I feel like sometimes I’m just waiting to fall in love, waiting for my life to spiral down into a deep abyss of emotions and numbness. But will I know when I fall in love? Will I recognize this unstoppable force? Or is it something that comes natural to the human psyche to recognize this feeling of utter longing and desire for another individual, so much so that you are willing to walk to the ends of the earth to be with them and make them happy? Knowing myself, it’s a rather uneasy notion.

The drunken seaman castes away to sail the Atlantic Ocean 
Drunk for more than half his life found being sober an interesting notion 
Dressed in rags, musky as hell, his beard a tangled mess 
With a tattered old map to scour the sea for an old treasure chest 
Rum in one hand, slugging it back, called it his magic potion 
So even in the middle of nowhere still managed to stir a commotion

I’m going to get a cat and a pipe and compose terribly written prose for the rest of my life about how much I hate writting terribly written prose, all while living in a dark, musky basement where the only light would come from a pigeonhole and a 10 watt bulb. My cat’s name would be Furloaf and he’d be my only friend, and together we’d live off bread and canned sardines.

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I dream that one day I’ll open my mouth and the words that escape my clumsy lips will be intelligible and thought provoking, smooth and gentle on the ears.

Time…time…time…where does it all go?

I feel so drained. My eyes burn with sleep lost from every waking moment in my life where the crickets song played in the wake of night and the hands on my biological clock stayed stuck at 10 o’clock. Sleep? Maybe I need some time to relax, some time to gather my thoughts into coherency. Maybe I’ve lost bits and pieces of my sanity, my being, my mind in the darkness of the night that engulfs me in the liquid blackness, suffocating me in the visible air hiding everything around me as those colorful dots dance before my eyes. The exhaustion numbing me, wrapping me in a tight bundle awaiting for the shades of my eyes to be pulled down and my mind to wander and dive into a pool of dreams and awake feeling cool and refreshed.

But life happens and it always does, and time goes with it.

slickerthanrick:

So many things are happening in the world and so many emotions are stirring in my chest, clogging my throat and pounding my head. My eyes burn with sadness that can only be slightly soothed with the tears of frustration and grief. I mourn for the people who have lived a life of prosperous struggle to only lose it within bad circumstances, and for what?

I’m a tired individual, and that’s all I can be is tired. I’m praying, because that’s all I can do is pray. And maybe I’ll live to see the day where more changes will be made, because what I see and hear and read is gut wrenching to say the least.

I let out a deep sigh, for words cannot express how I feel, and all that leaves my lips is the air in my lungs and the sorrow in my heart.

The most coherent thing I’ve written that expresses my feelings towards all the wrong and injustice that’s happening in the world.

Spring has this scent of renewal, of fresh earth and new beginning. When the sky is bluer and the clouds are whipped into a buttery cream frosted into the sky. Nostalgia washes over me; I am transported to the springs of years past.

To the days when I was eight and would ride my bike down the street back and forth without my sweater and not have to worry about my mother calling for me to wear it. To the days when I was ten and I’d watch the grasshoppers grow and name each one I caught — Houdini, Hoppers, Henry, Hulk. To the days when I was twelve and would lay out on my drive way looking up at the sky as the sun washed over me and I would think all my naïve middle school thoughts. To the days when I’d sit outside in the backyard and find the grass thick and green, reading for hours on end till I’d be nearly eaten alive by mosquitoes. To the days when the weekend weather was so perfect that it consisted of BBQs, cousins and eating fresh fruit outdoors. The days when we needed neither the heater nor the air conditioning, but instead have all the windows up where the sweet smell of spring was our air freshener and breeze was our AC.

Spring brings out the lazy in me, or more of it matter of fact. Where most people look forward to doing something, I look forward to doing nothing, nothing but reminisce and relax and feel good feelings. Spring is the time where I stock up on tea bags for the gallons of sweet tea that I plan to make. The time where I have the house to myself for a good week to clean out the skeletons in my closet and the dead roaches too, and to not worry about anything except what I should bake next. The world seems bigger and brighter and I feel better and bolder.

When it is spring I am in two different times at once. I am reliving the spring of yesteryear as I create new memories for the next; for the memories of spring stick to me like the sweet honey from the buzzing bees that busily go from flower to flower so I can pour it copiously into my morning tea.

They had nothing to say to each other. The tension built as every second ticked by on the analog clock that hung on the wall tick, tick, tick. There was a single window that peered out to a cloudy day with a yellow tint to the sky and everything around it in an almost eerie sun-washed color. They sat together in a small waiting room with two chairs, and the only thing separating them was a small table that had an empty box of tissues and magazines dating back to almost five years ago, yet were almost like new. Neither made a sound as the thoughts in their heads echoed the emotions buried deep within them and the words they so badly wanted to say but would never have the courage to utter. To avoid averting side glances to each other, or possible eye contact, they simply stared ahead at the door, waiting.

It’s midnight and the crickets’ song creeps through the open window along with the cool breeze that caresses my skin, sweet and tender to the touch. My mind is a million miles away right now, I should be working and getting things done but I don’t care enough to find the initiative nor do I want to. The steaming tea that I hold in my hand nips my fingertips, my tongue. My impatience leads to a numbness, a scalding of the taste buds and the soul, but it’s a good feeling and I like good feelings. 

I breathe hoping the drumming inbetween my temples will fade, the ever so slight pounding that attempts to push me back to reality.

Fuck it.

In this moment I have everything and within hours I will lose it all to only reclaim it once again the next night, and this cycle seems never ending but I will triumph eventually. And though I see no future, it’s bright nonetheless, mysterious and cold. Like a cup of tea, you don’t know how much sugar is needed and you’ll never know unless you take that first sip. Impatience will either leave you with a burnt tastelessness in the mouth where the sugar wont matter anymore, or the pleasure of tea is now long gone and it sits there cold and going to waste.

The tentative dip of the tongue will take you more places than you can possibly imagine, for tea can replenish the soul and open the mind.