Untitled Emotions

Sometmes the words get filtered through the nodes, just like sand through endless hair. There is never a reason to fret, but I insist. Serenity sings like a mythical creature in these bothered states maybe because it lies across the sea. Certainty means you crash in the deepest oceans, called in by the sirens. The strings resonate throughout the ether and they remind you how you are more than flesh, it would take so much more to drown your thoughts. Of course...don't panic.


-- Post From My iPhone

The week condensed

FUck the week.
Expanded:
I never really look forward to my birthday, and I easily forget why.
I hadn't noticed until the day after, that it is usually full of things that I don't want. Maybe it just feels that way because I am used to all of them being that way.
It's not that I don't have fun, it's not that I feel depressed,it's not that I feel old, but that usually the shitstorm heads my way on the surrounding days of my integer ways of surviving life. It feels like battling against the stream, until the water suddenly just freezes. Maybe tomorrow I'll be rowing with ease, but not for now, and not probably for a few days. I know I'll be tempted to just get out of the water, and watch the others play and swim, but I won't. My limbs can take so much more.

It's more than uncool that my thoughts echo out to a place where they are just others.
Singular form ignored.
No indexing.
The words never muttered.
emotions?
Just make me look like a fool.
Then I remind myself that they are just chemical reactions, and that sleep will neutralize them. Even the ones happening in my stomach, my mouth, my lungs. They will all float away with the flick of a switch or two.

It's a weekend night and I ain't...

Headlights peering through dark rimmed symmetrics, in single file line,
Bouncing frequencies...same reactions.
The lights have smashed on their skin all the same.
It has all turned more predictable than ever,
specially since the hues can map out their solid almost spaceless shape.
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(Pt.1)
It doesn't matter how much I steer my brain to not think of you,
your face seems to gamble in the noise.
Every movie is apparently staged in New York,
where I can see you walking like an extra
down the wet busy streets.
I can see you dancing or dining
in the corner of the screen.

Buraka Som SIstema

Here is my remix of Buraka Som Sistema's Black Diamond.
ENjoy.

Buraka Som Sistema - Black Diamond(Seqz RMX) by Geometry

Excursions in Hyperbolic Emotion.

To him, the fact that things looked so shitty in the given spectrum was a mystery. Things were indeed not shitty. Circumstances did fail to make things polished or "fine", but summing it up, it wasn't really that shitty. It just takes a tiny pebble to topple a whole mountain of arrangements that are so intricately designed to stay erect. The winds shook its foundations we guessed. To some of us it was just summer breeze, but to him...winds. I believed him when he said that the interactions only made him realize that the words were sandblasting him to the very core. It's such a shame to let words do such harm. He felt he was about to give up. But then he realized he had nothing to give up, and that made him only feel worse. "Give up what?" he thought. But no one heard him, he learned that thoughts are just that, the words no one hears. He had many thoughts, few words. I thought that maybe he longed for expression. We all thought the same thing. He never spoke endlessly about his thoughts like some of us do. Ranting on and on about interactions, intelects, and creativities."What is the purpose of the wind?" or "Why are dogs so mad at cats?" would rather fill his head than collective nonsense. This of couse would create miscommunication, trying to manifest these thoughts. Words, he thought, he rather not. Society? He still remained functional within parameters, but he knew, and I knew that the distance to the thin line was far from being a feat. That thin line between insanity and social functionality. He understood this very well. We almost did, but then again, I guess we really didn't. At least I know that all I knew was that he needed only to hop or trip to get to the other side. The other side promised many things. We had been shown since little darlings that we were. Promises of lonliness and silence, detailed schedules, padded rooms. This text means, of course, that someone hopped or tripped. Funnily enough, as functional and rational that I may seem, it is me who is writting across the padded walls. Circumstances made me trip. I am no longer part of the collective, and I am almost glad. I am satisfied observing through a looking glass from the other side. From silence,unparameterized.

As I run through bolds and italics, matter seems to collapse behind me. God created a universe that is held up with duct-tape and toothpicks, rubber bands and paper clips. It can only hold up for so long. There is no amount of patchwork that could help fix this place, we are destined for destruction. The field longs for complex chaos. I guess it can all be summed up by one word.
Decay. D-e-c-a-y. It's a scary word. To decompose. Desintegrate. Human decomposition, radiactive decay, food decay, health deterioration. It is applied to most everything, because everything ages, and becomes everything it was not, and that is the scary part. It was perfect but it decayed. We were written down in the perfect equation, but we made it deteriorate. Maybe I'm just mad at us as I am writing this, or maybe I oversimplify things by using a word that simply describes the situation, blowing it up, applying it to everything I see at the moment. All I can say is that I am not happy with my broken window. I hope you deteriorate at a faster rate.

the universe is held together by a piece of continuous and recursive string.

The windows would let in a variety of rays once the sun came up from its cage called gravity. The only reason the light bounces off the concrete is that there is not a hole through where the particle/waves can seep through. No holes through where my eyes can peek through. Landscapes are matte grey, and pastel painted. I've no reason to believe that these giants are keeping me inside, but I look at them, and they smile. I know they want to keep me here. The walls, they all stand and stare and sing. The songs beat beautifully on my membranes. I curse the damned sirens.
It's 9:36 in the morning, sun is up, people are awake and my digestive meats growl from their cave. Fuel: one of the many reasons to slide off from bed. wishwecouldjustphotosynthesize. Wish I could be a Jackalope. I wish to be a hoax, so I could swim between streams, among ideas and great plans. Plans to destroy and to unite. Swim along chaos, swim along comformity. Swim along structure and order. I aim to be multidirectional or maybe not; omnidirectional...like the Jackalope, and in my tiny little deathbox carved by hand, on the header, title page, epitaph "here lies the only living hoax".