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Swamped!
Swamped in work at the moment. But I'll be turning 21 this Sunday! Which means another year has gone by, inevitably.
It's strange to think that so many things are drawing to a close in spring. That's not what we are taught, is it? Spring is rebirth and re-awakenings, not a time for looking back or saying goodbye. But perhaps life is less organised than we think, and maybe it's more chaos than sense. Does time and reality need us to be structured? I think it's too simplistic to think that the sense we make in our minds of all the things that happen to us are illusions of control, but how much can we affect events, those that are coming and th
Of paintings and frames
Sometimes I discover that I've, so to speak, gotten up from my place in the painting of Everyday and left the picture. It happens when I, for a long, long time, have thought that I've known exactly where I was going, without a doubt. University. Gotland. Away from home, towards him, towards a lifestyle and a spectra of opinions that would follow.
And then suddenly, an epiphany, a realization, and the world is turned on its axis. Without a reasonable, or at least visible, reason, but for some reason all the same, I'm no longer sure of what I want, and I come to discover that I don't fully trust myself anymore. Am I this...inconstant? This fic
The Shore of the Unconscious
Sometimes, it's as if some memories float ashore like driftwood in your heart. You remember feelings you've felt, or variations of them, and when they reach you, they're polished by the constant undercurrents of your subconscious.
One time you might realize that the worry you've felt is actually an old sense of being disapproved of at a specific moment by a specific person. Another time, it might be the cherished memory of feeling adequate for the first time - a feeling that takes the form of grey roots or branches on a sandy shore. On the border of what you are aware of and what you're not - the edge of a great sea of repressed, suppressed
Masks of Dionysus
What strange humour has befallen me
that I should cry tears of sorrow
when no one else thinks to weep.
That I should feel this heavy,
and carry this confusion
when all appear light on their feet.
It is that feeling at the end of a day,
when I have had the ones I wanted and look back to discover
that they add up to no one all the same.
Is it not unusual how each way I turn,
my eyes rest on two divided by nothing
until my eyes viciously burn?
And so yet again, I am standing in a sea of people,
wasting unstoppable tears
and drowning in absence.
© 2010 - 2024 E-Isolee
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