tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60461612024-03-08T12:49:04.392-08:00The Backwards TravellerAKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.comBlogger900125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-21184480256209765632021-02-09T17:43:00.002-08:002021-02-09T19:40:22.247-08:00It's been a while since I've heard David's voice. In the intervening years, I haven't really thought about him all that often -- being generous, it has been, maybe, three or four times? Somewhere at the back of my mind, I think I had a fear that if I set aside the time and really listened again, I'd have to conclude that...he didn't really speak to me anymore. There have been many changes in my AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-31912284102006341592021-01-02T14:24:00.003-08:002021-01-02T14:24:31.582-08:00 In years gone by, I declared myself to have a proclivity to play the role of Observer rather than Experiencer, and focussed considerable energy on lamenting this regrettable state of affairs. The one consolation was that, as Observer, I could easily transition to Recorder, and make a detailed tabulation of every inclination and introspection substantive enough to survive transcription. The AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-52966307017028255162020-05-12T14:01:00.000-07:002021-01-02T14:01:57.432-08:00
Whether a natural evolution or forced conversion, I find myself less inclined to take up the pen these days. On occasions when I reflect on this strange turn of events, I sometimes worry it reflects of a deeper internal regression than I have the energy to confront. Other times, I am almost pleased at the thought that I am beyond the juvenile need to record and dissect my every fleeting moment.
AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-27253371008229112812019-08-04T17:24:00.001-07:002019-08-04T17:24:24.520-07:00
I am the first to admit that, wherever it may stand in terms of morality, my current war of attrition represents an unusually jarring change of heart. It was not that long ago that I sat down to put pen to a letter, one which was nowhere near my best in terms of flow or force, but which certainly was a reflection of how I was feeling at the time -- conflicted, saddened, and hopeful that there AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-65390727460680607892019-04-25T18:54:00.003-07:002019-04-25T18:56:12.052-07:00
I trust you didn't actually think I was going to end this exercise on that note.
I do owe some explanation, I realise, for the apparent abandonment of what was once my most treasured creation. But it's precisely because spelling this out is so difficult that I've been putting off a return. On reflection, a fair amount has happened since I last visited. There were waves of self-doubt on untold AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-68882696997085911042018-02-26T02:10:00.001-08:002018-02-26T02:16:05.710-08:00
What you chose to kill
I choose to bury
Our past shall haunt
No more
How sweetly it beckons
With a song so merry
But still I will seal
This door.
I am sole witness
To the rites today
So words I've no need
To tell
But since you asked
I guess I'd say
Good riddance
Or farewell.
AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-75865815002597287752017-12-06T13:14:00.000-08:002017-12-07T03:12:58.657-08:00
I don't own you; you don't owe me; but I may as well admit, you've hurt me. Six months on, and I've just about worked up the strength to pry open the door to the tomb, and stare at the outside world. And the first sight I see is your beaming smile, one which I have to painfully mimic as you tell me the big news: you've met someone, and this time it's serious.
Was I the more loving, or just the AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-42708587167960801462017-07-15T16:45:00.000-07:002017-07-15T16:45:04.768-07:00
Winter's harsh enough without us having to force our hearts frozen shut. The sky is an oppressive grey, and the sun is many hours away from even considering an appearance. Tucked away in my quilt, I feel warm in body but utterly chilled everywhere else. It will be some time yet before the images of you start to thaw. Sometimes, it seems easier to just go back to sleep, in hopes of a dream of AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-50541850454030895612017-07-15T12:53:00.000-07:002017-12-06T12:53:47.208-08:00
I'm almost entombed here, amongst boxes, papers, and other scraps of the past that simply will not let me go. Having lost her convincingly, it's hard not to look back at the last four years as some kind of failure. Not so much professionally -- though of course there is plenty of room for that interpretation -- than in terms of actual emotional progress, where I can't point to anything AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-46944326268459507422017-07-15T01:42:00.001-07:002019-04-25T18:31:33.679-07:00
I know that this life cannot be sustained. I've had many hours of joy in this particular corner of the world, and on balance, it's probably the best place I've ever lived. But -- and I don't know this is a self fulfilling prophecy -- all things have their time. The last few months, my daily routine has been nothing short of shambolic. With no alarm to guide me, or introduce any source of rigour AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-57623136865676982442017-07-15T01:03:00.000-07:002018-02-26T02:12:33.794-08:00
I bid goodbye
With best regards
And hopes our paths
May cross;
Empty words
To serve as shield
For a heart forever
Lost.
AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-55914146189795610322017-05-06T00:31:00.001-07:002017-05-06T00:31:22.186-07:00The Pretender
I run into a colleague while making my way to the stairs -- this will be the fourth time in the day that I've had the overpowering need to leave the office, and perhaps the planet -- and realise that his banal chit-chat no longer bores me, but rather actively hurts me. I put on a smile with no care for how obviously fake it is, and stare blankly at his moving lips. My vision is blurry, my AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-69432953641132227852017-05-04T03:59:00.003-07:002017-12-06T12:49:58.279-08:00
She offered me a hand, and in a moment of disbelief and delusion, I thought I might reach to hold it. But now things are in their right place again: as I reached for that elusive grip, she backed away and let my fingers feel the cold air of nothing. Back to where I began; fallen, in a pit, no light in sight. My friend tells me, it's all my fault, that I shouldn't have hesitated the way I did. AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-22867741812007157902017-05-02T04:09:00.002-07:002017-12-06T12:50:13.946-08:00
There will be no more chances. Three is enough for any lifetime. It took a certain ingenuity to throw each of them away so casually, and with no apparent concern for my future. My future! I suppose that's a more optimistic way of speaking about the void that beckons, one which started in my mind and now has spread to where I once had a heart.
AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-76734611948263511982017-03-20T03:27:00.004-07:002017-12-06T12:50:28.147-08:00
I've missed this; the familiar sense of my fingers finding synchronicity with my mind, as they help trace out a thought that's hiding just outside the horizon of consciousness. For a moment, I'm released from the dull rut of existence, and I focus everything on the goal of sculpting the words into perfection. They're dedicated to someone important, who will know if I have let my standards slip; AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-73337211069301796822017-02-25T01:30:00.001-08:002017-02-25T01:30:46.253-08:00
I'm clinging on desperately to every smile, every laugh, every acknowledgement that I exist in some form of positive light. My nights are spent in careful dissection of the day's events, as I try to come to the conclusion I want to hear: that this could be something. But when I get the opportunities that I spend all weeks trying to create, I'm left crippled by a cold dose of reality. I seeAKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-8847448652802866642017-02-25T01:23:00.001-08:002017-02-25T01:32:21.920-08:00Retrovertigo
Something is trying to find me, but my mind doesn't let it in. I've sheltered it now for the last few months with all manner of work, thought, and really anything else I can find that will help create some fortification. Now that I find myself without any excuses to fall back on, I can sense this stranger approaching again. It is trying to tell me something true, something I should probably hearAKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-70328918701445035472017-01-04T05:53:00.001-08:002017-01-04T05:53:27.469-08:00
This hit the spot.
“Having made an utter failure of my life, one day I found myself in the midst of my poverty and wretchedness, thinking about the female companions of my youth. As I went over them in my mind’s eye one by one it suddenly came over me that those slips of girls – which is all they were then – were in every way, both morally and intellectually, superior to the ‘grave and AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-85507974969758323732016-12-11T03:12:00.000-08:002016-12-11T03:12:21.613-08:00Better Off This Way
The days are bright, and the sun should be a source of joy. Why then is it pain I feel each morning as it pierces my eyelids? I can admit it: I'm burnt out, discharged, exhausted, and above all, bored. The brief bursts of enthusiasm and energy from this past year seem unreal now, as I sit in wait for the year to come to an all too welcome close. Some part of me still needs fixing, if things are AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-34484066695691949542016-12-10T14:08:00.003-08:002016-12-10T14:08:46.314-08:00What I'd Say
Blame it on a lack of experience. There I was, with the opportunity I'd apparently wanted for a few months now -- initial bridges crossed, shared jokes exchanged, and an evening spread out farther than I could see. But it's only the morning after that I'm able to think up the things I should have said, and shake my head at what actually went down. I have a familiar sense of regret, but while AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-4791718804182962152016-12-09T13:45:00.001-08:002016-12-09T13:45:06.846-08:00One more bit
You'll remember my advice from a while ago: never write anything the days immediately before or after an age increment. This has been a simple yet effective guard against the most obvious, and unrewarding, strains of self-reflection and flagellation. Well, we're past that point enough now for me to try to bring some sobriety to the scene, but wouldn't you know it, I reach into my mind for a AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-59138677280781174922016-11-22T02:50:00.002-08:002016-11-22T02:58:54.917-08:00
So did she agree? Hah. Of course not. I must say that despite all my rough talk about my fundamental worthlessness, my actions betray a rather different sense of the self -- one laughably inflated in the other direction. It's why I now find myself feeling undone, where my past writings might suggest a complete lack of surprise to be the only logical response. I suppose I was one up on myself AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-15685666512389867762016-11-22T02:37:00.001-08:002016-11-22T02:37:46.465-08:00
Away at last from the swirl of people running around, making excited plans for the future, proudly displaying to the world that they are in pursuit of a higher purpose. Their energy always gets me down, reminder as it is that maybe I was once like that. Or not; I don't really remember that well, but I'm not particularly inclined to get to the bottom of that matter. In any event, what matters is AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-42436409336497305492016-11-17T02:22:00.000-08:002016-11-17T02:22:12.271-08:00
One of the uses of poetry is certainly in providing a glimpse into an inner life, both as it is lived and experienced. But is that the only use? I should say that this question is purely academic to me, because what I produce isn't poetry in any serious sense of the word -- these are private rhymes, secret phrases that carry weight in my memory. They serve no greater purpose than recording the AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6046161.post-16712034823532983182016-09-29T02:25:00.000-07:002016-11-24T02:54:26.137-08:00Somebody's Baby Now
I thought a poem
Could win a heart
Or if not
Then cure the blues;
But tonight
I write alone
When I'd ratherBe with you.
AKMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09760531604231991596noreply@blogger.com0