Today; a blur.

Yesterday, as far away as peace at play

Seven and careless

thoughtless to teach and preach

without saying a word.

Natured Constrictions

I hate that I always start filling in forums and questionnaires with: 'I'.

Catching myself again, I realize I don't want to be passive in my intention to sell myself or my potential for contribution to an outlet, but MAN do I focus wholly on myself the great-portion of the day.

(and suddenly, a silent desire to type on a pigeon-excrement-covered table in MacArthur park - stop searching for spelling of 'MacArthur')

This morning I awoke and did what the priest vehemently proposed last night at mass following the novena, to which I stumbled upon late - stepping high over the lap of a veil-faced elderly to enter the pew. No one ever scoots to the middle; they always expect you to step over them. Some people, knelt in prayer, are seemingly so peaceful that disturbing them seems to be a crime. I just want to bottle up their gracious-peace and bathe in it, in the glory of sparkle-covered rained clouds, letting no drips hit the ground.

So yeah, I knelt this morning and offered what good and bad would come of the day to God - and tried desperately to make a point not to do this for me but for others. Following my 30 second finger-combing session in the bathroom mirror, to the sound of the absurdly-loud bathroom fan, I put on a dirty shirt, same jeans, same shoes; socks, I was already wearing and tip-toed out onto the front porch. There I found darkness at 6:35 a.m.

Cafecito Organica sounded better than McDonalds coffee, a substance foreign to me this week after my roommate passively ordered the retirement of my beloved, yet leaky, Bunn. The adventure to the airport was of Grace and coherence; clarity of desires unfulfilled and longings of which I've been dying to bask. We said our good byes, again at an airport terminal and I watched as she escaped from my view, and a LAX patrol beeped at me to carry-on.

So I don't know what's going on. I know that yesterday I was a mess of emotion and paralyzed defeat, and agony of unending self-doubt. The thoughts that bind, aren't of the lack to substance of other's talents. They are of my limitless potential, which I can't seem to tap into because of my own fears and lack of ability to focus.

I'm trying to grow up, so I don't have to keep watching someone I love disappear into terminals or escape into bus stations without my confidence to leave a car in long-term parking.

I'm trying hard to see the cluelessness in my lack of action. And I'm trying desperately to put everything, including everyone before 'I'.

Whimsick

moments in time where pejorative poo-poos potent the primacy of the pulpit.

Disparaging days dissuade devout deviance drowning dreams of dastard do-gooders.

For years I've wondered what is next, when next is dependent on the state of being here now. Do what you wish, but be sure to be here for the moments what do.

Structure is required of some populations; I'll refrain from claiming I'm not. Not in any span of time do a writer's flock coincide with an artist's intent.

For years I've dreamt of walking deep into the woods, to return only with Ultimate truths. Recently I've begun to wonder through my wander; "am I in the vastness of the woods, eyes closed and shoes buckled?"

The ship-master's quarters neatly abated of wrongdoing whence by the hands be unrecognized heroes of our time. From the master's chamber to the rotten floorboards of servants, cleansed to view reality; captain's keep, undying quickly defaulted toward eternal sleep.

i have to do more to take the life less serious, serious less given to life more through what do have i?

When the time comes to sit down and type, I often wonder: "what am I to write?" However, in my states of confusion or my daily-drift into periods of flatlined intent, I find the answer but never get it down in time.

As a creative mind speaks, so the swans flock to the park.

And then the time comes when words are to be transcribed, yet there are no pens and not even chalk scraps to write on sidewalks or nails to carve into our skin. Chances fleet like the California sun's warmth in late afternoon, and we're powerless but within our control. As the opportunities for quandary arise, so do the persistant-glooms appear giving us nothing but bounties of limitless produce.

Factories are torn down and orchards take their place. Foundries by rivers and cheers by gasps.

Perhaps it's a case of; I saw her first.

"No. It's nothing like that."

And then the time comes when all logic is thrown out the window, resorting not from what we've learned to be truth but embracing the darkness of what we try to deny.

How do I ask forgiveness for something that's given me precisely what I wanted. With the contact of a friend-lost and now found, I desire nothing more than forgiveness, thanking God at the same time.

Time lost is nothing, as empty spaces are slowly filled with submerging and thorough peace-expelled graces. Contradictions in experience, but more importantly; people, yield truth from what we try to dispel as the incongruences of others; heightened understanding of the faults we deny in ourselves.

Yet, frightful means expel truth at every turn in our lives. For it's within suffering that we become better versions of ourselves, and find peace, hope, and joy - assuming we're not complacently ignorant through denial.

Through this peace not-lost and the redemptive nature of forgiveness, I'll ask for nothing more. And, pay mind to asking for nothing more than a greater ability for thankfulness, for this truly miraculous gift.