Poetry, Writing

Consuming

What’s so bad about all the trappings?
Aluminum wheels, particle board chairs,
boxed candies at the foot of the machine
That gives visual cues of what it costs,
Assembled fixtures give rest to consumeristic paraphernalia
That you simply must have,
With catchy song invading ear,s
As it mingles with fluorescent lightwaves;
This room is so sterile it’s killing all the life,
But why?

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“Sometimes I wonder whether the inability to broadcast your suffering is what separates the mentally ill from the sane.”

At twilight hour on the balcony, faces on bodies seem strange down below. Are they people? Oh, I can feel a dreadful rush coming on. I look to Ryan and wonder whether he feels the energy, but his book is still placed in front of him and he seems oblivious. My eyes dart from the outlet that holds the power for christmas lights wrapped ‘round the railing, to stale coffee, to Ryan, and then pull my vision inward. Those moments make nothing of comfort. The chair wobbles and exasperates spine in my back and I can’t stand being looked at. “Please, Please look elsewhere. But wait! Wait, I can’t stand being ignored!” I wanted to tell him that. Christ, there’s nothing in the world that could give my soul peace.

“I can’t tell whether or not I’m alive.” I say out loud, accidentally.

“How can you not tell that you’re alive? That seems absurd, and if I may say, unnecessarily dramatic.” Ryan responded with a tone that made my heart cringe, and when my heart cringes I cannot control myself any longer.

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Prose, Writing

What Separates the Sane from the Insane

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A meme of a meme,
fabrications of a conglomeration
all leading in every direction, but never exposing their inception.
Just an ever-changing evolution
of a figment
of an imagination.
Searching for a constant,
but remaining inconsistent.
A never-ending transmission from IP to IP,
an internet ping pong of an identity.
Who am I? 

Photographs, Poetry, Writing

Pseudo-Trans-Post-Postmodern

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