Life is not a box of chocolates but rather, the cosmos in a blender. Without a straw and some friends you’ll never suck this one down the hatch. Just when you think you may have things figured out, that maybe, just maybe, you have obtained some thinning shred of understanding its then that you get pushed right back into the ultimate state of misunderstanding.
Love is not a movie, a song, or a postcard of some sunny fucking Colorado sunrise over white capped mountains. Love is life, which is not a box of chocolates but rather, the cosmos in a blender. And well without a led pipe, you won't get through this part of life.
"I don't want to grow up, that's too much contradiction. Friction." -Tom Verlaine. We all grow up at some point, well, just some more than others. Which is not to say I will not one day pride myself on my lack of climbing the maturity tree (within reason). For, I alike so many other anthropoids do truly understand that holding on to as much of our childlike intentions is going to keep us at just the right level of insanity. Yes, I do miss the days where a bookshelf with scattered titles could be a skyline for my superheroes to commit extreme acts of violence and heroism. When the grass in the backyard was an unexplored habitat of supreme interest (who knew ants lives such inspiring lives). Such purpose that these tiny little creatures create for themselves. Such dilligence for the cause at hand. On a good day, we can be compared to them. Yet, then again, where is the cognitive, creative, and crazyness in that sort of existence?
PARENTHOOD? wtf?re·pro·duc·tion : the natural process among organisms by which new individuals are generated and the species perpetuated.
"Scared shit less" My head telling, well, my head.
The daunting reality of possibly becoming a father is by far the most frightening yet exhilarating feeling I have ever felt. I haven't felt this alive since... well I better not go there. So there it has been said, I am almost 90% sure I will be a father this time nine months from now. And by this time I mean like... er... 8:54pm? Sure, why not, that works. A baby. Say it with me, "A baby". Crazy right. I just got goosebumps I don't know about you. There is no thought more magical than the idea of assisting the placement of thoughts into another mind. Children are our chance to once again tap into the source, to become a kid, to get as close to God as we as adults may possibly get. When I look at the sky (day/night) I feel like I am a kid again. That vast dome leading to infinite possibility holds the truth. During the day, the deep blue with white marble makes me drift off into a whole world of thought, which, for me is getting as close to the source I can without a new mind to coerce me to relive the unsolved days of youth. Maybe between periods and spaces I sit here with my twenty-one year old fingers and wish for this child to be born. Or, maybe I feel that austere to the situation, that it is out of my hands and if that beautiful woman is deprived yet again of a normal child birth that it was the will of some other than my own. Who knows? Well I do, but, wheres the mystery in telling you now?
The daunting reality of possibly becoming a father is by far the most frightening yet exhilarating feeling I have ever felt. I haven't felt this alive since... well I better not go there. So there it has been said, I am almost 90% sure I will be a father this time nine months from now. And by this time I mean like... er... 8:54pm? Sure, why not, that works. A baby. Say it with me, "A baby". Crazy right. I just got goosebumps I don't know about you. There is no thought more magical than the idea of assisting the placement of thoughts into another mind. Children are our chance to once again tap into the source, to become a kid, to get as close to God as we as adults may possibly get. When I look at the sky (day/night) I feel like I am a kid again. That vast dome leading to infinite possibility holds the truth. During the day, the deep blue with white marble makes me drift off into a whole world of thought, which, for me is getting as close to the source I can without a new mind to coerce me to relive the unsolved days of youth. Maybe between periods and spaces I sit here with my twenty-one year old fingers and wish for this child to be born. Or, maybe I feel that austere to the situation, that it is out of my hands and if that beautiful woman is deprived yet again of a normal child birth that it was the will of some other than my own. Who knows? Well I do, but, wheres the mystery in telling you now?
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