Solitariness

 At times solitariness edges towards narcissistic solipsism, cornering oneself to escape the gaze of the other, the gaze that is always looking elsewhere.

I came across this eloquent, and helpful quotation by Paul Auster:

"Solitary. But not in the sense of being alone. Not solitary in the way Thoreau was, for example, exiling himself in order to find out where he was; not solitary in the way Jonah was, praying for deliverance in the belly of the whale. Solitary in the sense of retreat. In the sense of not having to see himself, of not having to see himself being seen by anyone else."

Though retreat, for me, is at times only wishful.

re-turn

amidst dark lashes and lilac shades the thought re-emerges like a firing-squad; the wooden fences i`ve built are as kind as unrequited love.

survival tip # 1

on the slippery scroll, inch toward the gap right below the musky moon, fill it with madness, horror, and profanities, then tiptoe away

what is the poetry of existence?

a construction of temples for and without the 'other'.

this day

the day announces itself over and over and over again, a nauseous turn spiraling and sinking, but i cannot hear it, feel it,  maybe, but for me it has yet to begin

just write

i can't "just write" when the sun is weeping at my fingertips.  i must first handle the carcass of words melting at my touch.

in the middle

all the lights are out. while we know that the life we construct is partly a grand fictional race between life and death that inevitably leaves sun-stained skid marks ; yet, it is guided by real people and events that provide some sort of stability, comfort, and meaning. with that said, i just had a monumental revelation--monument in ruins is more accurate--that i must disparage, diminish, decry, and desert my illusions that are not only empty, hollow, saccharine, but pathetic. i find myself an unwanted, hypersensitive beetle mangled in a spider's web in a bottle thrown off-track in the middle of self-otherness.