Lazy from C-Z

Quaking at the boots, part two, mostly delayed. I am over the moon and under the sun, washing waves, breaking thunder, and a murderous desire for love. The first one was a major disaster and swallowed my mental health whole, pushing me back for months in disarray. It was self-inflicted but nevertheless this time I did not want this to overshadow the presence of whatever was coming, and come it shall, with righteous fervour, down to my throat and into the belly of the beast. Turkey, be kinder with me than Spain.

One could say that this next few days are well-earned rests, but not when it meddles with the financial aspect of it. Would have been apropos to assume that the holidays were meant for making cash, not celebrations. It is the best and only time not to be burnt out by work. Alas the tragedy of working under, not over, a certain playing field requires no qualms in participation. You get a pat in the back and a bottle of wine and go home and feel proud of it. My days in Alanya are sure to be a spectacle, if only I can stomach the anticipation. There is nothing I would not do to get to this point, and now I am almost there, albeit mildly infuriated by the anticlimax of it all. Those days are over. This was the cause indeed, and I must need fortify myself for future endeavours associated with it. This will be my salvation, not a pity fuck, where words are drawn and sins are forgiven and making space for new ones as we go, as we march forward to the reality of where we currently are, that no

The end is coming of what was allegedly supposed to be the best year of my life by far, and it seems farfetched now to imagine why I believed such nonsense. The whole notion of believing that having an amazing year right after last year's end is quite painfully absurd. More absurd than believing that I still have a few more days to commit before it kaputs into the annals of history, and still somehow I believe in the strength of conviction. I will have my final attempt at joyous victory in the company of Ani in Alanya, or so I hope. So far, so good. All the world I have seen before me passing by. Perhaps it is time, once more, to stop worrying about myself and learn to optimise love, with me or against.

The green curry inside me was tame. Something felt missing about it. Could not for the life of me figure it out. It was fine. Mothers filled my senses, but the girl stood out. She who was dead and alive at the same time. She always fell asleep early. If I should trust her for saying so, I must trust her. Imposing my own wants against anyone's desire is a clear recipe for disaster. Sometimes I feel like being swallowed into a dream that I could not for the life of me walk away from, because it is completely insane to think that this is happening to me all of a sudden, driven by the madness of a morning twilight's melancholia. She wants to be saved, just unsure that it would be. However, it will not be me.

A warm and tingling sensation has never sought to drive me to madness until recently, when all the little things do is just run tightly on a headship. There was nothing more to think about. Little things like love for all the little people. You cling to the urge, hoping for it to subside on its own, only to balloon into a wave of emotions that no mortal could hope to contain, because all that it is is just a reminder of the salutations of an even greater concern. But the more you insist, the more it endures, until all that is left is the memory of what it once was and should have been. When Lady walked away the other night, regret overcame me, like I did something so wrong that could never be reconcilable. What did I actually do? And today, of all days, Friday the thirteenth, seeing the birds fly low and fly away, watch bits of my soul be gagged and clutched, for the rest of this early autumn melancholia. It will not overwhelm me to any degree. I hope. Anastasia would wait for me to ge

Irate by a fire That could burst in me alight Taken up by a choir Of the voices in a blight The abyss she desire Where a war rages in fear Shaken up by desire To fly over to here

There was this altercation. A woman from a faraway land tells a man halfway across the world that he was insufficient, incapable, and unalarmingly passée. He disagreed; he thought he was worth more than what he was described. But there is a truth indiscernible from the comment by the woman; there was weight to it. It could have been palpable. He could simply be misunderstood. But by the time he held his tongue, his fingers were already wriggling about and doing the work outside of his own volition. He acted by impulse, not by desire, but by a knee-jerk reaction. One that he himself would not approve, but he nevertheless allowed. Expressions are merely authenticated by the mind. Nothing escapes it unless authorised, and this was no exception. The words he slipped on to her rattled her to the core that she swept him off immediately from her life from then on out. He could not be bothered, why would he? The man felt he had done nothing wrong, that he was simply disagreeing. Later on, they

If the intention too close to the bone, I would have already done it. Amongst so many attempts, the results always seem to default to close but no cigars. This whole effort is fatiguing, if not intoxicating in equal measures. Tired of all the resistances and the rejections and the mindgames of it all. Otherwise it would have simply been a dire misunderstanding, which is an all too common motif when it comes to me, and apparently shared amongst so many others if I were to be completely blunt. Some of the seedlings have sprouted, even in such short amount of time.

It is always a question of the when rather than the how; will I be able to sustain this or will it forever remain a farce? Boy looked dishevelled, and the seeds have all been planted and the ladies crossed, absent rizz. None have sown promise thus far; one will not be bothered. My focus needs to be redirected towards this reason for me being in this supposed holiday... of sorts. I may have some rest, but like I said, will it ever sustain? Life catches up too soon. My job is too stretch it too thin before it breaks, and once it does, pidele al diablo que me permita pagar mis deudas . There is no point in asking what it all is for, none of it ever matters, but regardless of the situation, one must make the best out of it. Priorities are what I need; the distractions are in abundance. I must needs pass what I came here to do (the light at the end of the tunnel), and fuck the requirements for now. Plans, plans, plans. We all get there eventually, but for now, this. Get to the destination.

  What are you crying for? What are you crying for? When it's just a feeling They are just feelings These are just feelings

If it's not so hard to understand At least see me for me If you were the wind you'd carry me To find joy and serenity If my madness can find miracles Yours is always free So release me; If it's not bogged down by tragedy It was always meant to be If the time is right we can sail away To find our melody If I can't hold on to the miracles You will still be free So believe me; If we were to play this symphony Why'd you have to flee? Because mine is yours like a reverie Deep in a deep blue sea If your madness can't cure miracles You could still be free So relieve me; If I had more time for this fantasy Believing that you'd be Mine one day as a destiny To our endless symphony If this is more madness than a miracle I'll never be set free So bereave me; 

  But where do we hear of that which most deeply inspires man; where is the innate desire to give as much meaning as possible to one's life, to actualise as many values as possible -- what I should like to call the will-to-meaning ?

 Don't be afraid Of the things one would say Just to lure you to fray You are not bird of prey; Don't be okay If you want things to stay Just to lose your own way You are not a grenade To fusillade For someone else;

Trying to make sense of slowly kicking things into gear. Making it make do is harder than it sounds. Feels like a carousel of wanting to go all in and making a mess of it and starting all the way back to zero; tail bites snake, man bites dog. It seems as if this purpose has no purpose tangentially, but it is slowly working its way back up, I do believe. Only in the chaos of it all does one permit itself the meaning of its purpose, to pick it up amongst the debris while all else is suffering intraordinarily, as it should be. No matter what the chaos brings, even the brittle mortality herein that is slowly withering.

 I could have found this perfect soul to navigate this narrow goal that never seems to disappear and yet did disappear when I needed it most beyond black trees to which I aspire beyond bright roads where glories transpire only to dream above and beyond eating me up inside day in and out knowing that that happiness is probably now someone else's instead of mine when I could have earned it waiting to live waiting to die only to give only to cry once and again for the longest time

A long week ahead. Sometimes you just allow the momentum to propagate. to marinate, by and for itself. Better than being a carpenter without a saw. I had a dream that woke me up, almost sweating profusely. Knew I had rested enough that the body had to rebel, once again. It was another dream about Ainhoa. And should I even discuss this dream? A dream that we know always ends on a deadend is not much for conversation. Only stirring up echoes of the past that never was and never will be, no matter how much I would want it willed into fruition. To suffer in silence is preferrable, and suffer and suffer some more, ad infinitum.

Quantum was just the beginning; quantum was just a guess, a formulae, and apparently not. Somehow the solution was resolvable with simple rationales, complex algorithms. It was always the purpose on the back of someone's mind. But does it really matter whose mind it really came from? Perhaps not. Ideally it would be someone less socially averse. Hoarding such knowledge could prove fatal in the gran schemati. So I hand out my faith into someone else's share, and in doing so, surrendering what little is left of thoughts begotten. Now work is done to implement it, nurture over nature, even if in the end nature always wins. 

It was never in the cards really. That poor sod of a man making an announcement of pure embarrassment and nothing to show for it, crumbling deep down inside. Shamed and half-awakened at the dead of night at the thought of a wandering trapeze made mockery of himself, sorely mistaken; eternally perplexed; forever bent and broken, where brokenness was never even hinted a question, a point of contention, or a manifestation from a headlong twirl, forever will be lost in the heat of it all.

I never forgot the 21st. It was arguably the best hour and a half of my life, and a year later, oblivion... Spent my first week of holiday gallivanting around Skye, thinking exactly about the same day last year when I lost Ainhoa, where I faltered, and where I stumbled apart. It was disastrous, but it was glorious in the moment, and it is just unimaginable to fathom where I would end up now when my hope back then was at an all-time high. Prior to leaving for Gran Canaria, I kind of anticipated that outcome, but not to that same extent, a slow death, clinging on to unheeded desperation. She was as beautiful as beautiful can ever be, and I was just me, belittled by mine own defeat. It was hard because red flags were sprinkled all throughout that condensed time, and yet I ignored it, just completely enamoured by the nymph that drew me in wholeheartedly since the start. A love that grew from a lot of doubt. A few vignettes of warnings from someone who supposedly cared. Where have my life b

Images of death lingered on in my head, like fireflies in the night, waiting to be shattered. Words never coincided in precisely the same moments where life begins and worlds collide. Some of the things appeared so menial, so unperturbed, that the only way to fully understand the enormity of the attempt was to actually engage it head-on. Fear was on my side. It was like a goulash of emotions sifting through my system. Past and pasts living in the present, terrorising me whole, crawling, feeling isolated in the moment. This sense of desperation is all I have. These days I see the light writing its own reasons to feel the sense of being alive. I do not know what is in life, but I can sing and dance to the tune of bewilderment alone. Where did my love ever go?

 Dandelions after roses died. Lavender replacing vanilla. Something took a part of me. Safety in numbers. I have always imagined forty-two to be the answer, now I am not so sure. One is the only legitimate number, even if it is not primed. Numbers are painstakingly difficult. A deep thought occurred to me a few moments ago, unable to harness that slippery profundity due to being too abstruse. Counting the days of an unnecessary post-apocalyptic breakdown. I am slowly fading away, succumbing to the every other day epistaxis that I have had for years . My vessel is falling apart. I need to heighten my acute sensitivity, taking control behind these four walls. Time is not my friendly neighbourhood arachnophilia. And during my deepest of profound thoughts I found myself mingling about the universe and time and ainhoic transgressions over and over again, as usual, but this time it will not be for naught. I must persevere, even if my head hurts and I cannot recall anything soonafter. My only

Happy birthday. 

People always told me to be wary of how you act, My mother always made it a point to respect women. This was at the nadir of her lifetime. She reiterated things over and over like a broken record, especially after what happened with Mioseon, and the same when Miriam left. The final month where we had the short opportunities to actually dig into each other's minds, that was all she ever preached, as if I was never good at all. But there is some truth to it, otherwise those things would have worked out much differently than it did. She never knew about certain things of my life, but deep inside she felt the knots in my ropes, hard as I try to disguise it. She is of my blood after all. I miss her. I try not to miss her. I try not to think of her at all. Because I do not deserve to. I was complicit. It will live on inside me for the rest of my life, and I will live with that fact with no one else to hopefully know the full extent of this sordid affair. I do not deserve anyone's sym

Testing out my heart's capacity to endure. So in trying to eliminate any unwarranted vectors from making any decisive inputs, I turn to an action of least resistance. The other gentlemen slowly curtsied away into the weekend while the whole day slips from my grasp. It was an unmanly sight, driven by complete nightmare in faulty autonomy. The capacity to neglect the structure of my needs ultimately leads me to a more righteous path. It is ordained. Then my heart cleaves in wanting. There is no other recourse. One thing leads to another. Enduring the structure and tormenting the slow wait. It has since been forever. Even before this started, and it has always been the same since then. Still wanting the same thing, waiting for the same thing. These tests mean little when I know for certain my own heart's capacity. It can accommodate all, even this, so I know for certain it can also handle the positive aspects of its counterpart. Tiding the ebb and flow. Watching the rise and fall.

I walk alone. I find myself standing naked all alone, deep in the heart of gold and silver and... there is no way out. This drudgery leaves me inconsolable. Sometimes I lack the precision of words to describe the feeling, but the feeling remains nevertheless, worse than words could ever define. Sometimes I find myself contemplating whether the words I use best resemble the moments I endure, and then I tell myself no. I still am naked all alone. For years and years, and years have passed indeed, the path laid forth offers little reprieve. Actions offer very menial returns. Life and love and passion, all entangled all at once. Perhaps the meaninglessness of it all has been taken away from me, the urgency to push back and the audacity to retaliate. I am a creature borne of habit, and the habit has consumed me whole, dug deep, deep in the heart of gold and silver and...

Just thinking about what everyone's thinking Who gets what to say? It's like having a bout with water and sinking Flows me out of way

It was a timid reaction as I expected. Maybe some small bursts here and there, but in general the feeling overall was manageable. Perhaps as the days go by things will kind of mellow down a bit, but the expectation is less generous. I am unimaginably absent hype. The only thing that eats at me is the constant dread of the Ainhoa repercussions still. It never fades away. I would rather fade away. I have to do something important. But we all lose sight of the bigger picture. I miss Ainhoa, yes, and it is something I have to live with.

Missing the ultimate chance. Calm meditations penetrating my spine. He goes and goes calmly, unlike the day before. He goes and goes... his uproarious voice undulating high and low, the last high lower than the previous one. There is a sense of relief in the realisation that today was better than the previous ones. I can think on my own once again. It is merely the Friday boom, I call it. The fever of arriving at a snail's pace towards the weekend of broken promises. A moment of once again inhaling the suffocating solitude of the unattainable and the fantastical; the ainhoic razbliuto. A failed sense of security, worries of tomorrow that no person gives a toss about. He dreams of dreams that were never there. He calls out for names that float as ghosts in the periphery. He shall fail over and over and over again. I miss you , he whispers. I miss you . He flows and flows alone.

Should this creature of habit ever break his own tradition in order to graze the surface outside of the more commonplace hereditary proclivity, then the odds are that the potential hitherto will need be declined in place of a newer, more refreshed start. But starts, or restarts, are often so blasé. It happens so commonly, and every restart is just an attempt at the embellishment of the former self to make the new one embody a higher purpose, even if the chassis hardly ever changed and still the same old rusty shit that is bound to fall apart eventually, one way or another. What is truly needed is balance under observation. Losing all that matters is still a pathway forward. Nevertheless try not to think about it under the circumstances. The pain of losing again once all is already lost... I shudder to think. Particularly Dickensian. But that is all there is to it. What more needs be told? I am not in search for exit strategies, and this is not about second chances. I am way past all of

I had a deep surprise same day last year. Not much was happening then, only that work was eating me alive, giving me that mental beatdown that comes with the territory. It was frustrating, having to experience days of not-much-at-all. But she played a song for me. She who was always there back then. She who was most important to me. She misled me all day, giving hints here and there, of clues leading to her devious plan. I tucked my frustrations aside and she sang the song in one go. The best I have ever had. Not the voice, not the lyricism, but the intention, the relevance, the importance, the timing. It has surreal and sublime. And now I no longer remember a single word for it except "struggler".

I am bleeding, for no other reason but to bleed. Because the joy we get is rooted deeply on our own individual suffering. When the time finally comes, of tallying and proving feedback and reckoning, all the minute details coalesce into a vichyssoise of abstract being. Of me, in my most fundamental sense. Of who I am in a grand scheme of things. My inua in effect. That being the conscious energy that engulfs you and me both. From the beginning of time relative to which time, and to an end that may never even exist. At least not yet. Whereas history is concrete and absolute, the hereafter is tentative and mercurial.

A silent killer is the intermittent joy of one's false arms around you, toying with your mind, creating expectations and optimistic folly. The voice of the desperate clinging to the remnant of what a multiversal possibility could only potentially show. Sometimes we cling to the hope it would change for us, but for what it is worth, the only outcome truly is the void we leave behind for not trying harder enough.

There is a lot that could be said of a martyr's soul unravelling. Struggle is its basic form of sustenance. It is the delay that keeps their spirits engaged, woven intimately into their mortal coil. The form with which all things sublimate and gives ample purpose and meaning albeit in increments. What little impulse one has will always incline to pursue this one great goal, because a goal is only great when the soul decides upon it and makes it part of itself. Some days are found of wanting, spent on banal productivity to fill the gaps in between. Some days, there is nothing better than wanting for nothing. But some days... Some days are so full of copium one just decides they have had enough.

This onistic frustration stems from an unhealthy obsession of regrets undone by reconciliation. Sometimes there is a desire to hop on to the closest refuge in order to mitigate the sorrow, diving in for a temporary high, not knowing that the consequences may lead to another undesirable outcome, but overall the chances of the original sin ever going away is next to none, constantly chafed by the resilience of nature that persists ever so much. I will always be an avatar of all that is worst of me. My worst being the selfsame nature of that which is best of me. Passion which begets unknown results, often causing downfall to those who have sacrificed all there is in order to attain one particular goal. But I have never known a goal of so much worth that I would dedicate my entire being to. None that deserves that attention because nothing checks out the prerequisites. And as much as I try to label my own value of standards into other people and things and ideas that may commendably be wor

There is no poulticing the wound. The echoes ricochet off my hardened skin. The words proliferate vividly over and over and over again. I could fall to sleep and allow time to decay, but time and time alone is all I have left. The wind outside is howling while I continue to wait for that one hello that will never come. To be burdened still by the shadows of her likeness, that smile, that look. I cannot keep doing this to myself forever, but I will probably be here forever.

To meet me in a state of what and where I was a year ago; downtrodden, heaps of scrap; a reminder of what once was, and yet there was this nagging feeling of hope in the foreground when met with a lovely certain shade of green. It was Ainhoa's grace that kept me afloat. Perhaps I can attribute this frustration with the fact that she bloomed the charred, emptied fields of my day-to-day. That too has long passed. But I cannot want to let go. The seeds had all been laid bare, ready for nurture, prime for consumption even. It is a forever thing. The fragile hopes of frigid tropes and frozen copes. Love has torn me apart again.

The thrill of the hunt has wavered and turned to ashes. It oftentimes meddle with the ones that I do decide to care for, and when it submits, it becomes somewhat undesirable and withered, pushed aback by the winds. Like memories. Of forgotten days and feelings. There is nary a day that I do not think of Ainhoa. That bitter aftertaste at the tip of my tongue knowing it could have been handled so much better (or maybe not) on my part, and it gnaws on my very essence endlessly. Things happened so quickly, and next thing I knew she was no longer there. She was sublime, moreso than any soul that has ever compelled me to feel, and I feel left out for it. Like I have slapped the table where I eat hoping food would enter my mouth on its own volition. And due to this extraneous strain that never seems to want to go, my days no longer contain that copacetic edge to it. Everything else pales in comparison. She gave me that soft but unbearable lightness of being, that legal high that gives, despit

The southern lights have just faded; mountains bursting forth out of thin air. It was always there, I reckon, but to fail the security check, it felt somewhat demystified, anticlimactic. My mother passed away a few weeks ago, and it has zapped me of what little humanity in me is left. Even though it was inevitable. Even though I had for months tried to push beyond what I am capable of. In that moment I saw my own mortality before my eyes, seeping into my consciousness, gnawing at my system, overlapping of thoughts I had of missing Ainhoa. It was unbearable. It is unbearable. I cannot fault life for gifting me this burden. It was inevitable. It is inevitable. Going through the holiday season with harsh penalties. She left me first, and she too left me, after all this time waiting. Never the same, we ponder. Never thwarting. Always amicable to hardships, and what for? This viral cacophony of wanting to do something about myself now rings true and rings ever so louder. Mother should have