.

I often take form as the magazine in the waiting room, while you wait for something better to finish what it’s doing.

I’m aware of it. I accept it. I maintain the silence that gives you comfort. I don’t ask for anything special for that. I don’t seek a reward. There’s still life in impermanence, albeit brief. I’ll live while I can. Sometimes you don’t get to choose. One of us doesn’t know better. I’ll spend the free time I have in between your brief visits trying to figure out exactly who doesn’t. You appreciate me like you appreciate a fan in 90 degree weather. That’s fine. Although they end up on the sidewalk familiarizing themselves with garbage cans and stray cats, fans serve a purpose. I’ll give you all the comfort you seek in that time span.

I never asked for anything I wasn’t willing to give the second the question was posed. I never asked for help to just benefit myself. I’ve got that useless sort of pride that only benefits my ego. I asked when more than one smile was dependent on it. I never said I was perfect. I said I could see ahead better than most, that all of the commotion in the middle didn’t obscure my vision a bit. But I did end up questioning my sight. I never said I was grown. I said I was trying to grow. I said I needed your help to grow. I never said a lot of things. I ended up regretting that lack of speech. That’s why I never seem to shut my mouth now. Because in silence, there’s room for interpretation, but you can’t smell the flowers. And when those flowers wilt you’ll never get a chance to say the things you should’ve said. Interpretation is beautiful. It’s artistic. It’s an ellipsis. However, it’s not the truth. It’s not concrete. It’s uncertainty. It’s fear. It’s anxiety. It’s long term confusion. It’s the monkey on your back. It’s the weight on your shoulders. It’s not a storm, it’s hurricane season. It’s a one way ticket of a Greyhound bus with no destination. It’s a lack of answers. It’s a “what am I doing” 2 A.M. phone call to beg for clarity. It’s the ending of there even being an ending. It’s finding comfort in the fact that there is no comfort. It’s the highway with no exits, just rest stops. It’s the treadmill with a changing scenery. It’s your worst nightmare. It’s your misleading daydream. It’s a lucid dream you don’t want to wake up from. It’s chasing the high that never comes. It’s chasing a high that chases you. It’s sleeplessness. It’s alcohol. It’s a prize mounted higher than you can reach. It’s the unfairness of something you deserve not being given to you. It’s faith for faith’s sake. It’s your time waster. It’s the reason you don’t realize you’re in your best years. It’s the reason your best years don’t reach their potential. It’s the answers you look for in the bottom of empty beer bottles. It’s roach clips. It’s running. It’s wondering why you’re running. It’s the ever running mind. It’s the mind you wish would stop running. It’s anything but stagnant. Getting comfortable with the lack of comfort. It’s discomfort. It’s displacement. It’s a dismissal of normality. It’s the realization that normality is based off of perception. It’s reality. It’s far from home. It’s foreign pillows and sheets you’ve never met before. It’s never finding the right key on your key ring. It’s channel surfing without a chance to choose. It’s a car ride on a road trip, but you’re not driving. It’s trusting the universe. It’s trusting that you can’t trust the universe. It’s space for inquiry. It’s the overworked mind. It’s unfinished. It’s the lack of the ending parenthesis. It’s a fan in a wind storm. It’s a stutter. It’s a blank mind. It’s a never ending sentence. It’s a cycle. It’s useless. It’s forever. It’s never over. Never never never never never say never say never.

Anonymous asked: 82 69

I don’t even know what these numbers are for. :(