Lazy from C-Z

Voices are telling me that I should carry on. So, in lieu of pushing away the negativity, dare I say the negativity shall breathe new form into function. In many ways, this is more of a regression than anything. All that ever was and will be always come full circle. Oftentimes I wrongfully conflate my status with wanting to be rebirthed into something more standardised and optimal. The joke here is that regardless of what skin one wears, the wounds remain the same under any outfit. Would that I could have had the chance to swallow my pride and resist the temptation to authenticate the denials, own up to it, and pick the bootstraps up waistlength. Who gives a flying toss? I am the darkness that I have always been.

My noggin is in all sorts of disarray; something is bound to break. Something about the smell of empowerment. Haunted by thoughts of my father's midlife crises long ago coinciding with mine. Something about the uncertainty of not knowing. Something about wanting to deny duress to take hold of darker urges, wherever this soulsucking hoover takes the dustbag for discarding. The strain of work and life licking and gustating the peripheries of my senses, doing my head in. Something about a child; something about bald dickheads; something about love; something about money; something about adulthood.

There has been a massive seismic activity in the aftermath of Zeny's passing since. Things that were probably taken for granted are being taken for granted, and, perhaps even, gave a false sense of hope that I could have never comprehended then or since. I can only assume that even before the real pressure has taken hold, the little things are all vulturing around waiting for a single moment of clarity. All this demystificating has taken a lot of my inner senses over a wide range of time, slowly masticating over the tiny reprimands, unbeknownst to the struggler. If only I could remember what it was like to actually savour life's many esoteric pains, for it no longer carries the same weight as it once did prior to that one loss, and maybe, just maybe, the pain that is endured post-pain is no longer as intoxicating as it once did me. My first child is bound to be here in a few days' time, and all that envelopes my senses is the other loss: Ani. Betwixt all the sweet and the s...

The air swole with icy breath in Edinburgh in the midst of summer's bless. It was perhaps the worst that could happen, especially when the running tensions are high in between the spectrum of what was supposedly romantic morrows. A hope, perchance, to awaken love's burgeoning union, in the crippling heat of the wailing sun's approval, instead drenched in bouts of pointless hikes and contentious, albeit passionate, companionship. One could simply erase the enigmatic and form a more likely reasonable bond. One that could hope to topple the nagging quirks and cracks that form the crevices of this still burgeoning union. Yet they are likely still halfway there. Halfway from all the beginnings and ends of it. Halfway from the sands and the sea and the sparkling air. Scotland was and still is a nice reprieve from the menace that is of London (not England, see). But now our sights are set to another round of a seaside Turkish delight. One that should finally contain after the topp...

Aloe vera. Cappuccino. Fortune. One was to numb away the fears and the others to suffocate it. Suffocate it to a point of no recognition, until we are all back to numbing it all back down. But the fears are here to stay, no matter the course, no matter the destination. So many calls to diversify, some to compartmentalise, and many endeavour to rise above. The consequences irregardless are a moot point. We are at a precipice of a dynamic stagnation, constantly moving to and fro unceasingly towards the same fucking stupid shitpiece. The more things change , the more things remain the same , or so it goes. Sriracha. Honey. Sunflower. Ani went home with a noticeably more calm demeanour, for two days in a row now, no frills. It would have been surprising had it not been for the most obvious of sobriquets. Lydia, she says, named after her grandmother, as tears well up in her droopy and tired eyes. I frown in contempt at the helplessness of it all. There is no need to contest it, I reckon, o...

Just as I was about to gain a little bit of traction, something somehow somewhere brews outside of the peripheries that demand a sense of chaotic tendency that no decree of decorum can surcease. It is beyond my ken. Regardless of the outflow of good, nothing overall sticks in the long run. One can only hope that letting go is never the refuge, and why should it be? Solitude when all was just hitting stride is the most disconcerting bother that I cannot fathom why it even persists in the first place. Worlds apart in a lifetime of vagabondry, too disattached from the reality of peaceful idealism. Time tick tick ticks tock to the end of the finish line, often too soon, often diabolically underestimated in its affectations. War never changes, personal or otherwise. War often misunderstood. War for the sake of it. And death, constant death amongst us all around. All around me, literally and figuratively. 

The rain season sweeps away the old, welcoming in the new, and giving a chance of redemption for that mini spring bop. New words and new sound and new faces and fresh beginnings; one can only hope to reassess their sense of selves in the magic of the moment. But insofar as time is concerned, there is no such thing. This indiscriminate lack of regard is typical of a more metaphysical viewpoint. It is yet unfortunate that we have yet to fundamentally understand the true essence of time and how it persists; how it remains to be; how to explain it in a less vague sense other than the tenses of past, present, and future. Let it be said that the idea of time itself is relative. From our perspective, here on this planet, with a congruent sense of sameness, regardless of location, time is a linear path going forward with no reprieve at all whatsoever, and if understanding the what and how of time is, there is no doubt one can attribute a form of deliverance unto the mystery in and of itself, a...

Sometimes I have to manually negate all the peripherals in the background in order to mitigate the noise. It overpowers when smothered by these inevitable events wrapping me into its tendrils all at once. Were I a wiser man, I would give up on one of these poisons and choose anew, but at this stage I have consumed much of the copium to just give it all away now. Maybe it truly is my rightful might. Two years ago I inhabited this persona of a multitasking man for the goal of winning an aesthetic. The aesthetic being that was the anima of a live anomaly from a far and away land, where dunes were all too common with their beaches and the daily warmth of the sun swallows each and every one whole. It was a long and winding road to a painful end, the kind of which echoes in my mind to this very day. Perhaps I should have heeded my own warnings. I told myself before the excursion to prepare for whatever eventuality should that decision result, but the results were far more sinister than I had...

A minor hiccough, some. One tip and there goes my temper. Forces whispering in my hand's own will. I wish to reconcile with whatever little respect I have for myself. No one knows, but good, whatever it does for me. No soul is free from the tempest that is my gaol. The good thing is that I am slowly fitting in. The bad thing is that it seems to me getting out will be quite a frightful, especially knowing that the uncertainty that behooves such madness is beyond my capacity. One good move in chess changes everything. Mine victory came at such fruitful and impeccable timing. Hopefully this means that sustainability comes at a stable pace. One would assume that the bearance of a struggler is easier with a compatible tandem. At this area Ani has been astounding and beyond words of expression. She has paved the way, smashing the wall with her pickaxe finding light on the other end of the wall that resists our advancements. Over the course of time we both will find a better way to addres...

It is easy to avoid the fear of decay when right now everything else is tinted with rose. I fear I may face a rude awakening. Sooner or later, the behelit opens up to the apostle worth a penny, and if I had a penny for every single ballbuster out there wringing my head on a noose, I would be earning paltry minimum wage. Sometimes you need not seek absolution, sometimes you have to be unapologetically you . At this very moment I am simply glad that Ani is drunk with our love potions. It comes across as a bit of relief instead, a mitigated calculation which could have been much worse. Those reassurances I tell myself every single day work only for the betterment of my here and now and not for the there and then. Suppose it would be a preferrable choice if I imagine how massively defeated I would be if handicapped by multiple attackers in every angle. The choice I made in December of last year would have been proven fatal. Do not make me regret that which has made me feel jubilantly alive...

Building up the strength, picking up the pace, turning over leaves when the wind is never afriend. Whole journeys start to make very little sense right at a certain point. The fog lits up, we falter, there amongst the brown and dingy cold. You have to respect the consequences. Only in taking accountability can one rationalise the mystique of the substandard anomaly before them, washing hands will never be able to cross over the eggshells. You have to man up on the hard parts and allow the risk of you losing it all to percolate. Either the fear or threat empowers you, or it annihilates you completely. There is no middle ground. Regardless of the right or wrong; the sensical and the irrational; what matters is you live with it. You die, and make sure you never die again, but eventually you will. But the will to live on remains.

Much can be said and much has been said about matters of my core, whether intentionally or inadvertently. Regardless of mine own opinion of myself, the fact is that not much can be further said without already digging up the carcass of yesteryears. Reaching a crossroads, something not totally alienating and, in a way, already tainted with hint of perversions from living. It is not a complaint but rather an indictment of truth. Somehow my matter of factness antagonises that with mine relationships with other people, particularly with Ani. We stand tall in between transgressions; too early to tell, but my optimism is in outstanding merits. The pain that was injected to her intraspiritual being manifests itself too often. Scars of the days before I came. An all too common story for the common man. I have no idea how to fix hers, nor do I assume that I can, we can both simply live our lives as if we were ignoring what was practically huge chunks of our lives absent one another, because if ...

Someone falls to pieces; someone else gets led astray. There from the mystical bonds of those united stands from behind those unbehoved; the constantly nagging, cringy, and scrupulous lot. I sit behind a small room wider than a sardine can, wholly satisfied. Ani thinks I am at work, of which I am. Everything is hitting a strange plateau. Wherever I am feels good . Pieces of notes fall down but the letter said...

All the things that could have happened and still feel that I am fortunate to be in this current moment given a new breadth in life, albeit everything else, through all the somethings that seemed so distant not too long ago. It feels like forever now, my post-post-apocalypse has emerged, even if the lingering effects of the yesteryears remain swimming in the nakedness of my utter lack of self-awareness and failures, no more. Perhaps it is a feat that was always meant for me, and I tell Ani that here and there. Too much fire engulfed me for one single person who was neither here nor there. A mere flicker of the unknown bursting into fray like a moth to a flame only to be extinguished as quick as it happened. It has driven me before and it has a massive consequence to my person, but now this renewal has given me a sort of swansong. It will be as it shall, and it shall be because I will it to be.

Success should suck less since such test would be tested of its mettle almost immediately. The loneliness of the word evades itself from within the limitations of its realm, its capacity. Would I have succeeded had I not have failed just a few hours sooner? And would I fail still even after finding the best of luck in the worst of ways? When you lose after you have just won, it was never a victory. It was nothing, nothing at all.

I have no social cues. Those that are emboldened by the belief that I will falter under their pensive need for approval will no doubt fall on my deaf ears. I have very little patience for those that have little to no value in my life. Long gone are the days where I have to humour other people's clamour for my kindness; I have none left, drained to the pus of the ever living boil nagging at my sore nog. I will not falter; those that dare to challenge will be challenged. Somehow I feel like I could crush vermin in the palm of my hand, and the satisfaction of owning will always permeate at the back of my nog right behind this boil telling me that what I do deserves some level of respect, and there are times when you have to lock someone's ankles to attain it. The world deserves its comeuppance, and light only shines when righteousness becomes audacious, because the path forward moves forward regardless of the level of intent. 

She could sense a palpable tension in my messages, like she knew that I was going to give up on her. Only recently have I learned not to burn bridges along the way. I certainly did not want to burn this one, but eventually I will have to deal with it one way or the other; it is inevitable. Trying not to let go of something that could potentially be a needle in a haystack seems so much of a waste of meaning that you cling to it hoping that what once was a paradisiacal possibility would turn out to be a potentially disastrous recipe for another paradisiacal possibility. I merely chose the one I felt in tune with the most. But now that the cat is in the bag, my hopes are that the cat remains in a catatonic state of both alive and dead, of me not knowing until the need for it arises once again. It seems to me like I have burned way too many bridges in the past for me to start now, and finally I have reached a point of transcendent realisation: do what is best for me. So I chose the best op...

The niceness is a welcome stray, a wooly feline looking for a warm spot to scratch itself on. Almost like a raging need to participate in the human nature of everythingness. It forms as a social consequence of being in a tandem, or a group of more than three, and in any objective plurality. It could be measured by the desire for an absence of a certain something or longing, or neatly by chance, or a compulsive necessity for survival.  Right now I am massively burdened by the tugging of strings in many worldly directions. I feel like an active participant to something greater and relevant. It feels to me like for the first time in my life I can actually do real change if I only learn how to harness this, but at the same time is it really much of a necessity for what I need for myself and others near and dear to me right now? I cannot be compelled by my own personal delusions any longer. The dubiousnessf my own sense of self-importance is an impending futility that must needs be take...

We have heard of this before. The awkward pause tiptoes on my tongue as it grates on its own lack of indulgence. The deed is done. It did went well ever better than it did in Spain. A week of excursions, full of emotions, the intense weight of heartspuns weaving arrogant torrents within a single point of failure. Where do I even begin? You wrap your head around it in the end and condense everything in a more mature endeavour. This fire suffocates, but that suffocation aspect is like a conundrum in itself. You will want to stay inside this microcosm and try to last for as long as you want. Everything is finite, for the good and the bad. And it often toys with the longing. Nostalgia in the face of someone you feel nostalgic about, and melancholy in the heat of the blissful intertwining of our lips wreathing in agonising ecstasy. I worry about where to go from here, back to the ever-moving sameness of the responsible you, rather than the ideal version of whom you portray yourself to be, b...