one hundred forty one

I was lost in my head at work, thinking the most important of thoughts.

I’ve clearly  a preoccupation with time and memory, how neither really exist but are dependent, one on the other, for memory cannot happen without time and time would be nothing without memory. Anycase, i’ve no memory, a constant crumbling castle, floating ephemerally through cloud and over ocean. I think it’s because of imagination, how imagination’s more real than the days and weeks i live, how my dreams are memories of the future, and the future is already a forgotten past by the time i get there.

I think it’s fitting, my out of time, out of memory existence. I get lost in worlds of my creation or worlds others have created, but i’ve been able to see through their words or their visions. I lose myself and the ground and the sky. My imagination and my malfunctioning memory are intertwined and dependent on one another, like time and memory before. I’ve false memories from dreams or imagined lives that i forgot to live or forgot to forget about, forgot to remember that the memory’s not mine, but someone else’s, or that the memory is of the future and that it’ll happen soon and i’ll feel it, that deja-vu sensation.

But, anyway, my memory. When the life you didn’t live is just as real as the one you do live, who’s to say which is whose memory or which rememberer is the owner. It’s dangerous business, confusing time and space with memory and imagination.

I remember nothing. But i remember everything. Everything that matters to me, anycase.

tomorrow we’ll shine
tomorrow we’ll be perfect

one hundred thirty nine

I’m always skeptical of people when they tell me i’ll love something. More often then not, they’re right. But, even still, i don’t trust them. They’ll tell me about a movie or book or band and i’ll put it out of mind, knowing that they’re wrong. Then, some months later, i’ll peruse, and realise that i love it.

Such is the case with St Vincent.

She’s wonderful and i love her. For today and tomorrow, but never too long. Such it my way.


Sing for me, Starchild.

one hundred thirty eight

I love my life.

Despite being a drunken buffoon last night and making a fool of myself, i had a great time and don’t feel embarrassed. Don’t care neither. My life is awesome. Relentlessly so.

I was chatting with some girl a few days ago who was so glad that college is over. I mean, i’m glad, too, in a sense. Academics, that part of college life is dreadful and i hated it and i’m glad to be done with it. But the rest, the college lifestyle, man, i never want to give that up. Being reckless, irresponsible, dodging death, surviving, but only just. Even the poverty, it’s not so bad because it’s all so worth it. Every minute, every missed meal, every dollars spent on beer instead of bread. The days you go without just so you can party right. There’s really nothing quite like this. Especially because this kind of behavior is not only tolerated and put up with: it’s expected.

Though, my life will probably continue as such because i’m perpetual Pan, never to grow up or even bother to age.

one hundred thirty seven

It’s too hot to be alive.

Time is coming to a close and i must leave life behind, leave me behind, and meet the new me who’ll emerge from the shell of college to vagabond on.

I don’t feel the wear of time. Sometimes i don’t think time exists. It’s a dimension of existence, or so i’m told, a measurement, but it’s not like the other ones. The past doesn’t exist and the future was already dreamt. Now is what matters and now is already the dreams of yesterday and yesterday is already a broken memory, an instant that barely flickered long enough to hold it in your palm.

Some cultures think that time is a circle and others think it’s a line, but i don’t think it’s either. A circle is more correct than a line, of course, because time was never meant to be linear. Time doesn’t go or disappear. It just is. Time. Time. Time.

No need to fight.

It’s always all right.