ToughtsOnNoSubject.

I find myself sitting in Starbucks, a rare occasion, strictly for the Wi-Fi and not the overrated yet surprising reasonable priced coffee.

I look around for some sort of inspiration,
starring at my oily keyboard and feeling guilty about the bacon and egg muffin I just ate 12 hours passed an ‘official’ breakfast, and I am thinking way too much and thinking way to hard about something that could be of relevance to anyone or anything.

I’m too deep into the idea that something is expected of me, that I must do something with my time, when really I have absolutely nothing I need to do other then enjoy the moment in this life I am alive.

I have started something with this blog, and I do not see a finishing line, in my mind I must keep producing at a steady pace, but who is it that I’m writing for again?
I feel I am not writing for anyone but myself, so why is it I choose to post my words to the public? possibly to inspire the reader, to start a subtle change in the way we should all think about our lives? Or it’s a powerful form of expression that helps me to shine. Either way I’m putting them out there for one to interpret how they wish.

These words are to re-assure me of my ability to speak, to remind myself of my journey and the direction in which it proceeds. I write the words born within the years interpreting all that others have taught me; all that others have expressed inside the vast spectrum of emotion ranging from those in a deep fear to those that are radiating happiness.

I am simply following my heart as it beats in syllables, text is just the way I express myself, so why am I searching so hard for the right thing to say knowing damn to well I should just let my mind take my fingers for a dance, embrace the romance of the mood I happen to be in at the time.

Sometimes I get bored with life around me, and all I want to do is listen to instrumentals and write rhymes so why is it I cannot drop all it is I’m doing and get on with the thing I love, and instead sit fidgeting with a blank stare? all to often I find myself distracted by the amount of nothing that is actually happening around me, though apparently its enough to interrupt my flow forming a sentence, a slight movement in the corner of my eye that turns my head.

Always in a constant distraction subconsciously in search of a sign, or something else to do other then what is is I know I really want to do, so I argue with my self a little bit and hit the spliff, relax and forget that the world exists.

“The fact is I’m a genius but to shy to represent, my thesis, so I hide behind the keys and lay it out in pieces”.

I have since removed myself from Starbucks wielding my white goods on full charge, I seat myself on a bench alongside a lake in the Okanagan, it’s somewhat nicer then the back corner of the coffee hub. I sit, the wind kisses my cheeks, I sit position to the west, or maybe the east, I’m just guessing, savoring the sweet tastes of my dab pen trying to eat my way around the rotten parts of the grape fruit I scored from the dumpster a couple of towns back, I feel no longer to question myself, nor the words spat out my metaphorical mouth.

as my eyes gaze out into the distance, everything’s where it is meant to be, as I look out over the water, a series of mountains trees sparse hills a lime pale green as the reflection of the sky, ripples in the wind, blown lightly over the waters surface, its all perfect, the buoys afloat , the safety ropes, the lamp posts along side the pavement as it circles the sand to the grass’ edge, this world has been an experience, and I’m only a quarter of the way around an epic tale to tell, I’m in no rush, I know love is all around me, and that’s all that really matters, I know I am one with my mother earth and all of her children, I know if I need my time, I’ll take my time, and live to the fullest of experience.

Where I sit, I hear those ripples hit the tidal edge and think of where I sat way back, a young tak wishing he would grow be like like his dad, a superman, supporting a family, making my mother and father proud of how I would have sold my soul to the devil for $23.70 cents an hour and hadn’t branched out to a world who slapped me round town a little bit, holding me tight within Pachamama’s arms during the times things got a little shit, it wouldn’t have been the same if I didn’t run away from what was hurting, though I left in a manner uncommon to the uncertain, a couple of dead ends and many turns, until I found what I was looking for, a moment in time to write down my feelings, to shout this shit out loud and fly through the concrete of the ceiling,
screaming,

can you here me.
am I still speaking.
Its uncertain that I’m still breathing,

I’ll end here,
a day and a half to etch into stone my nonsense,
I’m tired, time to eat my Dhal and take some rest.

Matt x

 

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