Heard that real shit in a video game of all things...it's stuck with me...
This is my story, this is my song...
Heard that real shit in an Outkast song. It's stuck with me, all things aside...
I remember as a child trying to focus on the outline of my hand against the blue, textured walls of my parents bedroom. Where are my boundaries? Pretty sure we're made up of a series of dots...if I stare hard enough, I see them vibrate. A pointillism reality. That might just be my hand. That might just be my eyes. Where is the defined line I am so accustomed to with my drawings. I think I can see the black line of separation if I look hard enough...no, it's gone. Remains possible that it never existed. An erasable reality.
Where do we end, and where do we begin? A question that has lingered on in various forms ever since we were able to look past material hunger. Chill young one, slow your stride. You may not have perceived the beginning, but trying to fathom the end is the boogeyman of progress. There are no limits to your imagination and while flying high isn't always the best of trajectories...it's a path nonetheless. The safer ones may not be anything but a chi...
Chill older self, slow your stride.
So quick to assume the line of sight of others. Not looking for the metaphysical; just want to be able to wrap my mind around the bindings of temporarily solidified energy that we find ourselves in. Trap ourselves in. Become restless with the tomorrow we can understand ourselves in. Disgruntled with the sunrise of that dawn. Ever hopeful of the rest that we promise ourselves. Rest? Never, there's no time. Reset...let that rest on repeat. The reset that is assumed. False promises woven into tomorrow's fabric. Never a follow up, because language is cheap and decisions are difficult - so why discuss? Accept the falsities. Monday. Won't. Come.
I remember as a child trying to walk backwards through decaying nightmares. The time differential didn't make sense...I swear, this time lasted hours on the minute. The panic didn't come lightly. The seconds did though, apparently. It's one thing to dig up an artifact that existed in a time you have no connection with. It's just not the same to remember something that occurred on a plain of existence that you'll inevitably come back to night in and...
...nights out give the selfish serenity I craved for way too long. Don't succumb. You're going to remember this when driving back. Around that bend, where you need to slow down. Where you'll contemplate the opposite. Chill current one, slow your stride. Your exit's coming up if you just keep to the right and keep your prints off those T.H.O.T.'s of thoughts...
You waited till the Monday that never came, hoping for it be an easier Tuesday. You've got the wrong perception of yourself.
I remember as a child hating my name. Wishing for the cliché and common names. Didn't really understand what went into a name. Still not sure if anything really goes into a name. Trial may be out on a name, but the calculated gerrymandering leads me to believe there ain't that much shit that goes into a name. Human intervention synonymous with a name. At the same time, I got pride attached to this name. Keep your mouth clean of my name. Keep truth surrounding my name.
Dirty conditions, premature connotations
Surreal imaginations met with unrealistic expectations,
Let's assume the worst around the corner,
Pent up mental midget focused on not learning the recorder
If intelligence is relative then swerve and ignore notes,
Time, experience, fuck ups -
Realize there are only temporary G.O.A.T.S.
Offer the world only your nuts,
No if, ands, or butts,
Woke hashtags are superficial,
Reality is soaked with the artificial,
Insecurities remain confidential, yet realities inconsequential,
To the popular, the official; the bourgeoisie of a time instrumental
If we only exist upon the shoulders of the giants before us, will we ever reach a state of fulfillment? A rather bleak cycle where we are just setting up the scene for someone who may never really perform. Amazing enough...the opposite regularly occurs. More importantly, how amazing is it that progress exists by shaving off seconds at a time after a strenuous process of the before mentioned? By playing your part. Knowing you'll die. But, before you die, you'll outgrow your parents by a fraction - both perceptively and hopefully. The summarization of individual centimeters means a lot in the six feet. Shit. Still shocked by the majority of us being able to drive around without crashing into one another on the regular.
Six deep with a feral approach to the ceramic and metal cover beneath the layers of dirt. That, or hurdles of humanity? Yang, yin.
I love nothing more...
...than to be right...
Smart ass kid, right? But with an unconditioned due diligence toward being respectful of his teachers. Seems counter productive to perceived M.O.'s. Seems like a soldiers mentality turned sour. Sixth grade. Sour grapes. Subjective struggles. She tried to sell me on time being a tangible thing, a thing that literally exists as a clock. The clock as time, or time represented by a clock. See how far seniority goes with science. Woooooo, shivers on that sip...
...my eighth grade English teacher argued with me about time. She saw time as a physical thing; a thing manifested by the clock and not as a tool created to measure a subjective understanding of ticks and tocks. I think I knew better than her. I think that irritated her. I think that remained as a badge pinned to my, whatever. I think that stuck with me solely for the sake of dissent. Because a clock remains as a clock. A clock won't ever be a time, just as a sip of this won't ever be happiness...
She argued with me though. She was determined that the clock was time. That's coo...but I wasn't budging. Fact is, clocks are tools of our understanding. Measurement cups aren't ounces. Might be one of my pettiest moments. Might be one of my proudest moments.
...a mind that works in metaphors and similes tends to manifest destiny out of happenstance...
Shades of blue woven into my fibers. My desired reflection of light. Calming. Reminds me of the ocean, despite witnessing it only long after such conclusions were drawn. I think that color has always appealed to me. Represents something. Calm. Dare I say, deep. Lost amongst the depths. I tend to make a lot of things carry meaning. Not sure what I'm pigeon holding more...a color, or myself.
Shades of purple stitched over blue fibers. How can identity change when it was so sure of itself. Purple. Royalty is a reach, but a leader...I think that's achievable. A teacher, more appropriate. Confidence. Age is having an effect. Does destiny have deciding manipulative reach, or is it a stationary entity with irresistible gravitational pull. Would I rather just find myself amongst happenstance. Why'd the color preference change?
But today you're purple. Get up and go through the motions. Slap water on your face. Crack your neck. Give yourself a solid look in the mirror. Pause for a second before breaking into a karate pose. Your adolescent spirit is far from completely removed. Hit that play button something fierce. You got all the answers necessary to manifest wisdom.
It's amazing what a Walkman and a backpack full of meticulously manufactured CD's can do for a shy kids confidence. Color coded by degrees of emotion brought on by the beats. Each song handpicked and placed in a particular order to ensure a clean, uninterrupted vibe. Regions couldn't clash, either. East Coast. West Coast. The up and coming Dirty Souf...and don't forget about cliques of conscious rappers, versus hype rhymers. Different branches of the tree that sprouted and lifted me. Two more blocks left to go...
I remember as a child telling a joke in my Sophomore biology class. Muscat was the teacher; extremely uptight individual with a propensity to touch the asses of his plastic manikins that showcased how human innards look in the body, and an apparent aversion toward shaving his gorilla back hair that puffed out the top of his polo. Seriously. Who cups manikin asses. Like sure, I've admired a few well sculpted manikin asses and observed the exceptionally realistic ones that have hard nips, while imagining them coming to life at the end of the night and bitching to one another about how fucking cold it apparently is in there to make their nips perma-hard, but I've never gone so far as to actually cup some plastic ass. Let alone one that has it's innards on display. Heathen.
Sorry, point is, I told a joke during one of those impromptu moments in a lecture where the teacher breaks off and asks a particular student a question, that really only has one correct response. For whatever reason, I was feeling frisky that day. Made some joke about rednecks that was relevant to the topic. It wasn't anything spectacular, but enough at the time to send a room of kids into hysteria. Muscat didn't care for that. Said I wasn't funny.
Now again, I was a smart ass kid - in my head, because I was also shy. But I feel like I was in a cocoon all throughout my life up until that very moment. Patiently taking in my surroundings and letting my imagination run rampant. That comment from him struck a nerve, because it was factually incorrect at that time. Everyone was laughing. Sorry, majority rules at that moment. Your vote can kick rocks. Eat shit you hairy, manikin groper. At the same time, I'm thankful for that because that very moment flipped a switch inside of me. In an asshole adolescent fashion, the flame had been lit. I had just taken out a lease on a voice. And it was my own. And I was going to engulf it in flame and pound away until I had a samurai sword. Rocked the shit out of my Outkast mixtape on that walk home later on.
Perception without comprehension is a lot like happenstance and destiny. The perception of happenstance usually is met with a lack of comprehension of possible odds, with the easiest explanation being destiny. Because the odds seem unfathomably bigger than what we picture as likely in our minds. In addition, we have a warped way of remembering blips in the rather dull day to day timeline many of us endure. Best way for me to describe it? I was serving a table the other day that were all getting ready to go to a Christian rock concert. One of them was wearing a shirt that said spiritual gangster. Now, I've seen this cutesy and trendy quote before. Many times. It just took on a whole new uncomfortable meaning when dealing with a person who probably means it considering the majority of them were clearly straight out of AA and looked weathered as fuck, but were on a new high riding that sweet, sweet, Jesus dick. No shame in that, I just realized for a split second that this dude probably does consider himself a spiritual gangster, as opposed to his former life as a binge drinking, pill snorting, substance loving gangster. These are just the moments in life you choose to slink away and let shit be.
So while cracking jokes about this dude to a coworker, I realized that she had never seen one of these shirts before. Meanwhile I've seen dozens of yoga pants dawned white chicks, and homeboy at table 11, rocking similar variations of this shit, along with probably a hundred on social media. Less than three days after that, she saw someone in that shirt. Alright so what's my point? Quite simply, I created a blip in her consciousness. Something that normally wouldn't stand out for her, now stands out because it had been made significant. The seed had been planted. The beauty of happenstance doesn't lie in it being anything spectacular, it lies in the ability of our minds to create meaning and substance out of the common and the trivial. Similar to lucky numbers, or songs popping up when you were thinking of them. Happenstance shouldn't necessarily be taken as destiny, but instead as a metaphorical lesson - kinda' like the Bible.
Same concept when it comes to your twelve hour & thirty-four minute fantasies. You freak out when it hits eight hours and fifty-six minutes? Na. You just witnessed roulette a few times and feel like betting it all on black is logical beyond anything other than your slippery understanding of events. Let that nonsense go, Miles.
Same concept as to when I hit shuffle, what ensures afterwards entails the electric guitar strums, "woo's" of Andre 3000, and rhythmic dances of snares and drums to the opening of Chonkyfire. Happenstance and destiny. How we manufacture things in our minds to be reflective of something more. With that being said...I really find destiny more tasty. More compelling. Perhaps that stems from human folly. Perhaps human folly, makes up humans.
Grandiose delusions, but important none the less. Because flip this narrative for one moment. If all things are logical and magic existing in it's modern form of simply being mystery is absent, then what the fuck is the point of writing the next chapter? Where's the drive for reflection come from? Where's room for emotion? From where should individuals grow from, learn from, fail from, and ultimately inspire from? Where's the humility of not knowing and knowing take place? I don't think it can without at least a little blissful ignorance.
Know what brings the mice, rats & snakes out ya soul? Realism assumptions and introspective understandings. I wouldn't dig so deep into earthen roots if I didn't think it'd shed some light onto a thing, or two. Story spliced with song...
I think that with all lessons having been learned, I'd still forever be excited by my clock reading as 12:34. No apologies.