Ohm, Pt. 2.

Nothing I do now feels worth. The value of my previous post is an emotional sell-out. The need to write to express in order to obtain a clear and sound mind. To rid of emotions before the mind can be silenced. The mind has silenced. But the heart quivers for an unknown cause. I ask myself, "WHY?" But the answer is shortcoming. "You know." I wish to lay down in warmth, with sand (white), with arms, with smiles, in nude. The ecstasy of an idea, the reality through imagination. I take myself on a joy-ride in Fantasy Land. I close my eyes and start my own existence in my mind. I play God ("Forgive me if I had trespassed.") 

Ohm.

Birds tweeter, chirp, flirt.
Highway covered, in a blanket of agony and dirt.
The room sense its presence, in all its silence.
Wonder, why don't they know.
An answer before its point.

For long, far length, impossible distance;
A coincidence. Chanced.
In a trance, living in false impressions;
Routine, "... it ceases existence in control."
False.

Truth, impact of the obvious.
Skill to see, see for a kill.
To live, a birth of Utopian pride.
To lie, a pride of Utopian's birth.

Believing in less speech,
Living by surviving,
Surviving by loving,
Loving by believing.
All in silence.
The key.

To Speak Of,

... non pleasant feelings and situations are always easier than the good ones because usually they're the ones at the top of our minds, nagging and chewing that part of the brain (and heart) just to cause an ache. I shall try, to speak of certain good things, to experiment if it does bring a change to my current aura. So my housemate left for home for his three week annual leave and to waste no time, I cleaned my house to satisfactory levels (having high standards). Before leaving the house and forgetting completely the sense of this post till a week later, now.

Hence, I shall carry this post on with the help of a new pressing against my emotional body. I will run, jump, and fly to wherever and however far this desire shall carry me. I have enough passion for sacrificial requests to be asked. That's perhaps why I view the world differently, minority-ly. I have much to give and fear people might take me all away. I enjoy my shell. Hidden from the world, and how good it feels being so far away whereas the opening is probably just finger-wide. I cannot prevent interventions but I can dodge the fingers of men cunningly side-stepping their heads with fury and vengeance. A walking reflection of the moon, he saw straight in me and had capture my secrets, with fortune of luck on my behalf, he doesn't know its interpretations. With eyes grounded low in humility, I see right up intentions. I desire to be placed in comfort and protection with virginal motives. You handed me a bag of hope, love, and fucked-up passion tied in the creases of its opening. "Take it back!" I screamed. My words were unclear and you begged my pardon. Silence and allowance I answered, shaming in defeat of my lack of will. I must win this race. The finish line has the picture of you holding my bag; of purpose, and dramatic conclusions. Cheers to that!

And A Continuum.

Immediately. My words are shorter now because my heart is too. Accept me, wickedly I shall follow. I shall pour entirely all blood, leaving no drops for life, for shattered, angered, and I shall despair. I threw a boomerang, after the throw, I tied my hands. In same, I caused my karma. Who, what must I expect. I leave it unfilled. Death. In the grounds of little children, I'm watched. YOU threw me into this game.

Sorrow, Shortened Joy.

An illusion it was. Bright, brilliant, blinked.
There can't be less, for more is reserved.
A shivered followed touch, a need.
A must. A follow of desire. Pursuit,
persuade.

An Entire Quote. (Copied & Pasted)

No matter what anyone says, words are worse than sticks or stones because you can’t pull them out. You can’t forget, and there’s nothing in the world that can soften the heat of syllables and consonants and vowels wreaking havoc beneath the pillows of your lungs or the curves of your heart. Words leave the invisible scars, the ones that litter the backs of your eyelids, the soft lining of your throat, the nooks and crevices that run from your hips to the hollows of your knees. They form in places you didn’t even know you had inside you. There aren't stitches to heal these kinds of wounds, no drug to numb the pain. Perhaps time softens and smooths the edges, but they’re still there like fingerprints visible only underneath ultraviolet light. They still sneak up on you when you’re the most vulnerable, when you’re not thinking about anything at all. The most beautiful thing you could ever say to someone else is “I love you.” But even this can’t act as a sunscreen against the ever agonizing, “I don’t care.” And that’s the thing about words. They always land somewhere very deep, like land mines in the skin that go off the second after it’s too late. Another charm for your bracelet, a thousand tiny deaths.

As much as I love words, as much as I immerse myself in them, find myself fascinated by them, I hate them too. They make it too easy to never forget.

White & Cold.

Drunk; influenced by the alcohol I had consumed, I write this. A very first Christmas without you. Once a year it shall be, but the numbers shall increase. Someday we shall be together, if the fates allow. Let's have ourselves, a merry little Christmas, now. So many new experiences I had encounter, and without you to tell to. But I know you had seen me through it all. You had seen me through my joy, my happiness, my sadness, and my loneliness. I know I'm not the only in the world, I know you too, aren't the only who had left the world. But the world is as such, it leaves us, we shall leave it, but for a fact it must come. Nobody is exempted. New year on, we shan't face the same troubles, it will all be brand new, the old must depart, the new have to arrive. I'm sure Mama misses you so much, as I miss you. It's difficult Pa, it truly is. To be reminded of the joy we had shared together all these years, all the years you enjoyed Christmas, all the years you lived. I'm alone this year. Nobody is with me. I'm without Mama, or Calvin, or Chelsie. Or Uncle Bootit, or Uncle Barney, or Aunty Angela. Nobody is with me. I'm alone. I have only my friends with me, and that's difficult. Please tell God to come see me and say Hello and to bring me away to a better place. You see me through this all. It isn't a stage anymore Pa, it's true, I cannot pretend you exist anymore... Someday soon, we will all be together again, we will live together again, all of us. I'm certain, all of us.