Trek

The infinitude of shadow and light flowing over the soul. Surmount your journey, or it surmounts you.

Petrichor and Placidity

I feel that life is at its truest when it is nighttime and there's a strong downpour crashing outside. Rain brings not only the deepest, darkest, and saddest thoughts to the surface, but also a calming acceptance of everything happening to oneself. It's strange because it seems to make the loneliness I experience so much more significant, yet it helps to make me not feel so lonely simultaneously. Emotions become more potent, longing becomes more bruising. It brings a sense of completion while showing exactly what's missing. It's an odd paradox. Nature has no intentions other than to just be. If only being human was as simple. As people, we can't just be, no matter how much we say we can or how badly we try to; there is just so much more to it. But when I look at the dark gray clouds painted over the black sky, feel the moisture floating through the air, and listen to droplets of water shatter against land, it provides a certain understanding. A comprehension that causes me to realize that I am certainly lost, but maybe that isn't so bad. Stuck in a cycle: a constant state of uncertainty encountering inquisitive nature. So much has been learned and so much to be learned; every joy and pain felt; the lows of depression and the highs of vitality, all experienced in equal measure. As self-reflective rain can cause me to be—in the worst and best of ways—it is an absolute necessity. It is an honest peace.

The Importance of Another

A chasm in the sun,
like atoms cracked
We disintegrate 
free from an uproar of sensory turmoil
A mesh of spoken silence 
and clamored action, 
Individuality and homogeneity 
stitched into the textiles of our nucleus. 
Patterns of oneness 
infused with a desire for twoness:
Fractions now whole, 
the essentia of life

Amorphous.

Chariots of chaos
gliding through 
the existence of lost time
and gained simultaneity. 
A microcosm of space 
defined by imagery
enshrined in a complexity of self

The aesthetics of conceptuality not yet grasped, 
scorching a vivid curiosity. 
Acts of comprehension 
trumping divided thoughts
like transverse waves 
erupting with harmonies 
of unsuppressed grandeurs. 

Crossfades 
of sound meeting matter: 
a coalescence ripe with foundation. 
Branching into the never-ending nihility; 
filling void with grand ventures, 
synaptic jubilance―innerved. 
Modernly unknown 
yet progressively archaic,
an equation presently infinite

Ignis Fatuus

Delusions are the basis of all life. Everything we do is shaped by concepts and ideals we've constructed in our minds throughout our lifetime. Our self-centeredness feeds our thoughts of what we think is and isn't. We are always right. We are never wrong. Except when we are. And yet, even with self-awareness of this fact we still won't change. Or maybe I'm just speaking for myself? Maybe it is just me. That's not so far-fetched. We are clouded. (There I go, using "we" again.) Delusions are as important as they are dangerous. Everyone loves to talk about fucking happiness. Happiness revolves around the roots of everything ideal, that is what we are taught to strive for. But happiness can never exist unless delusion is present, even if just vaguely. Because what we experience is never 100 percent what really is, in the grand scheme, only to ourselves. You see, the self-awareness is back. It can be troubling. Or do we just ignore the delusions to enjoy the what-we-have-in-the-now? All of this could be absolutely false. Or it could be as true as mistakes. I honestly don't know because I don't fully understand. I never will. I wish I could learn. I wish I could make sense of all of this. I'm delusional.