Forever's a hand full of tears

Head tilted, eyes straining to see the image reflecting in the mirror, slanted and mostly hidden from view. A mother, long hair bleached by the sun, reddish gold glinting and scraggled. Just a few moments captured forever in my mind as I glance through my car window into the rear view.... 

What is that? Like one of those eerie moments of poignant, lonesome reflection in a movie.

Sitting here feeling so fragile, feeling so much of everything. The sharpened sensations that occur after every heartsickening, overwhelming encounter. How much do I really matter to anyone else? How much does anyone else really matter to me? 

Which is heavier, my head or my heart? 

Oh, dearest Lord, carry us through. 

The man who thought he was a toad

It's an odd little thing to ponder, how prone we are to sell others short while we expect so much of ourselves. How we discontentedly, distractedly rifle through our inner world, aware of our constant psychological shifts and chronic identity crises. But how often do we truly recognize this process in another? Or is it more common of us to see them as innately immovable, unchanging objects, bumping along in the space around us? 

Sure, we may try to consciously give them the benefit of the doubt from time to time, but when we encounter them day to day do we not tend to lean upon our solidified, unchanging mental image of who they are? While we continue to make up our minds endlessly about ourselves, have we taken a shortcut in doing so with others? Seeing them as merely 3D images, approaching them as though they are the same person they were 7 years ago...

Perhaps it's a need for some region of mental stability, but it still seems rather unfair. Just as we know we are not always who we think we are, we must be prepared to see the same in others. 

the grass is green the wind is red

Sty me, Stymie.

Sitting here contemplating, should I go to bed early because I'm so anxious about this work I can't focus? Or should I try to be proactive and rid myself of the anxiety by staying up longer trying to get myself to focus or be less anxious?

What good will any of it do?

What does a any of it matter anyway?

Perhaps that is part of my dilemma. I am constantly fighting my inner voices telling me how meaningless it all is...

Cat stares and fringes on my shoulder blades... Blurry dry eyes covered in plastic, working out the muscles in my eyelids as I force them over my tainted corneas...

Garlic fingers.

It would be so nice to be completely irresponsible and go mad already, instead of just fighting the impulse all the time. But really, aren't we all, collectively, fighting that battle every moment we occupy space in this universe?

Love Lenka Lots

Sweet Dreams

Tobacco + Vanilla Extract + cigarette paper

Totally works!

Just what I need.

Sometimes a cigarette is the perfect way to turn the final page in a long, drawn out story...