psychological nuances.

"accept that the reality of this world does not fit your psychological nuances." - toj.

definitely true.

hard to accept.

i am feeling strange now. i am not at the deepest region of the pit like i was in my last post.

i am feeling strangely calm and peaceful, like everything's alright.

yet distant, like my seeking is still a wild dog on a leash, pulling far ahead, away from me.

and like this wild dog, my identity seeks to mark its territory everywhere;

i enjoy collecting my experiences.

like my wild dog,

i'm always excited to find a new place;

yet not content enough to settle there.

i think at the center of ourselves we are all still children -

intuitive enough to follow the heart's curiosity,

ignorant enough to believe that there can ever be a settling - a true contentment.

but always full of the energy to keep skipping along.

the same dream.

it's more than just the fatigue of daily living;

it's more than just the drudgery of routine in life.

it's a striving, a seeking;

a yearning that caves down on itself in a realisation of hopelessness because maybe we're all just too fantastical.

my greatest fear, is living a normal life.

we are too ignorant--ignorance that leads to fear--to admit reality's grasp over our imaginative idealism.

not talking about the reality of making a living, i have no fear over that,

but the reality of living.

in years to come, it is possible that i'll look back on this and laugh, seeing some folly which the present self fails to realise, the folly of a dream.

but i fear who that man might be.

and that right now, this moment, dream-like as it might seem in the future, is everything in absolution at its purest form.

"...that they might go the fools among."

life as of now.

whether its ignorance or strength

its hard to tell; could be an intertwining of both.

maybe ignorance is strength.

i could be better off not knowing.

transitory.

I’m gasping in a dream
but the dream itself isn’t suffocating;
I’m just gasping in one.

delicate, surreal.

delicate.

Why is it all transitory.
where am I going;
where I am going-
What If.

gah.

ib's not getting harder;

i'm getting lazier.

second home

Art room

we’re all just mad; inadvertent
the speakers’ blast
harmonious melancholy;
what’s future, present, past
gets tangled up all in the strings.
like finely selected hair; dab, dab, dab;
as we jab, jab
our way through gelatin glass
like raindrops in near-stop motion
all round us
a little bit mad.

- a poem dedicated to the only subject i enjoy.

in and out of cocoon

i ate my way out of

cocoon to see that

in a special place-

transitory, many-faced,

i am one in all,

weaved together,

hanging precariously

on a thread of existence.

i laugh

at how i dance

with it ever so frivolously.

i am in cocoon.

i am eating my way.