From The Diary

More musings from a very young traveler. Eyes opening, yet still so young and naïve. These words were composed more than thirty years ago, when the author was still young and confused. Nothing too profound here…just a sharing of that glimpse of time on the precipice of discovery.

* * *

Spaced out at the writing pad. Time lends itself unsympathetic to cries of slow down please and keep steadfastly on its path. Toward where? Where will it lead to? Isn’t there some sort of conclusion to be drawn from all this except the ultimate one of death? Isn’t there some connection which can be made between the past and the present? Nothing but the future. Life is the stuff of which dreams are made on. So said that magician Prospero. Ethereal Reality. Make of it what you will. Dreams and reality combine to give direction. Only thing is, reality is too bloody, too much of a nightmare to make the dream world pleasant. Life is macabre. It is an illusion into which we are thrown and into which death is our only escape. Between birth and death our dreams are played out. Adlibbed as they are. I guess I’m ready. It wouldn’t matter if I wasn’t. There are no choices except in our perception, our attitude. Other than that – we’re locked toward the future.

Hey, cosmic reelings suggesting discomfort? Paranoia? What is wrong with the boy? Ah, nothing really. I’m still alive and well. The two go hand in hand. My only regret is the fact that time seems to be moving faster and faster. Where have all those other days gone? I look at the past and wonder just where it’s gone. I feel like there is unfinished business to attend to. But I think a lot of this empty feeling is simply where I’ve been in the past three or so years. Introverted, head smothered in books – no chance to open up, to catch my breath. Think I’ll do that right now. Hold on, I’m gonna grab the essentials and try to get a handle on this better. After all, it is National Letter Writing Week.

* * *

Burnin on. The night mixes itself a dark potion risky enough for even the strong. Tried to look at the moon t’nite, as it showed itself in majestic yellow. No chicken he is/he’s throwin all the memories back at me, without blinkin an eye. The wind swirls up and catches me reminiscing. I’m tipped off my chair and this room smells of a ghost. I know I’ve been here before but everything is so strange. Strategy is no friend and all I’ve got for armor is a worn stylus. Too big for mendin, this rip in the wall has got me reeling/there’s all sorts of enemies brainwashing my attempts. Where is that compass? I thought it was in my pocket all the time.

* * *

Sorting it out. . .

sinking into obscurity

monday kicks off the week

and it seals my mind with my thoughts

frozen into submission

there’s no reaching out

just living with what’s been bought

there is some difficulty

fighting off the chains

that I’ve built around you fragile one

i must admit

i’m trying my best

when it’s all been said and done

and for what is past

the fear never goes away

it’s protection and possession I guess

and I guess that will always stay

but the bondage must not be

doing justice we’ve been fair

those days out on a limb

can you now say you are there

frozen with insanity

i know Friday I can thaw

and warm my eyes with the sight of you

checking for errors

all fault undone

seems best to see this through

* * *

Obviously Confused. . .

yes, but if you accept the fact that

life exists and societies must develop;

that man interrelates and sets up

his little rules for living

as bullshit and mundane as it is,

it must be.

hierarchies of importance,

and values of relative priorities

need be established

these things are to exist in the involuntary

unthinking part of the mind,

to be done and forget the principles,

to be given no directives but

just carried out.

–it is in this collection

of society’s blind game

that procrastination exists,

not as failure to complete

the inner cosmos or

the action of even intelligence,

but only it satisfies

and defines the state of

non-compliance with

the social norms.

* * *

Call and Response. . .

i need a drink

to relax my mind

soothe my body

and quiet my fears

i cannot cope

with life’s tribulations

without a drink –

it makes everything easier to swallow

it seems deliberate

to relax the mind

soothe aching heads

fill up the years

with the swallowing of life

in a drink

yes it makes drinking easier to swallow

* * *

Still the Pontificator of Confused Substance. . .

zap the chancery and predict the wind. . .two things that’ll keep ya guessin and don’t mean a mound of monks t’anybody just the same. i’ve been tormented by wild demons in uniform, midnight visitations and breathless wonder. what is this wild meandering you pursue, with inexorable dictates of the fearless fantastic and adapts the stance of the ceaseless cynic? you are a living monument unto yourself and to many others in excess of you don’t know, and I am wild unraveled at the thought of if ever someone plugged your live wire into the electric chrub; mythology mated to the streets and you are lost in the jungle, bound to the truth on the scales of justice with nothing but the wind to guide you. there is an old belief that if you throw chance to the wind it is very possible you will get blown away. i don’t have any beliefs, chance is subjective, and in a certain sense, I was blown away some very long time ago.

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About pmwallis

A writer, musician, traveller of the soul and investor of the truth...
This entry was posted in The Young Writer and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to From The Diary

  1. laurie wallis says:

    WHEW! Blew me away on that wind you were speaking of…. I have no words, just sensations, images washing over me, evoking a virtual reality that’s indescriable. Still got it after all these years……

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