If I have to sit down and wrack my brain for something plausible to write does that mean I have nothing to write at all? No, it only means, my mind is jumbled, the way is unclear, and ironically the only way to clear it, is to write.
What should I say? Should I comment on another day passed? On the glee I felt when I ended a phone conversation with the one of the only true fuck buddy and friend I have ever had? How I jumped up and down for joy, and then quickly composed myself and continued on with making my tofurkey sandwich? And how my spirit floats at the thought of seeing him again, after all this time? At the idea of how I have missed him, but in such a fulfilling and peaceful manner, about how much he taught me about myself, and about how grateful I am for him. For simply existing, proving all others wrong.
He is a dear friend, and in this day and age, that says a lot.
I moved my lamp from the corner of the room to the front, right beside the door, now instead of mostly illuminating the 4 corners behind, it lights all, throws a soft warm glow on everything it touches, even my boots look romantic, how the light spreads mesmerizes me, and I start to envision love.
Because that's how I see love, it starts bright and fiery at the core, but gently illuminates all around it. Kissing every organism with a touch of light, spreading it's essence, spreading that energy, spreading that power.
How empowering it must feel, birthed in the stage of the universe's creation, in a walking miracle's beating heart, it directs so much of our life, how powerful it must feel, controlling such a large portion of the world, it's only foe is hatred, it's only weakness, and in the face of it, it's power becomes weak, the victor and victim.
So in one breathe you can say, oh great and powerful love, in the other, you can weep, oh poor and wretched love.
It's all up to us in the end. We hold the reigns to the chariot of it's destiny. Do we love? Or do we hate?
I choose to love, no matter what, no matter who owes me money, something I still have trouble even coming to terms with, what kind of a man lets himself owe a woman? But I digress, back to loving. But in the meantime let me text that nigga and get my mother fucking money.
But yes. Loving. I don't hate. Hate only destroys itself in the end, those who hate are killed by their own hatred, I pity. Things anger to be sure, but I always maintain, I always strive to remember, that my anger does not come from my creator, it is from my own weakness, there is no divinity in my rage, there is nothing pure in uncontrolled animosity, I always remember this one line, that will answer all of my problems in the end.
Control yourself. Control the world.
There's boy I might've fucked with eons ago, and we recently got in contact with one another via Twitter, his interest in me remains it would seem, but I find his methods of garnering my attention juvenile at best. I read them with a grimace, the sweetness sickens, have I alluded to any interest in this being romantically once more? What we had, is just that, a had. I don't even remember my reasoning behind the encounter, but I came to regret it at times, it was sweet, he really liked me, I suppose he still does, but I have no interest in anything of the sort.
All the compliments, the endearing words, just cause me to roll my eyes and conduct a side eye operation on the entire movement. I want to be spoken to like a human being first. I know I always say you should just express your emotion, but when it comes to me, please measure your distance before you walk it. I don't want to be rude, so I generally just ignore his advances in hopes that he'll desist and act like a normal human being once more.
Perhaps it's the predictable nature of the entire affair that turns me off so much, because I knew he would do this, I knew he would approach me like that, because I saw it coming, I immediately despised it, and in that sense, is he really to blame? Is it his fault that I'm a foreshadowing cad?
No, it's not his fault, but the blame game does not change how I feel at the end of the day. My interest remains nonexistent. I hold such contempt for predictability. I can't even help myself. I hate formula's, I hate scripts, I hate any sense of a feeling that this has been done before, the idea that we live our lives according to someone else's picture of how and what things should be causes my bile to rise. And the fact that so many are happy in this existence is despairing.
So I shall remain on this island, all by my lonesome, until a ship I have never seen before lights up the view one brilliant sunset as I sit and watch the horizon. I'll stand and smile the most brilliant smile I could ever muster, smile and scream at the top of my lungs;
Ahoy, my mother fucking nigga!
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