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Pooka
14 December 2014 @ 12:57 am
Its taken me this long to change my journal layout. I'm so sentimental that I could not bring myself to change the layout my ex husband made for me. I have kept it all this time. I still keep the empty gift card lamby gave me in my old wallet, I even taped the envelope so the writing wouldn't fade as quick. I have poems my exs wrote me and receipts from moments I was together with people. Bus passes of yesteryear and sprinkles of the past I can still touch or smell. I know depression is a heavy dragging thing but it gets harder to keep that in mind while you are ... I dont know I feel like Im slowly just dying really. You get tired of dying slowly and wish that it could just be a painless snap moment where no one gets hurt but you could choose when it was. The lack of hope is a soul crushing weight. No energy to change things and no direction and nothing much holding you tethered. You dissect memories wondering how foolish you were. Why it is always you that simply isnt. The enormity of the feelings you have for others and the inability to express them and the .... emptiness in return in most cases. I think I stopped praying for things to be good a long time ago. I think I stopped praying things would get better, I think I dont even expect them to just be OK anymore. I started praying they were just over and then telling myself to just go to sleep and Id feel better when I woke. Im just lost.
 
 
 
Pooka
11 October 2014 @ 12:18 pm
Funny how the sparkling moments at their high, the summit if you will, are the shadows of beginning and end. The light that moves alo cast much in darkness deeper in reflection to its own brightness. The butterfly, a ripe fruit, the rose in bloom. Do we love them for the the symbology? The taste of the here and now because it is a picture of the dying? What is only good for this moment that soon shall spoil, but forever taken in this one moment. Memories do what memories will in the harsh fragments of the mind clawing still and breathing heavy. The only immortality that man can provide, in the thoughts and hearts of others. In struggle we pit ourselves to preserving a record of our existence in the hopes that we will be remembered after we are gone and live on n the thoughts of those who come after.
 
 
 
Pooka
20 September 2014 @ 03:58 am
and Skandar breaks up with me. shoe foot sky Dont think twice its alright.
 
 
 
Pooka
*_______ *_______ , of stoic hidden heart, behind such careful construction made, in glimpses fleeting and moments rare are true won smiles briefly made

and as it should be

*_______ *________ , of stoic hidden heart, behind such careful construction"s fade, in glimpses fleeting and moments rare are true won smiles briefly made

That was a rather large oops in my typing. Doh, office of redundancy office.
 
 
 
Pooka
09 August 2014 @ 01:00 am
If of thou earthly goods thou art bereft
Of thy meager store two loaves alone to thee are left
Sell one and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul
—Moslih Eddin Saadi
 
 
 
Pooka
08 August 2014 @ 08:23 pm
on the abusive ways we fervently want to cling to our own ignorance and selfishness and yet another day where I win but doing the grown up thing hurts


fine is the biggest daily lie we tell
 
 
Current Mood: Fine
 
 
 
Pooka
08 August 2014 @ 01:04 pm
I know why the caged bird sings
lines from plays and songs and things
a fish for a fish in opposition
sits a dish of indefensible position

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Current Location: searching for brigadoon
Current Mood: melancholymelancholy
Current Music: Rei Yasuda - Mirror
 
 
 
Pooka
06 August 2014 @ 02:03 am
even when we do not speak
do not rush do not move
silence is not something we ever really grasp
so few truly know silence
as we approach it, it loses cohesion
each sound amplifying till a heartbeat, our own breathing threatens to drown us in cacophony
This noisy silence is home
the whoosh of cars and chirp of crickets
the sounds of footsteps and squeak of wood shifting
the electronic hum thick thru warm night air
the buzz of power coating this city
and the passage of skyward traffic on flight paths overhead
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Pooka
16 July 2014 @ 10:29 pm
In curiosity we seek the brilliant emanation of color rising
Chronicled in pale reflections on blinded planes
Solomon's key in fit to locks of idiosyncratic devising
of details proliferation, in scale and measure
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Pooka
14 May 2014 @ 12:54 pm
What contemplations circle seek
the trouble with the mind is...
the trouble with the mind is....
in growth substantiated
all in focus never found
in passing thru on brightness dimmed
measured beats of yesteryear
curling along in ticks and tocks

Where do the incalculable moments go
dying as we ourselves trust we are
but for living this fragmented godhood
foul to shell as deity to image
philosophical ponderance being elementally mercurial
conceptual remembrance our steadfast friend
in that the question lives
who is to take responsibility of our childlike creations
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