Crowding in America

Everything here is so crowded with options and abundance, it seems to make the air thicker and harder to breathe. One has no trouble breathing on an empty meadow high up in the mountains. Here my three blankets are pilled up like mattresses, like the clothes in the corner, which I hardly wear, like the books on the shelf, all four of them just started, like all the objects and colors on the wall, like the electronics, four types of screens lined up on the desk.

My head screams. I imagine a room like that of a cell or a monastery, empty beyond a single bed. Empty so there’s room for my thoughts to enter it too.

Lying on the symbols of comfort, surrounded by bright and colorful lights, flowers, words, and decor, shoppes with my every undiscovered want, times a thousand. Choice, choice, and more choice. I become so distracted that it takes driving on the same old gray road that I’ve been driving every day for two years (if I manage to convince myself to turn off the radio), to be truly alone. Thoughts flow while I try not to crash, but a quietness permeates the air like nowhere else in the cities of the country, as I have no choice then but to hear my naked thoughts.

But the ride ends so soon, and I walk into places screaming, More! More! Think this! More TV! Eat! But what? Oh the time it takes to decide.

I watched a man say recently, how America never developed its own kitchen, as around the world all great cooking has been born out of limited options, and making the best of those possibilities. Although grateful tor the obvious, my mind starves for the limitations, like being stuck with a sheet of blank paper in a boring class, that enable me to truly be.
Free.

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Non-Poetic Rant from the Armchair: “Not Saving the World”

It’s hard for me to figure out what I want to do with my life because
I want to participate in normality
And that tends to encompass the majority of things
I don’t want to fight for:
Grades and jobs that entail
Bending over backwards to show people my worth.
I don’t want to be under-worked and underpaid and underestimated because of my age.
I want to be respected as a human, with ideas.
That seems like decades from now, possibly.
But what ridiculous thing can I do if I choose to run against the system?
It all amounts to shame.

What if I don’t want to solve the world’s problems?
What if I just want to be, because everything is essentially meaningless anyway,
Except for the joy of people, and even that’s temporary to their existence.
Saving the world is such a reckless idea.
Who said the world needs to be saved?
What said it can be?  Continue reading Non-Poetic Rant from the Armchair: “Not Saving the World”

Poetic Rant from the Train: “Fast Life”

Why do I always leave in a hurry?
Why can I never slow down?
Why do I go places to say I’ve been there?
Why don’t I look around?
Sometimes I think it’s about personality,
It would be a shame to change.
But if I’m different and I’ll be happy,
What makes me stay the same?
“Relax” says the graffiti outside the train,
“Relax” says the constant rain.
But how can I listen when life seems to go so fast?
One moment I’m here,
Next on another continent,
And I hardly felt the change.
One moment certain people matter,
Next I forgot their name.

I guess once again I’m in this ridiculous dilemma,
Trying to avoid the changing tides of life,
Looking for a constant,
Deluded into its existence,
Never stopping to see the real light.

“Art…”

Art,
My sweet devil,
Save me.
I’ve
Gotten so comfortable with falling apart.

Emptiness,
Like the dried up stream,
I run from.
At times I’m fooled.
The stream is still dry.

Love,
A quest to find some spark,
Somewhere,
Some life.
My loving tears
Can’t turn a wasteland to a park.

Passion,
What is it?
Books, songs, dances,
I see nothing.
Sometimes so foreign,
Just like laughing.

Purpose?
I’ve erased them.
Nothing really worth it.
No difference can be made.
Living to live,
To what?

Continue reading “Art…”

“Everything has changed”

Everything has changed.
I avoid stopping so I don’t have to understand it.
A year of hills and touchy pain,
Spiraling up and down
Through heartbreak, freedom and depression,
To life, and suddenly requiring my heart again,
After it’s tumbled in the washing machine for a short time,
Might be the right expression.

I can’t stop, nor want I to go back or forward.
All intimidate me.
The present innocent and content,
The future that I must define,
The past I never want again.

I need time to think,
Room to breathe,
To figure out what’s really been going on.
This new life, of constant learning, of always being,
Contrasts brightly to the hours spent
Hating having to stay at home.
And who have I become with these new people?
I feel softer, but more equal.
And where has my electronic music gone?
Like my poems, out the big wall-window,
In the rain, trampled by the bicycles.
Just like my liking for being alone.

And yet with all that,
Of being completely lost or completely new,
Although both might be the same,
For once in my life I can say one thing,
I feel no more need for change.

Poetic Rant on the Grass: “Introducing Me”

I’m the kind of hippie
That drinks red wine
While staring at the city
And goes to the park to write.
Then I come indoors,
Put on my black slacks,
And everyone thinks seriousness
Is the only thing I got going on.
Like, when will you take a joke?
Well your joke is just not funny.
See Plato’s jokes are funny,
Yours seem to be a product of insecurity.
Then I get awfully bored with acting proper
Because around me the people start taking it seriously.
That ends up being funny to me,
And I decide that I must have an attitude problem.
I can’t be the only one thinking that most of college,
Especially classes, is lame.
And then I get into this deep rejection
Of what society deems is useful.
As many have said before me,
it’s a pile of dusty books,
While the world is actually around me,
But I guess civil society has an arbitrary cost of getting in.

You know it’s hard to reconcile;
And I thought I would go crazy
Until I re-read Emerson and
He told me to be myself even if that means being crazy,
Then Socrates let himself die over the exact same thing.

How to be good, I guess is the question?
That ridiculously dusty religious question,
That everyone talks about, but no one thinks.
For me, I don’t care about being good yet,
Because I’m not yet convinced it’s worth it.
I’m not planning on going to heaven,
And I hate injustice,
In the form of people taking advantage of the just.

At this point I think I should have taken a blanket to sit on,
As I’m pretty sure there’ll be dirt on my pants,
Which is hard to explain to a college population that
Doesn’t even go out,
(Unless in groups of 4-10).

Education in the city,
But it feels like there’s nowhere to go
Except for the small facets of nature,
Oases from working the tiresomeness of cultural life.
Although taking my journal with me might not be just that.
I write from my soul
(though there’s no such thing of course)
But my theoretical soul is a jumble of things
Because I too, like everyone else,
Have little idea who I am or where I am,
And certainly no idea of where I’m going,
It just bothers me how it’s hard to find some privacy for my ideas here.

“Someone once told me, to make sure I feel my pain…”

Someone once told me
To make sure I feel my pain,
Emotions are a spectrum,
Not a fire to be tamed.
And now here I was again,
Playing it safe.
Mediocre love for mediocre pain.
But the truth cannot hide
Behind the practicality of my brain.
The hopeless romantic, the girl on fire,
The poet smiling at the rain,
They cannot be contained.
Even if in light of pain,
And seemingly hopeless wandering and days so same,
A bolder life, a wilder love,
None can deny,
The vision’s a gift from above.