A Beautifully Misunderstood World: Part II
..the irony of manufactured bravado to please an audience does not fall between numb fingers..
Intentions remain, but I feel constantly misunderstood. It's probably on me. I build thy enemy upon my mental. I feel guilty writing. Like I'm some taboo that hasn't earned it's credentials. Showcasing hurt feelings spun as comedies & tragedies depending upon the perspective.
I find myself looking back to the first step into the shallow end of the pool. My first save & publish moment. Cold, but exciting. Wondered if I had the nerve to plunge, or impatiently wade. Acclimated. Left. Worried and wasted. No, no. No. Look back to an alternate time. What would have your alternate self done. No water weight dragging down decisions. What would you then be afraid of. Air? What would be in your way. The light's too bright? I think you might have done the same, Miles. Might have made the same exact fucking decisions. Unimpressive.
Descending through the heights...
...consciously floating toward the surface.
Tumbling along flattened & sweaty pillow ledges into the dream state whisperings across the ears of thoughts I feared the most...sucking something fierce, but you won't let yourself linger. Woke up debilitated & innocent of being assimilated. But only in this momentary dream state. In this world, I had that power. No emotional murder by a coward. Loud mouthing the world. This world I'll reluctantly, hopefully, inevitably choose to exist in. Before you find me as a cliché new age body, realize that I'm only prodding every nook trying to find my cranny. That's a niche within a sidewalk crack, spurred by a conundrum first sparked by curiosity when all that first existed in the vacuum of being clueless, was a clue. Put that shit in reverse.
Eclipsing upon the five minutes of failure, I find myself living in the future of fictional fantasies long removed from the fruition of the fantastical & foresight-driven adolescent fuckery of the modern. Fuck it though - finger through the folders of photos of feigned fascinations, from a time where foul functions were frivolous & filters dealt only with air, not fictitious lenses. Forgetting my focus of facetious foolery; give me five of whatever on that clock's face. Filter it with fame. However finite. Fuck rewinding, I'm flirting with fast-forwarding through this fasting of inspiration. Feng shui facts harmonizing my future.
Cuz' every rewind of regret leaves room for a fast-forward of understanding. That's called balance. Cuz' I'd rather have numb fingers than to be sensitive to nonsensical sensations. That's called fuck ya' feelings. Cuz' maybe the bravado isn't manufactured, but willed into existence by the soul. That's me casually floating with a limp to new heights. Depression to dissension with a metaphorical pen in the hand and a physical finger on the keyboard. Guess what finger the other hand has up?