Alleyways (and all the things that dress them)
I think junkie poetry is swiftly becoming a lost art. Misunderstood feelings cast at a wall with a resounding slap. The manifestos of the damned and delusional are crumbling to make way for schizoid Instagram reels and Facebook mom manifestations.
There's something to be learned there. I find it here like it's the basement wall of an abandoned restaurant. Process things, shamelessly, there's more value to it than you think, I promise.
I reconnected with a family member today and found a shared sentiment. What feels bad, insufficient in its time, Will doubtless become a valuable piece of reflection.
Don't rob yourself the opportunity to see your feelings as real. Honor the impermanent no matter how messy it may seem. You'll miss it like you miss everything.
Open the aperture and take a snapshot.
Today was marked by a tragedy. My skin is marked with hope. Our conversations are marked once again at the mundane.
I had a reading on Thursday. Nostalgia, reconnection, open heart, fast movements, structured home, and in her words "picking up some chucklefuck and moving towards your castle."
It's no secret to any of my readership who I hope it's about, the things I'd like to see.
This seasons moon told me something. Something inside me, passionate, will be relit. It won't come in any grand form, not dressed in gold or flowers or chocolates. But it'll be there, it'll creep in, and it'll be oh so fucking real.
I'm holding onto these things, lining up nicely with the demons I've sent forth from my home. The assurance of my influence gazed back with nothing but congruence with my intuition. I have to believe it's real because I choose what's real.
It starts with the mundane. It has to. Anything else would just be feeding the grand illusion, betraying my acknowledgement of the power I actually hold here.
"I'm hoping if my heart is open, it will lead you straight to me..."
A song I haven't thought about in ages. Another snapshot of a feeling long forgotten. A valuable piece of prose, smeared on brick and concrete, in between a power meter and a valve for plumbing or heating probably long forgotten. Just as it should be...