Left Field

Maybe its true. Being in and out. This middle ground of non committal space of indecisiveness, never choosing, but being in the middle. To be safe in the not complete commitment so that if you're caught in a conundrum, you can be 'politically correct' because you never really committed to whatever it was you were supposedly committed to in the first place.

Scared of being stuck and trapped has defined this trait in me. Some friends would describe it as my 'coyness'. Coy.  http://www.thefreedictionary.com/coy
This seems to be my state too frequently as I don't want to completely commit. I don't want to ever 'completely' be wrong. I don't ever want to be completely be the one to blame.
When I'm caught I will admit to these things. When I'm not caught in definite answers or definite statements, I'm off somewhere in a playful game of coyness.
No coyness intended. I realize how much I avoid...everything.

I stunt my own experiences because some definite concrete thing scares me to a degree, (depending on matters of importance.) I can be blunt, and this isn't always to my advantage, but I think it can fool people to think I'm not as coy or evasive as I really am.
I guess I'm not as evasive when it comes to other people.
I even use phrases like 'I guess' instead of the complete state of being and admittance, 'I am'.
I am, I am not.

I don't always say what I mean.
Sometimes I avoid direct answers.
I should be accused as 'SUBJECT CHANGER'.
Random? No. Just subject changer.

Ok. I'm random.
But I do throw conversations out in left field sometimes.

Where has my perspective gone? I've been challenged on this and ache with it. I ache because in my lack of choosing definitive answers and whatever else, I have been the cause to the very things I wished to avoid. So much for my brilliance.

Joy of Movement

There are things I regret in a world where I have few regrets.

Its complicated doesn't describe my life.  Maybe things are so simple they are overlooked.
I complicate simple.  That very well could make me a prick.
Let me break your spirit.
I am breakable, too, and I break for smaller things.  Maybe I'm much more shattered than I thought at the beginning of this walk.  Maybe my rusty heart is exposed, the oxidation breaking me down to less than when it began.

I am an oxidized hole.
I am not a complete thought but a continuously churning and morphing cloud of conscious and unconscious.  I move in this space and in between this space and walk a waking dream and nightmare, choosing and cheating sleep and my waking world.

Time is a jerk, yet is our gift.  The dwindling of moments is our happiness because it makes the previous moment all the more precious.  We are so exhausted and one day, we will lay our head down for the last time.  We will wake for the last time.  We will speak for the last time.
One day.
It all ends.

Mustache Mornings.

There is just nothing quite like a Mustache Morning.
Let me explain.

Mornings that require a certain inconspicuousness to them.  The morning that required me to not readily notice.  Notice what?  You tell me.
A Mustache Morning requires a certain finesse.  I needed to be inconspicuous so I threw on my Mustache. You could also say, "Today was a Mustache Morning.  I threw on my Mustache as I walked out the door and went to work."

Wonderful.
It was just a Mustache Morning, you see.
I threw on my mustache and danced vigorously because I just needed to move in a freeing way.

I keep thinking more on movement.  I keep thinking more on dancing.  I think dancing is more important than we realize.  Like art is more important than we realize.  I started dancing the other day and really let go of my limitations on my movements and forgot to be embarrassed in front of myself.  I started in a medium melancholy state of mind and left in a state of happiness.  I felt good to be alive.  I truly believe we need to express ourselves more and interact with the world around us.
The numbness of our state in constant stimulus of mere entertainment value does not always ENGAGE us in the watching of the movie.  We sit back within ourselves and our thoughts remain inside, and our feelings remain inside, and our real life experiences that allow us to connect in the watching of a movie remain buried as the engaging factor wasn't really present.

We forget to engage in our own lives, and I feel as if I engaged with myself again.
I feel a strange awareness that I am alive, and it is a good feeling.  It makes me want to move and express myself to God.  To express myself in ways that words really cannot.

So I throw on my mustache that allows me to be inconspicuous in front of myself and I let go and move as pulsating or river like music takes me in a fluid motion, washing me in this river of freshness and in this river of life.

Grow up.

I want to think of you fondly but I don't today.  All I feel are your mistakes.  They weigh on more than just you.  Your actions are a domino of movements touching the domino people around you.  Not to eat domino pizza.  Just dominate the conversation.

I'm sick of it.

I'm sick when you call.  I'm sick when you don't.
I'm afraid of commitment because you're afraid of commitment.
You don't commit.
You did not commit to me.
I was not worth much then, and I am not worth now.

I would think you could keep your pants on.
I would think you could control yourself better than you do.
You're just a mess like this canvas of paint turning into mud beneath an inexpert hand.

Baby Talk.

I haven't talked to you in days, and in complete honesty, I haven't noticed until yesterday.

The smell of you found my nostrils somehow today and I remembered your face, your hair, your speech.  I remembered your tired look.  That tired look seems to be constant.
You don't call me because it is my responsibility to call you.
This relationship is uncharted in reality.  How do you work this through.  I can't always do it.
You fall back burner to my life, and I am ok with this.
I am ok to not hear your voice droning on about things that only involve you.  I am very selfish.  But I got it from you and your human condition, too.  You're supposed to be better at life with your coming of age and experience.  You're supposed to know things that are gems and nuggets of gold.  This isn't high school.  You're not in high school anymore.  Why do I have to be the adult.  Why do you have to act like a child on a constant stage of forgetfulness.
I'd think that you smoked more pot than anyone I know, but you just think on little other than yourself.

You are your own rainbow.


Where is the art in that.



I look in the mirror and wrestle with my bone structure.  I struggle with my eyes.  I struggle with any resemblance to you because I don't know if I like it or not.  I don't know if I accept well where I came in a physical way.  I want to love what God made, but I don't approve of your actions.

Grow up.

You'd think that your training underwear would get old like you, but you're still forgetting to go to the bathroom on your own.
Gee wizz, you femme bot.  Put your mojo away and mother your children.  It is ridiculous.




I want to feel proud in being yours.
I am not proud to be yours.
Why did you not try and give me a reason.
Why are you chasing after empty dreams.
Why aren't you dreaming new things.
Why can't you.

I'm just frustrated with your baby talk.

Forgetfulness with a side of Crunch.

My own indecisiveness kicks me in the shins.

I shout out in protest but the little bugger runs away before I can catch him and show him who is boss.

Apparently I'm not doing much to take enough initiative.

I'm intimidated.

Nervous even.

And I don't know how to react to my feelings anymore.

I am in uncharted territory and I don't know how I feel about it.  I want things simple, yet I don't know how to be in any pairing or relationship whatsoever.  I am a pulled mess, like shucked corn at a corn shucking contest.  look up corn shucking here>>  http://www.ehow.com/how_2072862_shuck-corn.html  <<.

I want to read until my eyes cannot anymore.  I want to watch films so long that I don't remember who I am, where I was, who I was, and where I was going.  I want more, yet want to much less.  I don't like responsibility and all of this seems subjective.  Sense to me is painting a great painting before bed, and waking up fully rested even though you only received one hour of sleep.  This, would be perfect sense if it could really be true.  But since there is no truth in this sense, then there is no sense in it at all.

Screw sense.

I'm a dreamer.

I want to just sleep a good while.  Dream.  Yet, I don't always remember my dreams.  How can I really be a dreamer.  Only God really knows.  Brain Ache.  Character Ache.  My character suffers from my lack of memory.  I forget things.

Garbage.

I thought it would only take a moment.

It did take only a moment.

Now these passing moments move fast, yet slow at the same time, the pace wracking my brain with rose like patterns.


I hate some things I am aware of.
I hate that I know you're with him.
I hate his smirks and disgusting confidence.
I hate the lustful look in his eye when he looks at me, then to you.
I hate his snickering and distasteful joking.
He picks up bad habits and has won you over in using them.
I hate that he takes up your time.
I hate that you told me at least twice that he's not the one for you.
I hate that you go after him because he is such a smooth talker.
You push and pull with him, and in my selfishness I feel left out.
I don't like who you are today, and don't like where you're going.

I feel like the trash.  I was used and it was time to discard.
Discarded.  Like trash on garbage day.

Grounds

Cascading down your mountain, we go together.  There is no thought of loneliness - only the thought of protecting the other.  There is a dominance in our stances as we give each other more than second glances, and we pray that our days will not end in empty satisfaction.
Is empty satisfaction.  Contradiction.  Empty satisfaction would be about as similar as no satisfaction.

Sounds and movements to create the music, the lips make the sounds we tap our feet to.
These things are different than the twisting and tinkering of the outdoor sounds of mother nature, singing her children to sleep and to wake.

Broken communication.
We forget to relate to each other as humans do.  We are reading each other like books, and spoken word sometimes becomes the figment of our imagination.  We need not say anything in some of these moments.

Did I say anything?

Did anything protest within me, or did I just merely go on for the ride?  Was it wrong for me to jump on this tide like some West Coast surfer, taking this wave til it crashes, perhaps crushed beneath the waves, or euphoric because I mastered the driving.  This is why we need driver's licenses.

Some people should never be allowed to drive.
Maybe we should all just stop riding in cars and make a lot of trains.  Maybe we should walk and ride our bikes more.  Maybe we should just get our horses out.  But PETA wouldn't like that would they.  That would be too cruel to the horse.
Forget John Wayne in the wilderness.  I'll take my city scape and eat it for dinner.  I won't like the taste, but I will still feed upon its business.  I don't know if I will really want to write down the recipe, for a few bites usually are enough.  As you ingest and digest I suspect it does something to destroy your inside inner working with your closeness to the earth.

To be disconnected from the ground beneath your feet by some concrete or some rubber sole of your shoe.

Take off your shoes.  Know the ground upon which you stand.

Grains of sand.

The earth spins around while the people fall down.

I need to go to the grocery.
And get lots of things.

This happens every week or so.
Amazing how many things we think we need.
Amazing how many things will end up going bad in our refrigerator.

Amazing.

Smacking the forehead in astonishment at how much money I can spend.  Oh, to be more self sufficient and not needing a 'store'.

Are we a breed of survivors?  I don't know.
I just know I'm so deep in my thoughts it is like swimming, and real sound is an underwater current that I cannot comprehend.  Water wash me away like the grains of sand.

Gladys and Pancakes.

My world has been quiet.  In a quiet way, I've been happy.  I've known contentment and peace being still.

A knock at the door.

Another face, another day, another moment to pass exchanging information like the regurgitating of a history book, informing its reader the contents of the book that they are spending time on, reading.  If you don't give them the information fast enough, they put the book down and move on.

It seems that when I read a novel, there needs to be a lot to envelope me in order to keep me reading.  Imagine how many books there are in the world.  Now imagine all the time it takes to read them.  What books do you spend your time on?  I find my self most pleased when I'm reading mindless books of science fiction, forcing me to use my imagination, which, lucky for me, is right beneath my eyelids.  I have a good gift at envisioning pictures and flat out...imagining.

I want to turn back times and fix moments where I was too confused to care about anyone else.  I want to erase words that I have said that, in fact, have hurt others.  I long to rewrite a few chapters, as I was in a 'bad state of mind' and ruined other peoples plans.

Sometimes I think at the core of me, I long to please people.  BUT, I remember how selfish I am and know this cannot be true.  Are most people really just trying to get what they want, whatever that is, and are they manipulating everyone around them constantly to get what they long for...?  Are there are a lot of people that need to go into the acting profession?  Why do we even know the difference between good acting and bad acting. (rhetorical question.)

My novel longs to be science fiction, but it is stuck in reality.  I feel stuck between two worlds all the time.  Is this why I can procrastinate so well?  OR do I just not think fast enough to satisfy those around me that are waiting on my slow molasses self?

Molasses.  Who ever just put some on pancakes and was glad?

I knew a woman named Gladys.  Her front toes were cut off by a lawn mower.

I have splatter painted sweatshirt that says street radical, but I don't really know what that means.

My mind is an open ended thought machine today not forming coherent lines.  You are reading the symptoms of my bubble brained thinking.  Feel privileged.  I know I do.

Anguishing.

Its not always easy being honest.  Sometimes you cannot be.

How do you keep someone else safe?  Is lying and keeping them oblivious the option for the sake of their best interest of not being hurt, or do you hurt them.
Do you let your honesty make you the monster again?
Why is me in my honest self such an instrument that can cause so much anguish?