A million questions, a thousand inquiries, and not one brings comfort to the present state of circumstances.
Instead of tired, I’m wired, sitting stark awake with a throbbing head, while my girl sleeps soundly beside me, exhausted.
I feel stung, strung out over a canyon of impossibility.
Some days I feel that my Art has left me, while others it swells up inside me but is limited by life, bills, and assignments.
I feel like I’ve been sleeping my whole life, and now I am awake. What did I miss?
How many hours did I waste playing video games when I could have been studying, or refining my art? How many hours could I have spent learning the science of human motion and the art of the Martial Art, instead of having Mario make that jump? Why live in an artificial world community if no one wants to talk to you? Why pay to exist there?
Why don’t we wake up every day and pursue excellence in all that we do? Why is procrastination a popular sport, accepted, and cool? Do we actually expect everyone else to learn english if we refuse to learn Spanish?
A million inquiries and not one brings comfort to the present state of circumstances: I am not the man I want to be.
This is a broken record of broken promises made inside my head, my heart, my soul, and I am no DJ. It’s time for a remix. Mix master I am, scaling sound and size, down to fit my eyes, my hands, my time. Kiss childhood goodbye, burned by dollar signs and the Pull, strong and pure. PUll me away from the past, my present, toward the future, where my time is my own, my desire can be shared, and my Art can be found. Where I can express opwnly, artfully, and above all, with maturity. The boy is dead. At last, the boy is dead..
Rianomus wanders, a pale strip of moonlight dancing
try prancing
over hills and mountains
playing games with the gaijin
and taunting at the sleeping sun.
Rianomus wanders
cloak billowing, like a dead nation’s flag on on a hill of corpses..
Come silence. Be my guide, feed me the deafening year. Surround me, spill over my shadows, under my skin, rattle my bones, fill my lungs, and find my heart. Here, within my blood, tear down the walls of doubt, shame, and fear. Come my silence, be my sword and shield. Temper my skin to stone, so that I may stand against the fires of hell and change. Turn my muscles to fire, that I may blaze the way for others to only follow, yet wash it all away for a single woman’s touch. Build me, my silence, calme my mind, speak words and melodies to my sleepless imagination, let me rise your warrior, your instrument, your god. I am ready.
Stand and fight, for by the end, You Will Chant My Name.
Well, I’m spent again. Good therapy.
End log one. Goodnight.
