I Swallow Clouds

A sensation brews from the unexpected.
A new confusion seeks new solace.
Subtle, my mind takes over.
A fretful guile.
Mechanized chartered suffusion.

Flow me sidewinder, Make me see, bring me to my knees. I am humble yet proud. To what is an extent to wonder - why and whom? Shall i proceed to my doom, a shattered nuance much benign? Callously i hope for less, to gain more. As quantity burdens me to retrospect with cloudless alien desires.

I want to... I want to be someone... I want to be someone's no one.

Shill, a tardy truth i hope to guild. Chained and Masochist, knowledge in misunderstanding? Joyously sharpened, these keys show me nothing new, just the same opposite of the same. Nativity of skin to flesh, akin hedonistic i swallow clouds.

The stick burns with sonic vibrations echoing reverie. I hunger for foolish epiphany, which escapes me as i am moved. Strange unknowns. When one 8 becomes two zeros....

Challenge me.
Killjoy.
Sunshine.
Surface.
Muddled.
Power.
Perfecting.
Nothing.
Shallow.
Focus.
Chance.
In.
Whole.
Deeper.

Ready....
Set....
Stop...

Y

A new rhythm emerges. It's lyrics speak close to who i am.

"I am not ashame of who I am today."

A single insight, perpetuated by guilt, stems from a moralistic judgment, somehow taken off tangent. No harm, no foul as they say. My agenda for today is the same as it has been for awhile, to step up and create the reality i want for myself. No easy task, but a grand vision nonetheless.

I stop and look, i find and i see, i breathe and i move, as i sit here and ponder an existence profound. I'm ready for the rivers to wash over me. I awake, knowing where i'm going, knowing what i have to do. No incessant hurry, no magical fuel, just a love for my people, a step a day i journey to my oblivion.

A life unified by the mind, body and spirit; the trinity of discipline impeccability i reach but do not touch. My dreams seemingly unattainable at this moment, i hunger for the need of not needing. An abundant truth scarce in nature, i bring my all.

Trusting a divine who has stop speaking cryptically, but with new urging, sending me forward to sights unseen, to realms of disproportionate frailty and a luster of passions sent by friends indeed. Spurred onwards to the now, i value my insanity, my courage under fire. Solid soliloquies of agape and eros, bemuse my heart.

Till all is done, my rest will have to wait.
As i come around.

Completion.

Tis, Complete.
Tis, Time.
Tis, Me.

"Each man has his own vocation. The talent is the call. There is one direction in which all space is open to him. He has faculties silently inviting him thither to endless exertion. He is like a ship in a river; he runs against obstructions on every side but one; on that side all obstruction is taken away, and he sweeps serenely over a deepening channel into an infinite sea. This talent and this call depend on his organization, or the mode in which the general soul incarnates itself in him. He inclines to do something which is easy to him, and good when it is done, but which no other man can do. He has no rival. For the more truly he consults his own powers, the more difference will his work exhibit from the work of any other. His ambition is exactly proportioned to his powers. The height of the pinnacle is determined by the breadth of the base. Every man has this call of the power to do somewhat unique, and no man has any other call. The pretence that he has another call, a summons by name and personal election and outward "signs that mark him extraordinary, and not in the roll of common men," is fanaticism, and betrays obtuseness to perceive that there is one mind in all the individuals, and no respect of persons therein"

~ Emerson.