bourgeois hippy

It's hard for me to spit out words in an effort to create thought for myself to read later. Sometimes these thoughts are so hard to rationalize that I often wonder if they're anything but the dreams that I could never put into words anyway, the minute I woke up with my heart pounding, believing I was still holding her hand.. Sometimes I realize that other people can read what I write too, and from there I begin to fear the unbridled power of an approved array of vocabulary, or the potential of the asymmetrical deity confined within a commensurate society that loathes everything it's come to misunderstand.

Then I realize that complex theatrics don't work too well with a concept perfectionist, and words are but words in a world constrained to nine numerals that may or may not approach the ultimate blank space to which we stare when we want to wander, getting lost among the stars that make us wide-eyed and tongue twisted when we realize there is no response that can successfully refute our lives biggest woes and questions, such as the loved one who doesn't know, or the failed exam, or the disrespect from another person as undeniably as insignificant as us.

I like to define a lot of my writing as the use my native language to count the syllables of the words that are so vague in definition to us that they create emotion and sense through the simple use of sonorous connotation... That doesn't have to make any sense, but I still think you get it.

Je suis le noir dans le drap de ton lit, le blanc dans l'�il de ta ma�tresse, le bleu dans tes incendies, et le rouge dans tes ciels clairs; mais je suis pas le violet qui te manque chaque week-end lorsqu'� la fen�tre tu pleures, avec du deuil et avec du d�sespoir... mais je veux l'�tre.