When I moved in, I made a list. And then I added some dreams and upgrades.

We are what we say,

We are what we sing,

We are what we grow,

And that I know.

So maybe I’m aloe,

A salv for the broken,

Maybe I’m still healing,

And very soft-spoken.

I grow up inside,

Each day and each time,

I write you a letter,

Or give you a rhyme.

So thank you, we can say.

Trying to make sense of my own code is like walking around making figure eights in your parents house going crazy trying to figure out where and why, how and when there even was a code in the first place. Who can break it is the mystery, and then, what to do with it?

This life has been so cyclical, unchanging, yet profound. I’ve seen the strangest phenomenons, the most repetitive at times, superfluous or even kinda mundane too.

We need to mature quickly, yet age slowly. To grow, yet to stop and resist. Why is usually my first question, and then what, where, when, but how usually, but not always eludes me without the graces of the powers at be.

I’m still turning out to be the same guy, even now.  I don’t know how to beat it, crack it, or make sense of these things, but yet, there’s a subtle comfort in them and the lack thereof or with them.

So what to do? I can’t get out of trouble when I was borrowing it, stop borrowing time when it was infinite, and am infinitely in a despair over the situation. I think my dad always puts it best. If you can’t fix it, don’t worry. If you can fix it, also don’t worry. Do we always have this option? Surely not, because of the game and games of life. Today though, I’m just going to do it. I’ve saught, I’ve gotten basically nowhere, at least quickly, so today, I’m not going to worry. The graces of human nature are there, and I can win a little once in a while, even when I don’t know who or what or why I’m trying to win.

I guess that’s all I can say. If you continue on you’ll see my mind at ease, in turmoil, in thanksgiving, in praise. It’s just a story. And today is yet unwritten.

Yep, I still think of her. And them. And the truth.

I can’t change the choices I made, but reflectfully, I can adapt them at will, or cause new ones, twists, turns, and interweave. I enjoy the good things, the Godly things – less as a bully, as a way, as a path. So who is he, even she?

Jesus, sure. Mary, Mom, Dad, sisters, brothers. Especially children. Pets, plants, things of value, the good things!

I guess I’ve been a christian for longer than I can remember. I know I get caught up in fancy poems, prose and words on paper, this blog, my texts, in voice calls, in casual conversation. Today I know it is tomorrow too, and that means the first post, which I respectfully moved into another place, might be it. Maybe, it might just be another day. I respect that too.

So whoever you are, as a reader, and there are a few, maybe sometime future more – maybe you can still believe, in things like holiness, goodness, grace and some freedom from your demons, should you feel you have them.

And when the time is right, God presents the choice, and yes, sometimes we have to, we get to, we choose to bless instead of curse, instead of complain, argue, and especially – yeah. Let me. Let me know how to help you from now on. I’ve been a vigilante, a merc, a bodyguard, a secure sounding board. Let me speak, to know you, to know your truth. Mine is always changing, at least, a little. Between the mysteries and charms, there is a human here. I know that. Today I feel ok, great, fine, and well.

Thanks – I owe you something, as usual – just for giving me that peace that I know sometimes I do deserve, and I like to share it, wish to mostly, so let me. I allow myself now the time to thank you, to thank and praise you, Him, whomever we or what or how we believe – but it’s allowed. Belief is good, and that little spark, still is there, somewhere, if even hidden for a few moments between those exact things.

Merci.

Quand tu veux dire, tu est.

Comment ca va, and how are you, and all the nicest things, I wish for you.

This week was intense, flowing between. I don’t know if others write, often I feel so high and yet alone. It could be because of the music, the effervescent reminders, or the avoidance patterns. Does the computer write the music? It seems the privacy online has phased. It can drive me crazy that even my inner voice has been heard. So maybe the part is that you can’t stop writing, yet you remember, and the smoke, the meds, the casual waits, the things the world gives us to solve a problem it might have created. DNA as a double helix can be like a relationship, spiralling around together with only small links in random patterns, as we sequence it, causing those connections, like one between two partners, companions, or lovers even maybe. I like God to be a big bully, or broke, or even just a guy given a job by John to baptise the world, a consequence of a random thought or someone wanting to escape their own work. The mystery of life is there, is here, is in a book, many books, and writing is a gift I, like millions, see manifest. In even mistakes, there’s thought. Choices, timing, doors, going and swinging and bouncing around, things we fear but need as well. I wistfully think about things, like a creative muser, thinking of how really, if I were to not have had media, I likely would have been safer in my own mind. Yet I guess the importance is to value change, not be stubborn, as one coworker called me out on about my lack of retrospective responses. I can’t can’t can’t can’t take back the things I’ve done, because during the bought time, there was little growth, little fear, and some really opportune things. Maybe I challenged God, maybe I feared or respected, maybe I didn’t know who it was, because I live an enlightened life, higher above a cloud without a footing. And when I come down from sleep, but from my first mistakes each day, each doubt, each pattern, though indescribable likely, it becomes sown into a story.

I guess I’m just hoping still. Like my playlist being more positive, my apartment being more at peace and clean, or without the feedback loops in my life I seem to be unable to fight anymore.

We need something to believe in, to feel like we did as children, to enjoy play, imagination, and love. Some of the transition feels impossible and daunting. I know this first hand. Maybe because I wrap myself in a bubble, in a place of entitlements, or disrespect, maybe. Maybe.

I know the mystery I’ll likely never figure out. Yet my being can’t stop from trying. Just wishing. What on earth is all this time for? Numbers, letters, somehow we understand. And that one reminder. That never… *Sigh* it just never goes away because it gets caught up in the in betweens. Yet I guess we can let go.

That hope, despite all things clear,

When a dog gets home, when a car steers clear,

When the smoke does fade, when the money does come,

When all things black have gone,

That overthinking has its cue, the reason for it’s song,

And innocence at its best, despite anything gone wrong,

A boy gets through, records his debts, but pays them back in time,

And home be lest just a place to run, when things aren’t always thine,

And remembering to call him, she says it everytime,

That things get better every year, even at Christmastime,

And when work is steady, a man can be, the time or tempo soon,

And though a crystal says it best, it’s not always the plume,

And honestly I write only last, and first in ten or twenty,

Maybe when I figure out, how people can save money,

By giving it may have been the offer, a nail in silent thread,

And though I’m sinking slowly sure, like quicksand in my head,

I wonder when the song will come, a nice little pleasant tune,

To describe the wonders I believe I saw, and couldn’t just tell you.

You go insane trying to figure it out.

After a while it’s too hard

Then you overthink a while

And nobody returns an ask

Nobody to call

Nobody to save

I’ve given up

As usual

And then I smoke

Because I stress

Because I’m the only one

Who hasn’t figured it out

It’s too late

I’m near the end

Yet I’ll do it anyway

You interrupt my peace

When I finally settle down

Therapy really wasnt good.

I can’t control a frown

I’m scared can’t make decisions

I’m still at ease

It wanders in and out.

And no matter what I do today

It’s always round about

There’s people really rooting for me. And I owe them all. A good living, hard work, and probably some cash. I don’t know why they do it, or how they have maintained, but I believe in them, even when I feign. Somehow I’ll get through, each day at a time, and while we can’t be perfect, sometimes we can be fine.

And if one of you has read my blog today, I know my silence isn’t perfect, or even what I say. Yet I still hold on to hope, that I can figure out, why each day I don’t feel frightened, though I should have probably have had a heart attack. But maybe it’s above, maybe I’ve written it out. Maybe somehow you’re faithful, despite that I’ve smoked it out. And when I finally can, become that honest man (again, or when), then somehow I’ll pay it forward, because you make me believe I can. If I shouldn’t owe, your graces I admire, I try my best to think, of ways not to conspire, or to do something to hurt you, I truly know that’s true, but like I’ve said above, it’s really hard to do.

And if talk is cheap I know, that I can never say, that even if you’ve hurt me, it’s just because I’ve probably had a bad day. There are good people out there, I know we are a team, and if you’re really watching, I’m trying the regime. To not do it at all, to wonder for some wisdom, is to say we’re not alive, because it’s merely twisted. And I’m saying it a little back, that maybe weaving ain’t so bad, it’s just sometimes I have thoughts that I don’t know I even had. I just encourage you, to do your God damn best, because life is just a journey, not another bloody test. 🙂

You’re trying hard. You know you are,

But just can’t get ahead.

If the voices scream, the whispers scare,

The thoughts are automatic,

I don’t know what to pray for now,

But a kinder story,

And though it’s not really going too bad,

I begin to worry.