uneven evenings before and after 6am

What is it with people these days and being happy?
It’s like no one can stand being a little miserable every now and then. All day long, bustle bustle bustle and no time stopped to sit a wallow. To ponder. What do I ponder on when I do?

This year I lost my best friend.
When I found one I was flat and now that I left things are at the moment very sharp.
Everything in the middle was pitched exactly how it should have been.
A fire whistle sounds outside and it’s the sound of desperation.
Of fear.
It sets in me a fret,
Giving me the obscure feeling that I need to run, run to save myself.
I have a panic attack.
It’s not the symptoms that scare me, but the familiarity that I have for them.
I explain them to myself in terms I can understand.
Heartbeat, Shake It, and Duality
One half of me desperately trying to decode the other and the other hell bound in terms of composure.
It feels, real. Real like everything else should. Maybe that’s why I needed the invasion for so long; I believe in its realness.
Maybe I need to learn how to believe in the realness that is in the good things too.
Zach talks me down.
I’ve never been talked down before.

There’s been this whole sifting between words;
Break and Shatter.
Break; verb (used with object) to reduce to pieces or fragments.
Shatter;
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. --Milton
I have not the wit to cape these things just now, just the capacity to hold their terrible beauty in my hands.

Zach tells me to breathe, drink water.
Yet breath can make you suffocate and water can let you drown.
So it's all really a gamble isn't it? A case of timing?
Bad timing makes you do stupid things;
like sleep all day or sleep with the enemy.
Bad timing could probably be rooted to the source of all major bummers, yet
as per usual I have yet to decide by all that I know.
I'm still missing the fuse between touch and feel.
So to make sense of it all I will write...and write.
I recieved a fortune the other day and on the reverse it symbolically read, "Pear."
A well-told story is immortal and despite presumed secrecy these lines do aim to sing on.
"You are a lover of words, someday you will write a book."
Thanks, Colby.

I still flirt with twice-made mistakes and relisten to verses I have heard a million times.
I set eyes on things that only he or I would make up;
Frustrating things that may only be subsided with fine lines and musical allusions.
So I tell me how it goes.
How does it start?
Like this.




"Why Worry" -All-American Rejects