hi, life

 hi life,

I don't think we've met before. I am. None of those qualifications that I add to the phrase after that. I'm just me, a bundle of memories tasting your lapping waves against the shores of my mind for the first time in a bit. 

I'm a sexy musician with a deep taste in words and conversation. I'm a hacky engineer jugaading my way through the decadent depths of the sewage of late stage capitalism. I am the fire of a stage that bathes a performer in the flame of the audience's expectations. I am a writer with a scalpel scraping the inside of my skull. 

But I am also none of those things. I am the deep void conjuring truths into existence. and I have recently felt the world shifting beneath my feet. As it shifts further and further, faster and faster I look to ascribe meaning to it - the call to an adventure a young man faces, a hero's journey, my dharma to others and society and many other thoughts pinched into my skin by the others.

But you know them. And you know me. I have been there and done that - through old philosohpical tomes, through dark, lightless and poor hillside homes. The chilly breaths of winds on a lonely and sick night whispered to me through a dogs whimper that day about the mountain atop whose heights there was a stone. 

Within that stone lay my excalibur. A scalpel to probe into my head further. It was a scalpel to touch a nerve that could make me dance. A schizophrenic, free dance through the throes of existence. 

Well, that's not really true; The truth is I am narrowing my focus again. I like that quite a bit. Its how these words come into being. Choking myself, until the bhekula can only sputter out truth. It's rather constrained if I'm gonna be honest with you. My throat has perpetually dried up and my eye muscles have twisted. 

It's like a stove in a house being always on. A kid continues staring at the blue incandescent flame, protecting it with his palms. In the darkest of nights, there is a subtle refuge the world finds in crowding around and awtching the brilliance of that flame. But really its quite exhausting to always have the flame be turned on. Recently I have been considering letting the kid rest his charred hands, charred mind. 

Creativity really is a fire. Perhaps the fire of sex and kundalini - or whatever woowoo stories we make for ourselves to understand the genius of the human organism. I see it oozing out of our pores when we dance - the beauty of those expressions connecting us to a time long gone. I see it in music too, flowing through our mind. It forms a layer between us and the bullshit we call society - a dreamy, floaty layer to waddle around in. I see it in writing - but really I am too deep inside here to see it as anything romantic. It's all emptiness, and almost a resentment and fear of being understood for what would that leave of us?

I met a pretty cool woman recently. I think you know her too. I hope you forget this, but I'm talking about you. She comes to me in a myriad different forms. A silent, slow hillside stream for the charred remains of my hands. Sometimes the cold makes them sizzle and burn, and I realise what my thought has wrought. From her beautiful smiles, a wide grinned display of a joyful truth to the depth of her eyes. Phew. She's fucking dangerous if I may say so myself. 

The floor goes beneath my feet as we stare into each other's souls. and I jump around for more heat. To see the darkness. But sometimes, the darkness - my ignorance is the cleavage of her breasts. Seductive, alluring, comforting (?). There really is something magnetic to her form that my words don't really capture without denigrating it into a form that may be perverted by society. 

Sometimes, she turns up the heat. Like a cold flame? Or rather an icy hot gaze, penetrating me to a depth I did not know I had. And I watch my neural pathways, trained like pavlovian dogs fall to her. I try in vain to conduct it through my brain, into my body. But it often fries the conduit. I would want to channel the electricity through every part of me. To be and portray pure heat as I walk out into the world. But yeah, it's pretty tough. 

I'm hoping to learn how to dance with myself soon. Or rather, the tumultous storm in me has been rocking my thoughts, urging me to dive into the deep depths. My courage grows slightly stronger day by day, and I do not yet want anyone to know the subtelty of my change. How I give less fucks about society, How I now pay homage to brotherhood and competition as the masculine arbiters of balance they are, How I have been realising as the world goes beneath my feet just how bad, just how deep I really fucking want it. 

How I must push myself with desperation in every task, because she wants to feel my strength at her most vulnerable, at her most chaotic, wild and beautiful juncture (I also want to feel cool by doing that, its pretty amazing to be able to go that deep). How that juncture may turn into her eating me alive for a lack of sincerity - of what worth is someone who could not even stand by their words? And the sheer coldness of it all - for it really is a scam, and the cold undying meteor floating through a galaxy 4.5 billion years away could not give any less shits about whether I do so. Nobody asked, and there is no reason you should. But you must. 

until next time, 

your boy or something