an ode to peter doherty

marry me peter?

as the rain fell and washed away her face

as the rain fell and washed away her face
it left behind the only remaining features of an honesty
prepared to lay down and die
for these words and this love
for the slightest glint of a soul
so incredibly intense
a sour victory over the mind and rationalization
with unknown intentions
and sticky, biodegradeable nerves
with a gelatin-like touch
and plastic features
those big, bright eyes
need someone to marvel at them

Nostalgia

Nostlagia. What the romantic people of the world live in every second of their lives. Forever sparking imagination and art and creating a safe hideaway for those who are so unhappy in the present that they live in the past. The beauty of it is that you don't have to live in just your past and your previous experiences, you can choose any point in history to drown in. While nostalgia itself is an extremely romantic, poetic ideal, no doubt the people who live in it run the risk of having it influence their present in such ways as to become naive to reality. But being aware is overrated, I'm hopping on the Albion to search for my Arcadia.

Never too much to read, Always too little time

There can never be "too much" to read. Maybe we're so caught in petty pursuits that it seems that way. Go work. Go consume. Go home, sweet, dysfunctional home. Keep going and never stop to live. 

Just keep going. Our "energizer bunny" culture tells us not to stop; it's hard to feel pain when rushed.  If we slow down, will we feel unsatisfied? Frustrated? Exhausted? Will we feel at all? If emotion seeps in, will our ad-sized attention spans turn it off? 

Working isn't always progress; stillness isn't always idleness. Slow down. Slow down, and feel. Feel power-crushing wind gusts. Feel your chapped lips and sore knees. Feel Poe, Beethoven,  Morrison. Feel what your soul yens for, and follow.