Archive for the ‘ Life ’ Category

High-Jacked

What is there to say.

That’s a statement, not a question.

In some ways I think these long absences of I from writing in these very public blogs that only a few people know of are what generate the things I have to say.

I tend to speak inwardly more than outwardly. One of those things I still work on.

I have had odd premonitions at times throughout my life. My “danger sense” has been honed to a very fine edge.

I don’t like what I can feel coming, I know it’s going to be bad.

I don’t know how I know these things. I just do.

Hmmmm, seems my original intent for this post has been hijacked for an ephemeral feeling – fleeting yet so sure.

Advertisements

Over a rainbow

As I look back at my life I can’t quite shake the feeling that something has been trying to kill me since the minute I arrived here.

Taken apart it’s a (too) long series of near misses, narrow escapes and sometimes terrible injury.

But I still draw breath.

Bring it.

Life(less) Magic

Where does the magic go when it leaves?

I get these glimpses, a stir, almost like a tunnel-shake in my peripheral vision and I can almost feel.

Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to have no walls, no borders or boundaries. It’s a completely alien concept to me.

I’ve had walls since before I could form coherent sentences.

Some lives are more broken than others, but only on the inside, only where nobody will see the me I see when I see me. All of you get a facsimile, I learned to hide before I learned anything else, it’s my Dexter Morgan moments that you’ll never get to see.

There’s this image in my mind, a chalkboard and the words “hope is a four letter word” scrawled with haste, as if written during an escape attempt.

That’s your whisper in the dark, the half-glimpsed form, the cold wind tickling the back of your neck – like a kiss of death.

Faceless and formless, just a vast darkness that claims anything it touches.

Somewhere in there is a boy silently screaming, soundless tears burning clean furrows down dirty cheeks. Fists balled, white-knuckled with impotent rage.

Nobody hears the quiet ones, the ones who scream inside, who create a version of acceptable to show the world; mine feels two-dimensional.

As if I could step out from behind it and you’d all see it was really made out of cardboard the whole time.

Real life doesn’t work like that. Not when your subconscious mind built a fortress before you even knew what one was and then crammed you into it to keep those terrifyingly real things that happen to people from ever being able to touch you again…it leaves a sort of trail, a psychic slash in the mind, like a neon-lit river in the darkness, one that fills brimful of all the normal emotions that should be flowing in and are instead channeled out and away: sometimes you get splashed but you’re dry before you fully realize it.

That’s what it feels like today.

Eh, meh, heh.

I wrote a really long post.

I deleted all of it.

All you get is the vague hint that I wrote something I didn’t want to share.

Something that I never wanted to be able to revise or revisit.

Odd feeling that.

Swipe

I have, at this very moment, many drafts.

I have so many unfinished thoughts.

I could swipe my right index finger from right to left – like a manga comic – and they and all they contain will be gone as though they’d never been.

Sometimes I think life is a lot like that.

Swipe, swipe, swipe…

Can’t Quite

I am sometimes confusing. Confused and/or confusion.

I wonder what goes unsaid. I wonder what is between the lines I read and why those words aren’t in bold.

I wonder often of late at my complete inability to concentrate.

I am in a place, a place I don’t want to be, surrounded by people I do not particularly care for and some of whom I fervently wish I’d never met.

I think that the world is sometimes very dark.

I sometimes hear a sentence in my mind, a line from a book I once loved:

“…holding their swords with the ease of trained warriors and the sorrow of awakened dreamers…”

I identified with that line long before I was a trained warrior – I’ve always held the sorrow of an awakened dreamer just beneath the surface, where it is invisible to onlookers.

I prefer it so, I know not (now) why.

I am sometimes unquantifiable; I cross lines, blur boundaries, I am an odd amalgamate of often mutually exclusive qualities – I am the exception to many rules.

I don’t quite know what to make of that.

A[n](other) Disjointed (Pr)Offering

I just realized that I went about three months without posting anything – only posting when I was able to start running again.

Apparently the amount of free time I have had has declined drastically, because there is hardly ever (read: never) a time when I don’t have something to say – even if I’m just commenting on my lack of something to say.

I’m not quite certain that qualifies as a paradox but for the purposes of this post let us suspend the rules, or perhaps merely bend them a bit.

I’m actually not certain where I was originally going with this post so I’ll be back later to finish it.

Back about 2 days later: some combination of earth rotations and movement on its orbit of Sol, and you’ve been deceived readers – I still have nothing much of interest.

Running, that’s interesting, I level design in my head sometimes when I run, it’s math mostly so I can do two things at once (and enjoy it) that most people hate to do period, and while we’re on that I’ll paraphrase Dawkins, I’m not super into polarizing figures but I like this one: why is it so shameful to admit to a lack in literacy but perfectly acceptable to admit to deficiencies in science and a compete inability to handle mathematics of any level above basic arithmetic?

I’m just saying, if someone tells me that matrix theory makes no sense or that they can’t wrap their mind around string theory or super-symmetries that’s one thing but I’ve run into a startling (and disheartening) number of people who don’t even know what the order of operations in (very) basic algebra is.

Algebra. That was sixth grade. Seriously I always loved to solve for y – if you know me or read this blog then you know why I like Y.

Be back again to finish this later-ish.

Annnnnnnd another eight or nine days later: it’s the playoffs, my beard is actually coming in quite nicely (for me anyway) and one of my teams has advanced to the second round. Once again, if you know anything about me (chances are, if you’re reading this you’ve stumbled here because of my categories and/or post tags) then you know that I love hockey. Playoff hockey in particular. It’s the best month of the year and not just because I don’t have to shave.

Aren’t artists and intellectuals and pseudo-intellectuals (read, hipsters) supposed to have beards? I feel like I’ve read that somewhere.

This post has been completely disjointed. Broken up into its constituent atoms it retains only the barest semblance of coherence.

I rather enjoy that. It’s my blog I don’t have to make sense if I don’t want to, now do I?

I thought not.