i've been wild-eyed lately, sharpening my teeth at any provocation. i don't want greasy opinions staining my mind. i want to bright ideas to tickle my mind like fresh baby's breath growing on an unruly path. the problem with the world is all of the goddamned, lousy, fucked up people.

and i'm one of them. 

i spent last night shivering in front of the police. they let us off. nothing special.

i wrote something on the bus:

'how can something so beautiful exist?' i think to myself,

as i climb through your eyes to watch the sun dip into your soul.

that's all. good night.

"Love is alright for those who can handle the psychic overload. It's like trying to carry a full garbage can on your back over a rushing river of piss." 

yeah, i agree with that. i just don't know if i should stay. it's nothing, but it's also everything.

sitting on my deck, i hear the star-shaped wind chime singing as birds flock around the adjacent bird feeder. my dog does not like this so he promptly howls toward them, scattering them wildly. it's a beautiful summer day. i am twenty years old.

a bird perches warily on my roof, looking down at the bird feeder guarded by my silly dog. i think about love and i feel glad. i store this moment in my thoughts because peace is a fickle luxury that i must enjoy whenever it reveals itself.

INTERVIEWER: What is your definition of love?

BUKOWSKI: Love is kinda like you know when you see a fog in the morning when you wake up before the sun comes out? It's just there a little while, then it burns away.

INTERVIEWER: Really?

BUKOWSKI: Absolutely.

INTERVIEWER: It burns away?

BUKOWSKI: Yeah. Quickly. Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality. 

bukowski said that love is a fog, but i disagree. love is a lighthouse, as dumb as that sounds. i mean all kinds of love, too. love doesn't burn away. the lighthouse can't disappear, but you can lose sight of it if you're not where you're supposed to be. the question to ask is: are you where you want to be? because that's where you're supposed to be.

love is the first daylight of reality, only of the reality you desire, cutting through the muddy fog of existence.

he loves me

it feels like the first spoonful of ice cream, a soft bed after a long day, the smell of warm rain

my heart swells to three times its size when i see him comin' round and i don't mind if he's feelin' grinchy as long as i can be there to make him smile

these sentences don't stop because i don't want a happy ending

there's nothing happy about an ending

i'll take happily ever after

the architecture of my mind is crumbling. in some ways, i feel set free. i am nothin but a shadow among silhouettes. i think about being cut off from consciousness. i wonder what it would be like to look in my dog's eyes or hear my mom's humming or smell rain for the last time. i think about losing it all, peeling off my skin and dissipating into the universe.

one day, it'll all be gone.

that's the truth behind all things beautiful.

god, i love you but i don't trust you. you, with your dark eyes that i cannot comprehend. this is supposed to be a love letter, but i can't write about love right now. i love you, but i feel like a ghost caught in a storm. i depend on other people for my survival yet i feel sick to my stomach when i hear them talk. i hear them want and need and i can't deliver. i see beauty and it makes me sick because i also see truth. and like cold water breaking on smooth rocks, i feel waves of understanding. there is a certain pleasure in understanding, though it doesn't satisfy. that's my fault.

i lost my hunger for knowledge,

and everything else.

i just want to write about sad things that i can't talk to anyone about. "pain is temporary" is what i keep telling myself. it's a big scary world out there and i feel like it's going spit me out. it's been a horrible and a beautiful day. trilliums and waterfalls and green-as-green-milk trees. but also pain, like a sharp afterthought.

i'm swirling together stars with my eyes like saucers and trying to lose myself in rap music that shines vacantly. all is not well, not yet.

but i am resolute and i won't let you see me like this.

i'll walk tall and i won't look back. 

my face is full of salt mines with huge deposits in my laugh lines.

my heart lurches forward hopefully and then sinks down hopelessly and so on and so forth. on the 24th, i'm going to see if i can get help. but it's getting bad again. i'm still waiting for the ground to swallow me whole.

give my body to someone who can actually make something of it. let my mind evaporate into destiny.

melting clocks and empirical sighs, time flies as the sun drips down my thighs. i'm talking about swinging mailboxes, scattered birds, and the tense moment after honest words. lips can kiss, lie, and crack. when the wrong person walks in, is alright to make them laugh? but i don't need you to stay. and when you pull away, you won't find anything but slack. 

licking scoops of anxiety as the tide rolls through my stomach. there are some ideas that make me fall through clouds and trace lines around motionless feelings. this investigation has no suspect. there is only melodrama created by my build-a-hell and pre-apologies. whispering "this isn't me, this is a rough draft" and hoping for validation. but i know your approval won't make me work any harder. it's a little boost through the atmosphere but the stars aren't something anyone should count on. smart men say that success is desperation. but what is the rate of conversion between objectivity and subjectivity?