My Too (Many) Cents

 Welcome to Midnight Hysteria. Not my Poetry blog but rather the feeling, or the state of frenzy it was meant to express.  There's a restlessness that resides within me. It is a feeling I felt again today after a long time. the product of a mediocre, aimless day, powerful philosophical ideas, a lack of self control over my hedonic pathways, a self deception about the consequences of my actions that couples together into an amazing cocktail of artistry, self-hatred and romanticization.  Each motion of my thought is so rigid it threatens to choke me. Yet the creative self destruction, the tribute to which is every drop of happiness in my neural circuits is crying so hard for expression that it just cannot be compromized with.  In the friction of these two opposites, are published incredibly self aware, bittery sarcastic, utterly pretentious streams of thought. I find it disgusting honestly, yet I find it impossible to not express them.  The charcter of my philosop...

 I was trying to draw a deathbat from Hail to the King when your subtle remark reminded me that my sense of view had been twisted and my eyes had been deceived. Why was it that I had not been able to see a simple observation? As I probed deeper into that feeling, my sense of perception morphed around me. There was creative goo there that did not yet have the requisite skill to stand under focused attention. I brushed up against pure chaos; A will for expression without an outlet. It pushed up against the inside of my head and yet could not yet find an expression in strokes on a page. And so it now finds itself in the words of a blog.  What is art? It is too broad a question. My mind jumps to find a reflexive answer that seems unassailable enough that my rational mind won't want to dissect it.  Art is a phenomenological orientation to reality. It is what I see when I look at your eyes. Into the pupils inside as they expand and contract, breathing the air and moisture throu...

 I set aside my phone and close all the tabs that dig the fingers of distraction into my skull. I have a rough idea of what I want to write about, a stew of thoughts that has been churning in my head for the past couple of days. I do not quite know what the end result will look like, of what styles may be played with. Right now it is a stream of consciousness bursting at the seams. The rhythm of my writing unloads its anxiety  onto this page, and as I see flashes of the old me in this writing style I want to move slowly from it.  To more spacing. More breath. More cadence.  From veins that bulge as one tries to hit a high note in a song, to a gentle mellow baritone rising from the depth of my diaphragm.  Discipline and Freedom is one of my favourite duality to confront. All the metaphors - of the masculine, order, logos seem stale. For in the recent past I have given in to the feminine. Given in to love. There is a discipline borne out of anxiety - one that sees...