Passion, Faith and Death

I pity the time traveller, because I too have learnt to fear deja vu, to know what it is to live a life afraid; afraid that all of this is temporary, the paralytic dread that all of this means nothing. You will wake up one day, and the last three years will have been nothing but a dream. I pity the time traveller, because I too know what it is to wake up adrift in time, the days turning into weeks into months, shrouded by a fog too dark to see through, pretending as if you were present for those lengths of time that only your body lived through. I pity the time traveller, because I too know what it is like to be given a power that you were told would save the world. I sit now a doubter - the world doesnt want to be saved and I, I am nothing but someone who was peddled false promises, fighting paradoxical thoughts. I pity the time traveller, the one who has witnessed their own death a thousand times, who has seen the infinite possibilities of a life in which they were never born, who th

What do they do when it's all too much - these little people under such a big sky? When they feel too much? How do they breathe in the too small rooms of houses when it feels like the walls are caving in and their lungs won’t work and everything is too fast and too slow all at once? When they forget what the stars look like? These little people with hearts all synchronous, thrumming like a message in their chest. Hearts built, back before steel and concrete and rigid rules. Hearts that pump an old stolen fire, that calls itself passion, through their little bodies. Little because their souls feel so big and their skin aches with want, the want to fade away like a ghost so everything it holds in can be free. What do they call that? Do they have words for it? Do they have words? Maybe they don’t need them, their hearts all in time, all sharing one mind as they beg with nothing but sound for a storm, for a wild thing. They are all wild things, each with a different but similar scream

I wake up to dark thoughts; I say "today is your last day" and I mean it, for all youve done to me, to my family. The first name on the list of all my enemies. People talk about 'an eye for an eye' but I, for one, know this has to be done. I've had it marked upon my calendar, counting down to the advent of this gracious day, knowing when you've gone away, at least I'll find a piece of peace -  my own variation of (pre)meditation. I sit in silence, all-consuming thoughts of violence. Where did all my love go? Lost somewhere in my destructive designs. I think about my mother, being the maker of a murderer, and your mother, because with your death I've murdered her, but a promise is a promise. I use to think that too much hate would eat me up inside, lay waste to my mind; all these Job like lamentations, but from it has sprung a purpose; momentous resolution, near divine revelation. I have a clarity of thought that's followed my decision, my vendetta

You think about Salvation , You do, you think about Salvation , You think about how the meek will inherit the earth, you think about all the sh-tty people who’ll get what they deserve, you think that all this; this back breaking, soul crushing, never retire sh-t, All of this will mean something, be worth something. Worth something more than the end of the month paycheque that goes straight into the pockets of your price hiking landlord, of the mega supermarket chain, of the government that underpays the doctors keeping you sane.   You think about Salvation, you think – often so you don’t forget- that you are a human person with thoughts and feelings and you mean something to someone. Even if your boss’ boss’ boss in a country a private plane ride away, who’s thinking about how the bottom line will look if he axes a department, doesn’t know you from Adam. You think about Adam.   You think about Adam and Eve, And while you might n

  The ant doesn’t know. Does the ant know? The ant exists – instinct. It is borne breathing, living surviving – work for the colony, find food to feed the young, feed the young until the young can find food to feed themselves, to feed the young, tend to the queen, tend to the eggs.   What does the ant know of people? That we are born breathing, living and lost – Or are we just landscape, moving as the trees do, the leaves do.   What does the ant know of breathing, living, surviving – what does it know of a life without purpose? The ant walks across a person’s palm and does not think, does not know, does not understand. And then it does –   Knows this land is a hand, a hand of a person, a person with thoughts, a person who thinks (thinks?) and hopes, and dreams and longs and aches for all the things they never had or had but never valued, a person who regrets not taking that chance to travel, not saying “I love you” to that one person (love?) and the an

You want to write - write romantic; all dusty halls and candle light, you want to write quiet into your brain, Blood out of your veins, you want to write your way out of mediocrity into radical self honesty - self discovery. You want a life free of the fear of death like - F-ck! You want to write like you’ve been in love, you want to fall in love the hurts the heart, intoxication, no one will ever love you like that kind of love. You want to create; let gods crawl out and cut their way out of your mouth - your uncalloused fingertips. You want to be well read, you want to be well, you want to be read, to be understood. You want cassette tapes, and sound, and fire you want to inspire, you want paper lines to  extend into order, you want existence to be easy again you want to remember the exact day that darkness made its home behind bar-like ribs. Calling your personal grandfather paradox a mercy because you’d kiss child you’s cheek so tenderly so future fingers would never wipe tears. F-