Been awhile.

Always on the edge of something, most likely madness.

what you are

As an empath you are the still waters upon which the restless float, the shade under which they sleep and the road leading them back to themselves.

why this blog

Some ramblings are in fact about my own personal experiences but more often then not they are about those around me, sometimes people I am close with, other times random strangers like the check-out girl or pizza delivery dude or bald buy walking down the street. Sometimes images and stories of lives come from songs or movies or photos while other times they appear out of thin air with the force and quirkiness not unlike a hair-ball in a hurricane. It ranges from a fleeting impression to a deep hole of intenseness, depending on if I talk to someone or see them interact with someone else.

It's not seeing the future, it's seeing all that has come to pass and all that IS right then. It is like reaching through a concrete wall to shake someone's hand, eerily effortless, oddly unique and frequently perplexing.

end

Outcome to the abstract is the drowning of possibility, the slamming shut of potential. He should have catapulted it out to the world, brazenly, stoically and without explanation. When instead he wrapped it up, a thousand times over, and slipped it into the pocket of some random street person.

drip

Such a gentle, almost undetectable rain. Birds busy with their business. Clouds sagging down to the earth, yet just out of reach. Quiet is a state so rare, even in the middle of nowhere something still hums. Lines and connections and metal rods like steel trees of the future keep us impossibly in touch, albeit indifferently, aloofly. Solitude at odds against the wave of the world, washing all things together to run, drain, into one giant cesspool of information. Nature finding some way to defeat it, impressively resilient, more so than us humans. Even with two hands and a brain we are at a loss of how to cease this Earth’s genocide. Some of us twitch in silence, remembering the stolen days of simplicity, when love was obvious and joy was a given. Now we scramble for a moment to do nothing more than listen to all that falls from the sky.

the art

But there will always be metaphors and poetry. There will always exist sulking temperaments molded into gawked-at sculptures. Why is there so much beauty in the most misunderstood places? Perhaps beauty is just the potential of something and not the something itself. The art is the perception, not the realization.

both are one

Half the time it is like I’m drunk, but just barely, like I’m teetering between a world where everything is clear, logical and matter-of-fact and one that is fuzzy, contradictory and a lot sexier. I want to believe that both are one, that they are not mutually exclusive, that they are in fact all part of the same reality that I call reality. I think then intoxication is reality without the water wings.