Mrs. Ashby, whose heart was born before my ears, whose blood trickled slowly over her heartstrings as she plucked feverishly into the night. Her sweet songs gave rise to old sunsets that caused the beaches to be glazed over with an unreal warmth.

The harp she played many years before my birth echoes loudly towards the dew-covered hills, pleasantly laced with God's tears.

These songs and poems that stream from the ancients, walk hand in hand with the hungered youth of today. These treasures speak of a passion that ceases to greet the morning star in these times. It forces the soul into a ceaseless lamenting of yesterday. Evenso, yesterday was but mere moments ago... What a horror we face as a people when we have long lost the ability to create memories.

The blade of my pains have kissed my face more than I've ever tasted the lips of love. And yet even as my tainted blood clouds my vision, I still press on.

What do you give to a person who has no hope for tomorrow?
What do you give to a person who is totally bereft of any light in these days?
The truth some say... But its so convoluted with everyones mass hysteria coinciding with ideals unoriginal of their own minds it seems. To be free seems like a pipedream. Maybe it always was. Some loftsided ideal to coddle and conform the masses.

What do you do for a person who is so ready to die without cause?
What do you do when that person shares the same pain as you?
You spend countless hours attempting to curve them far from performing the act, all the while holding a gun to your own head. Do you really care for this person, or do you run around as a white knight just to keep your own conscience clear?

I've cried long and hard for someone to help me, but my lips have gone dry. I thirst greatly... My body shrivels in pain, yet there is no water in this endless desert. The people around me are constantly deteriorating, and yet I have nothing left to give them. I'm so tired.

A constant battle of internal words, reflecting constantly on cycles long since past due. She didn't deserve my foolishness, none of them did. I wish I had a means of a peaceful exit off the stage, or at least a chance to make up for all my past sins. Every single face is still fresh in my mind. I want to show them who I am in all of my essence, but that seems like a long lost memory. This black tarp covers me in endless insanity. I don't blame her for taking steps away from me, I don't blame anyone for such a thing. If only they could see my soul, how twisted and mangled its face truly is, and yet it sheds tears daily. I'm only allowed sips and tastes of what was taken from me in my life, some distant light from another world. But even then, it seems lost in a sea of gray. I've become numb and cold... Cold enough that I feel the icy touch of death almost constantly. I almost find comfort in his arms to the point that I wonder if this is all a hellish dream concocted by my own mind, or by those that control the world... who knows.

I speak always of the people around me, never myself. Never myself because I know inwardly I'm the greatest coward, the greatest manipulator, the biggest hoax. Maybe because my raw emotions have long since dissipated. Apathy seems to be one of my greatest companions now. Sorrow follows right after her. An un-ending un-feeling pain. What kind of mess is that? But it is all my fault. I'm the one to blame for the cascading pillars that fall upon everyone around me. I am the sole problem that brings chaos amidst peace. My conceiving, my existence split families apart. My words have brought many a wound. I have become a serpent when I desired to be a protector.

I am my own worst enemy, and if I had the courage to, I'd destroy my own self.
Unbreakable cycles, unbreakable cycles, unbreakable cycles. And I just can't seem to fucking get away from them.

Sometimes when I sit alone... I feel cold steel pressed against my temple. I feel the mixture of pressure and immensely hot gasses pressed against my mind. The bullet passing by with a hello and goodbye as I say goodnight to the beautiful audience. The show must go on, but maybe its best it go on without me in the big picture.

Chi-city.

 I still get these microvisions when I listen to music. Some of them aren't so clear. Always little stories hidden behind the notes strung together in a syncopated dance.

Lonely man walking the Chicago streets as a torrential downpour lays its rest on the city streets. His feet lingering to and fro as his mind is reminiscing over the long work day. Lips eager for hard whiskey to soothe his soul.

Year is 1934. Sounds of a distant jazz saxophone piercing the symphony of rain and teardrops as he reminisces over a woman who seems like more of a distant dream than an actual memory.
The poison sting of the whiskey entering the decrepit tomb of his mouth was akin to the viper kisses of his sweet love from yesteryear.

Even behind the satisfied smile of a drunken man's countenance, no one could see the rainstorm that dwells in his heart. A man who sacrificed himself to the vibrant colors of his dreams rather than accepting the harsh reality of a black, white, and grey type of life. But even so, the colorful displays are events only he can see. Once again he returns to the solitude of his inner chamber, floating towards his bed with radio blaring the same sounds of melancholy jazz mixed with soothing white noise.

Every keystroke in this song I'm listening to. I hear the dripping blood of someones bleeding heart. I see almost exactly what they saw. Bathing near some river in a prairie. Completely content and in love with a woman with a soft face. Children run and to and fro. A living painting of what seems like a distant dream.
In music, there are untold stories.

And I want to unravel them. But I wonder if I'm lost in translation, or if I am the one re-defining each sound.
Each day I feel as if I've been falling. I've been falling for so long that I thought I was flying. I've been drowning for so long that I thought myself to be breathing underwater.

A constant revert towards original ideas. Always falling back to that original spacing.
But I've suffered so much in silence that I do not have the energy to draw from that wellspring any longer.
I cannot tell you of the pains I face when I awake to see the mystifying images of faces long gone.
I myself have felt as if I have died like they have. A lingering mist in the air. A ghost that dwells in the shadowy corners of a household.

Watching and taking note of every little detail, but lacking the voice to speak.
I am long forgotten. And I grew too comfortable with the idea of being a phantom of yesterday.
Words of love mean nothing to me any longer. They are but false words of consolation. There is no love in their eyes when they mutter it. I have no disdain for them. Only feelings of a momentary sorrow.

Things don't change. Just going with the motions so to speak.
Its all paradoxical. Constants are changing.
And even so, they're still mapped alongside the same fault lines and chasms.
An observation I've come across multiple times in almost any area. From social to political, and even scientific and personal discovery.
Certain motions run in a cyclical aspect. Maybe some minor deviations here and there, but like I said, still alongside those same fault lines.
Its even funnier once you realize that the issues we face as a species or colloquial society are the exact same since the beginning of us.
You start to wonder... What could serve as a global catharsis, a purge of all the negative aspects of humanity without us becoming monsters in the process?
Some sought to purge those deemed lesser, but fail to realize that  a proper education upon those terms would boost the entirety of humanity to understand the problems we face as a whole. Once everyone is aware of that problem, then I think we'd all be geared to deal with the evils of the world.
But it won't happen because people are constantly fighting to define and un-define what it is to see it.
And instead of being open-minded to learning how to disagree on peaceful terms, we result to the most heinous forms of violence.
And will use any and all means to justify it.
Everyday I always hear people justifying the murder and genocide of  certain groups for the greater good, instead of attempting to develop a certain form of communication to outreach towards these groups. Conformity will be the death of us. But learning to agree to disagree will probably delay the nuclear holocaust a little bit more.


Ecclesiastes 1:9

The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.