Just Thoughts

I was watching 100 years of solitude and I thought about how we have both been to Macondo. Then I thought of the terracotta walls I saw when I met you. You felt like terracotta clay walls back then. That’s my dominant aesthetic at the moment.

I’ve always heard of this book where this woman takes benzos for a year and I think if I were to take benzos for a year I would endlessly write to everyone I ever met all the little passer by thoughts I never got around to saying. I think that’s what a year of rest would be for me. 

I want to start a book club for people who just read the covers of books and extrapolate meaning from that. That’d be the sort of silly sleep over activity I do late one night with my friends – an adolescent play pretend- something to easily trigger laughter and maybe we accidentally create something. I try to emulate the level of care-freeidness benzos can provide naturally.

I’ve noticed the mental weight of bringing life into this world can be the same as taking it out.

I gave all my appreciation to a man with delicate taste, delicate words, and a curated book shelf. Meanwhile the way A would yell “gay!” as a joke anytime I said or wrote something poetic presented itself as vulgar. I flattened his image in my mind. Was it just vulgar? It was a mockery of what we hear in between the lines of scripted appraisal, “GAY!” that little voice were project onto our poems, why we burn them. He was preparing me.

It’s the same way the homeless mock professionalism by creating an elaborate system of rules for their tin foil time machines- their fuzz floating angeles madness – unknowingly trying to conform to the beast that feeds us.

i’m afraid of my mind… some of the dreams I have are creatively horrific.

The way people fight over religion, it’s like they’re coded to think that thoughts create our reality. So they fight over the minds that will determine the great unknowns.

My dream sent me an omen saying that “something I bought” would not prove its true value for some time.

I’ve noticed a lot of my thoughts revolve around replaying my story. It feels vain to constantly be replaying the way others perceive me like I can’t stop looking at the mirror for my life. It also gels like chess, I am reviewing everyone’s perspective of me, all the angles and version of my self that exist in the minds of others. When my story was just beginning I never thought to do this and I don’t think my story was better or worse for not.

I don’t fantasize the way i used to, I’ve isolated my self to the point where i have no internal audience to play my out my fantasies to- no cheering crowd, no impressed admirers. I don’t make bad guys in my head to fight, I always found the self fabricated villain to be an annoying way to give artificial purpose to things. So my fantasies are purely creative, mixing and matching different concepts and oddities to see how they dance. The villain is anyone who prevents this way of thinking. The villain is that super cool man at a party that just sits on the couch drinking and taking while I try to get him to partake in my book club of covers.