My search for the right words is never-ending. I used to have a way with words that would allow me to say just the right thing at the right time. I knew exactly how to twist and manipulate words and play with sentences to add wit and humor to my words. I used to enjoy the way I said things and have fun doing that with others.
I don't know if it's lack of practice, but I certainly don't have that skill anymore. I'm trying to find my way back so I can finally work on something more serious instead of just rambling about aimless and as confused as those who read my meaningless crap would be. I'm not in the position to judge my ability to express, but I should not settle for anything less than what I used to be. I'm not old, and I sure am not demented. Fuck. This.
Sunlight dances on her face and the shade fights for her attention, the concrete lifts into a smile when she delights it with every delicate step, she breaths out the sensation of eating ice-cream in the summer and she breaths in the wounds and the scars of everyone around her. Smile bright but her eyes are faded to grey, skin flawless but her cheeks have hollowed inwards, her footsteps grow heavy as the ground shakes beneath her, the shadows creep up her neck as the pavement drags her to the ground. Enduring the agony of breathing in took away the sunlights daughter to the shadows
Searing pain dispersed unevenly throughout you, it's like the aftermath of a knocked over tin of paint splattering cold white walls. Toxic fumes force there way into your system causing a pulsing migraine to develops. The paint is thrown onto the people around you, their clothes and skin now ruined like how you dragged them down when you fell. Falling faster and faster with no destination the sound of the sky engulfing your senses until there's nothing, no one because you hit the ground and there's no coming back up this time
No comprehension came from the white eyes before me. But it was not that hard to grasp. It was as simple as a green ghost floating out of the blades of grass as we inhale them, or as the subtle chimes one can listen to as butterflies rise and fall through porcelain pirouettes, and leave the air with the shape and color of a Han masterpiece. Nonetheless, the bears will not sleep until my umbrella can cover them all. But it is so small, the aluminum skeleton of a spider. Dead spider and crying flea, jumping through the cracks of my darkened wall, burnt by incense and cigarettes. Pale blue light remains through my fingers as I try to guess the screams of your figure under these cold, soft silk robes. it will fall and whistle towards the floor. But your body will always stay still, my young marble soul.
An intellectual party must never miss two things. First, communist propoaganda. Second, paintings. Violent paintings, traces that can be seen, like the marks a whale leaves over the water. Night will never fall if we can see the oil of the stars and feel the waves of the dying sea, the blood of the Saint Sebastian in pain, or the skin of the ronin who burns in his armor. The people will laugh for a while, talk about how art is bourgeois an discuss Breton's radical absurdism. They will always miss a few points about color in the middle of their exquisite corpses, and will struggle not to notice how they all have the same baroque and needlessly showy style. That is no style. It is as stylish as the complex tunnels ants build, when they have enough space to live and simply want to keep invaders thinking. The smart ones should fill the holes with silver and copper. Then they would unearth the blazing bush Moses saw when he fled the void within.