3:32am on the Turner Turnpike

So here I am, writing by the light of the eclipsing moon and the backlight of my cell phone. The steel frame of my little Ford hardly seems protection enough from the diesel-guzzling monsters whizzing by at 80+ mph. And maybe I've spent too much time in Joss Wheedon's imagination this week, but from the looks of the woods to my right, I believe it to be a perfectly reasonable assumption that a werewolf will come tearing through the trees at any moment (I mean, it IS a full moon).

I'm an adult...a 27 year-old adult who should be perfectly capable of dealing with a little car trouble and waiting patiently for the tow truck without totally loosing it (nevermind that it's 3:32am in the no man's land of the Turner Turnpike somewhere between Wellston & Oklahoma City). Although for that matter, I'm also an adult who should be responsible enough - or at the very least not stupid enough - to take off on a mini roadtrip, knowing that I will be returning in the wee hours of the morning, without getting the little light-shaped-like-a-battery, that keeps flickering on the dashboard, checked out.

So I guess it's safe to say that it's my own fault that I now sit whimpering in my car as it shudders with the roar of each passing semi, while obsessively checking for any change in the shadows of the trees and trying to determine if the hungry sounding howls that I'm sure I hear are directed at the moon or at me.

untitled bored and sleeply randomness

Falling away, looking awry, playing along long after the game for fame is done.

Dissatisfaction of these actions tripping along, dripping between.

Necessary light means unnecessary awkardness for familiarity of this reality.

Definitions add depth to the explanation of the when and the why, but the how is the dilemma of now.

Apologies for tomorrow bring a sour taste to today, springing from yesterday's staleness.

Paling in comparison, failing to find the irony in the pain without coping against hope.

Floating through sadness, dreaming through blandness, learning to listen to the quiver of desire while ignoring the whisper of the dark.

Hundred

The how I can't recall
But I'm staring at what once was the wall
Separating east and west
Now they meet amidst the broad daylight

So this is where you are, and this is where I am
Somewhere between unsure and a hundred

It's hard I must confess
I'm banking on the rest to clear away
Cause we have spoken everything
Everything short of I love you

You right where you are, from right where I am
Somewhere between unsure and a hundred

And who's to say it's wrong
And who's to say that it's not right
Where we should be for now

So this is where you are, and this is where I am
So this is where you are, and this is where I've been
Somewhere between unsure and a hundred

Octagon Logic

No longer just circles, my logic now forms octagons of clarity....a clarity as brilliant as the Xian skyline.
I exercise only to breathe in the pollution. My lungs and my thoughts turn black. How I long for that true taste of sunlight.
There's light at the other end, far far in the distance....but it might just be the 12:05 freight train, and it's 20 minutes late.
I can see where I need to be, just on the other side of the tracks. A different world, with different thoughts.
But things are never as black and white as they seem in the dark. A blue sky changes everything.

Tippler

A tippler, a toppler, atop a stilt walker
Perching up high for a clear point of view
Struggling to balance, my ankles are weak
Whispering, whimpering, failing to speak
Flailing my arms for attention I don't want
Clinging to hope that my logic is caught
on a hook or a nail or a rusty old pail
or on fears that I'm too wise to ignore.