Lake, Fire, space. Dreams afloat forever, washed under, purged sourly. One may assume about the future, about the ability, if existing hidden, to change that which one sees through. Not merely the surroundings, but the eyes.
And what of events that pale, dull, and fizzle when they arrive? We've lost it all, underneath that is a problem of the realistic sense. Don't forget what can happen to anyone. Don't worry about your doom. Don't cry about the trying night. But roast and marinate yourself amongst the sorrow and pretend life doesn't hurt.
Blanched by the pale moon,
a severed limb too soon,
a train of thought marooned,
savage hope too soon,
a dangerous sound crooned,
and the end of the lightning.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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