August 30, 2019

On Change

Your body tightens, heart beats faster, your head filled with helium, and your stomach bloats like a corpse. Too much change is devastating, too much unspeculated factors that physically boils your body. The unknown is still a threat, no matter how far in life you are. There is no amount of experience that readies you to switch mental gears in an instant; like gears too much friction can colapse itself. There’s an idea behind your head trying to balance all of the inevitable, to keep perspective, to hold on to logic. But everything fails once the painful train of thought lunges in at full speed whipping the wind out of your sanity.

This too shall pass, as is everything, but at that moment it feels so heavy that its like trying to hold up a fridge on quicksand. But, yeah, this too shall pass as it has always been; you’ve been through this, you know this, but still it never feels familiar. How many times has change passed here? In all of life how many times has it always been for the better? The trick is to exploit change, to mold it into what you need. Because change itself only comes when it needs to be and probably now it needs to be.

It neve feels familiar, despite its familiarity. The twisted joke our brain and body plays panning in and out between fight and flight between fear and indifference. I chose indifference, but they have other plans.

April 24, 2019

Voisez VI

It has been so long you forgot it physically hurts, you forgot that it is more than some mind trick, you forgot how real it feels, you forgot that even though its in your head, you still feel it. Age does not stop it. Time does not weaken it.

She helps to soften clenched screams and inflamed muscles. Calmly soothes the tight bitten tounge. Readjusts the calamity. Renders clean dissolves rusted wings.

April 16, 2018

On Freedom

In regards to free will and the luxury of choice we will always be dangling in between “I’ve got this” and “I have no fucking idea what I’m doing right now”

April 9, 2018

Voisez V

A sense of dread stuck with a brick on the gas pedal. The motion feels like sinking, constantly, waiting for confirmation yet avoiding that moment. Assumption, speculation, possibilities, hallucinations, misinterpreted feelings. Panicked by being panicked and the cycle circles into chaos. We ride around the river for a minute. I say my words, calm does not happen. Spiraling and hovering at a fixed distance, your face keeps hanging a few centimeters above the asphalt while your body keeps falling against an invisible abyss. Memories that hasn’t happened. A dejavu, a misunderstood signal of the brain chasing its electric tongue with time reminding itself to forget, emotional synesthesia. How do souls connect, how do we feel? Electric feels intense, a deep dive in the universe’s ocean of thoughts, feelings, daydreams. Even at night, daydreams are still daydreams, in a sense night is not the end of a day, just a transition — it is just transition. Rereading paragraphs, no contextual edits, no censorship, no self imagery but a self imagery hoping that no image is cool allowing tacky to thrive. We still have that. Hoping to be cool. Relevant, but in a existential sense. Relevant to the world, to stand out in an ocean of thoughts, feelings, daydreams. A blip, a speck, a nought. A realization of blood flowing back to fingertips, to tonguetips. Anticipation ends.

October 9, 2016

On Krikkit

“Imagine,” he said, “never even thinking, ‘We are alone,’ simply because it has never occurred to you to think that there’s any other way to be” -Slartibartfast

August 19, 2014

The Peace-Keeping Law

[Those who believe or act as if that they own the world] give the creatures around them a chance to grow toward whatever it’s possible for them to become.
-Daniel Quinn, 1990

July 24, 2014


Belief segregates, and ideology separates. It is the underlying root cause of the imaginary divide, a border of sorts of the humane interaction. Because a chance to love with such passion equates in hating with the same amount of passion in the general figure of probability. It is not the heat of debate nor the ruckus of disagreement, it is the idea in the back of the mind that believes an ultimate truth. While still trying to tolerating agreeing to other lesser truths he holds in his mind a superior brand. “Truth Plus”.  While not as strong as the Milk variety, the addiction is nonetheless the same — even the potentiallity to do ultraviolence more or less is the same. We are trained to believe since we were born that an ultimate truth exists. We were born to idealize a condition where this truth is adopted by all the population of this world. Paralel to this fact we are thrown in a world where everyone has been raised to think, to each their own, their own version of an ultimate truth, and beyond the seemingly agreeing nods, quietly, and certainly, the ultimate truth is safely stowed in a golden vessel; away from the noise of lesser truths. We are in a way, born — for lack of a better term — fascists, loyal to our dogmatic idealized ultimate truths, waiting for death to claim us and prove for the very last time that that idealization holds true. We even propagate, automatically, subconcsiously, the ultimate truth. Repetitively spewing the beliefs and pseudofactual claims that hold as brittle as sugarglass. We proclaim in subtext the dangers of lesser truths and how it will cause the demise of a certain era. Of time itself. That lesser truths will cause an imbalance or anger an intangible being or cause phantom psychosomatic pain. It is endless. It has been done.

January 7, 2014

Would Have, Should Have, Could Have.

I have not written for so long.

They say time mellows wisdom, where emotions ripen and forethought becomes a priority. Actually no, age has very little to do with wisdom. Those who do say that are probably people struggling to balance sanity with post-power-syndrome: the respect freaks. In my young adult life I have met many people who have aged gracefully, and even then these people are still bothered with the common ponders of “would have, should have, could have”. As with my option and chances theory, the Would Should Could (WSC) plagues the minds of the majority of the global population simply because it is a choice of future, present, and past tendencies which determine the assumption of where we will be, where we are, and where we were.

We, well some of us, spend a lot of time analysing the past and how that information will be useful for the challenges we face now and later. It is a pre-emptive liberation from uncontrolled consequences. In a way, WSC is more of an analytical tool of sorts which uses past experiences to create assumptions in which what the outcome will be for future problems/choices. It is also a double edged sword in which the analytical process becomes stuck in the cycle of a worried state: building assumptions without actually amounting into anything. The assumption is thick in fear and worry that we become afraid of the assumptions we create in our heads. We give up to the assumptions, which is illogical since it is our own voices in our heads that we fear.

It is solutive as well as entrapping at the same time. It boosts morale as well as lock us in a state of perpetual self-loathing.

We imagine a Would — imagine, not plan — of ideals and end-goals gleaming with promises, also, imagined. A future constructed in our minds as if we are highly apt soothesayers reading silver linings on clouds. A Should, as in how we imagine what to act upon the hypothethical and the scenarios playing in our heads to actual present situations. To act and to imagining to act is clearly, definitely, uncomparable. How many times we simulate a scenario in our head will never accumulate to an actual outcome, it is psychological masturbation: orgasmic yet empty; the void of body heat transfer confuses what is supposed to be, a shared experience. Lastly the Could, a retrospective view on what has been done and imagined and outcome and enjoyment and dissapointment and achievements and failures rolled up into a claylike ball, merged and blurred, warped into unfamiliar shapes as the brain continues to create pseudo memories. It is only reference, nothing more. The temptation of contemplating the retrospect on what we may think we were capable of at a particularly specific time and space. A pack mule hunting a carrot on the end of a stick.

June 15, 2013

Blurbebebebbbb or Voisez IV

It is as if the contents of your head shrinked and in its place, bloated air pressures your skull. you are being submerged underwater but still being able to breathe. Hardly breathing. The reality of being one with one’s self seems as a distant self achievement, to compose, no, to sculpt the exo-imagery of a body to the audience stares. Extacy or etymologically ex-stasis, being outside the body looking in, us as a different person us as an object for ourselves. We relate to the fact we do not know who we are, we have been trained to sculpt this exo-imagery. To create a ready conclusio of what we display to the beloved audience. The audience yawns, a tear slides from their eye socket rolling on their cheek. The exo-imagery fails. You are not a specimen worthy of our eyes to fixate upon. You are null. Null, imaginary, irrational. To the eyes of the audience, through the eyes of ex-stasis it is a body, but a body buried beneath a see through acrylic coating. Clear enough to see but blurred by the light bias, bending and breaking through the semi-opaque. Acrylic melts and screams inaudible, twisting while heat displays its function. A chemical reaction, energy defeats, eliminates the acrylic. Blur dissapates and the image is clear. Not of beauty perhaps, but not too painful for the eyes to see. Ex-stasis. The air deflates.

June 5, 2013

Compulsory Component

The funny thing about life is that there is this weighted towering shadow that forces us to comply with our inner most inhibitions. Your wants perceived as needs perceived as urgent perceived as priority as your brain conjours illusionary justifications in broken logic. It is disturbing really how bodily functions are centrally controlled by a glop called a brain which literally has a mind of its own. In a freeflowing motion of irrationality it begs attention to be the belle of the ball. A sick psyche of sorts in which bells and whistles hang about clouding the air with high pitched noise. Regulated only by sanity. Regulated by the very being that causes it to rebel from authority. A paradoxial line given in by the sideway stares of disaprovals, gleaming down on the shattered hopes and dreams of the irregular kind. Rekindling the fact that is most lost, that is most unrepented, unloved. Emotions and rationality mixed as one, a compulsory component in perceiving the overflowing thought products that litter the shallow planes of nothing in whole.