Crying over coffee

I find myself uncomfortably often wondering what the fuck are words trying to do? And who do they impress or fool?
It seems everything imaginable has been overdone and desensitized and I'm feeling more unsettled than ever, forgive the rant but it's hard to create anything new.
It's alright to at least have something to look forward to, but what to do for now, I'll find something, maybe I'm capable

Caught by the saxophone in the street

Thank you Charles, we appreciate this encounter and your lovely work! You can see through his lens here.

 

I carry myself

When I get down I'll remember all of the ignorant or discouraging remarks I'd hear regarding plans for my future when I was young and remind myself that none ever hindered a venture

Edinburgh, Scotland

I could write folk songs but you'd remind me they've all been done

If the cost of living where I'd like to be in Belgium is not much different, why do I remain here? I couldn't make anything better here for myself or those around me, I don't have a real role, and with that I am content. It's (very) apparent that I can handle distance from what I'm comfortable with. I didn't want to come home, I very much miss the road with interesting, dear company rolling through every day as each hour brought surprise in whatever amount. My eyes and legs ache to feel every corner I haven't turned yet.

To green and feeding, seething for greening
Figuring foolish feeling
Creepily cruel impeding
and I'd retained 3 reckonings

Budapest

In

Inverleith House, Edinburgh, Scotland

Not a word come from nothing

every love and discoveries ignited
I've been waiting for the next song to begin
I've heard this one too many times

Drunken Arturo in the plaza with the lingering handshake

Never can I erase from my mind the image of the birds within the gated side of the San Francisco monastery in Lima, pigeons or doves, I can't be sure, an incredibly massive crowd.
And you'd never see so many human bones in one hour... or your lifetime perhaps... until you are placed in a plane of decomposure already long inhabited, then you can feel that eerily pleasant vibe.

Present

The least I can do is enjoy whatever time I know I can't spend working, maybe I want to be physical and thoughtful without driving myself to a sweat every time as an attempt to forget why I'm still here. Repeating "I can handle anything, I can do anything" isn't enough and neither is outside encouragement and relating to others is just what pushes me farther from feeling comfortably human, and I'm trapped with limited language even among such vast vocabulary. Teetering imbalance from something to nothing, no one to someone, civilized self to primitive creature. I'm static, reception fleeting I am never human for long enough to learn a skill or a fact, or the history of one place, I retain the knowledge that I forever FEEL beyond words

Thoughts don't push lately

Poisoned daily encounters
chemical product or brain behind another face
hard to decide which to prefer
equally toxic and intimidating
it didn't used to be this way, though it's sporadic
and probably forever expected

Tuned into the wind

Couple hours idealized or hypothesized
end with nothing to show for shit but empties and rearranged mess
needs got rid this
english fail
nightly!
creep through my slumber you're invited
to interpret what you please but don't be halted by absolutely timid character born of frustration and genetically unstable ingenious fueled by frequent tilt
this is intermittent babble
to be made into series perhaps worth a maneuver
maybe your promethean brain can already navigate the tunnels
carve through that wall of intrigue
and discover layered prehistory.
we know, we know exactly how to speak the language
in probability written by us.

geta ekki / heyra

what does this make for but amplified paranoia and schemes and task after do after meant to
sure that shiny globe gleaning in the corner the equator grinning revolving to prove a point
the deficiency of angularity at the same time precisely mapped with ridge and flume
pulsating couloir
's all souring but what's altered time and retracted focus within a frame
's what's most noteworthy

You seek the bottom of the glass still dependent on words you hope'll come
And then you think- whoa- whoa what've I ever done

And you're either discouraged or motivated by the success of others?

hands don't look human

really what do I do with you?
insanity afloat I enjoy it so
there's nothing I can say
I haven't stated before

I move fluidly

Language

"The Tarot is an optical language, and it’s like a meter: It says, “What do you ask?” Tarot is not speaking with words; it says you should think with dreams, with intuition. The unconscious is not a language we speak like the conscious; unconscious we speak with actors, with image, with sounds, with colors. This is the language of Tarot."

Alejandro Jodorowsky