Gaps

I feel sick. Sick to the stomach from the liquor on my stomach. It's been almost 15 hours since i collapsed in an intoxicated fit unto my bed without removal of make up nor clothes, and still the taste of Jack Daniels combined with shandy [a dangerous combinment] remains scented fouly at the back of my throat. Why are we punished for our naivity?I strolled around town today trying to batter an immense hangover. It may have been more immense if i had woken up a couple of hours earlier. So, to put it more sweetly i nursed a splitting headache. You can't realy sweeten up Jack Daniels though, no matter what you mix it with.I'm not really used to drinking. I'v done it plenty of times, but all far apart. By which time the next comes i think i may have lost a little of my confidence to go as far as i did the previous time, and always dare myself to reach that level. Because i never set myself to that level the previous time, i end up going further. A new record to compete with. i have a vague mental plan of the ruitine, but i always somehow manage to go that little bit further, phsycologically convinced that if i don't then i shant get that extra kick i crave so initially and had my heart set on from the start. Alcohol is filthy stuff. If only people knew why they did it.Luckily, i know the reasons why i drink when i drink. Therefor, i try to deal with these issues soberly and formally rather than just constantly temporarily. Once, one of these issues happened to be something i couldn't deal with formally, and because i couldn't bare to ditatch myself from this issue, came back to the one resortion that may have helped destroy it in the end. You'll know what i mean. Someday.How do i begin this. How can i stretch the lengths of possibility to bring you to some form of understanding that can be interpreted of this situation i am so familiar with. Not by choice, but by nature. I am subdued, and partially i don't even realise it.It almost seems a life time ago that i was sitting on this very bed, wishing and wishing for something i couldn't have. Blind enough for it to be possible to trick myself into thinking it was mine at the time. Obsessed and consumed with the nogotiation that with a capturment of a doubt it would no longer be mine, and without it i would then be consumed with the fear of the lack of it. The tension, the boundries and enlightenment it unexplainedly restored in me would be distilled into nothing and i would eventually be consumed in the obsession that nothing had over me. I feast my eyes upon a book. A large folder bound book that had sat in my attick for countless years with me refusing to partake any aknowledge of it, much to my fathers disliking, and i enraptured my attentions and assighted my newborn requirements into the hope i held for what it would bring me. Art.It was titled, ‘The Tree Of Knowledge’. Originally there is a complete set of five or six. This copy looks immaculate and in perfect condition, but the outerly condition of it is quite simply an echo of nothing in comparison to the indescribably profound information within. Until then I had only recognised art as a past time. School had always regarded me as a skilful sketcher, but that was all I really liked doing. Sketching. Then in high school one day I was asked to take time out from some end of term lessons to contribute in the new corridor layout. A large imprint of the tsunami flood. Waves, giant waves. Crushed houses. Snapped tree’s. Drowning children, crying for their families. Stones, chairs, beds, kittens, horses, anything you can imagine being captured inevitably by this one immense knock out wave that had not left a scent of mercy. In the sky at the middle layed a very bare very faint pare of brown eyes. Gods eyes. Satan's eyes. Perhaps a combination of each. It was for the interpreters judgement only, and despite my feedback being in the reigns of utter astonishment from those whom first lay eyes on the completed wall peice, I would never answer to a questioning word towards it. I couldn’t. Who am I to explain why it felt necessary to represent the idea of this massacre being watched by some unlawful inpercievable ghost. Perhaps the reason I imagine everything to be in some degree. I don’t theorize this to be a ghost that haunts you in the night, nor a ghost that has ever even been given the tedious honor to live. It clouds the truth when it should be most obvious. It departs connections when they are most fertile. And it is the reason why thing’s happen for no reason. Coincedences, something which I don’t in some cases believe in. One thing I do believe in though, is that sad occasions are the art of a good master. One day you may understand why I say this.When I looked through the book for the very first time with a genuine motive, it somehow felt like an impossible mission. I began with doubt, and I would end in dispointment. Still, this didn’t trip my intention, nor my curiosity of what I might find. I was soon to discover there was merely a bare thing I would not find. Possibly as much information needed as what was enrolled in the internet was down on paper in front of me, and I could hold it in one hand. Probably the heaviest thing, but to hold such a largely crucial source of knowledge in my arms felt thriving in some way I lack to describe.I may have always been seen as someone who requires the utmost class in everything I do. Some people tell me this. Others think it and tell me through their eyes. Let me describe the two worlds I live in. Each are equal, you must know this before I go on. One begins with a metaphor. The metaphor is what best describes the purpose of this first ‘world’ and why everything is how it is in it. The metaphor is ‘Follow your inner moonlight. Don’t hide the madness’. And it’s simplicity is what descripts this so beautifully. Of course there are many more metaphors in this alter ego universe that created me, or had a mutualessential involvment at least within the creation of me to complete me as what i ultimately am [importantly noted, I did not create it]. Here, the men and women don’t speak with their voices. Instead they breath rereshingly and communicate with the intensity of the eyes. When something special happens, they talk to each other through the experience, through the depth of the emotions expressed through the situation. That way everything remains private and personal. They don’t eat food, for they need to remain pure and innocent. The only way to remain innocent is if you have nothing stored within you. This means that othing evil shall come from your actions. No guilt, and you do not become tempted to create guilt. You will always be tought to obtain the strength and wisdom to obide by anything that will create guilt, thus, giving into temptation. There won't even be temptation, only little minor tests to strengthen your viewage of light and the voyage it has been bestowed upon to guide you on your way. The lands are untouched and grow naturally. Tree’s, as pointless as they are [seem], bare an atmosphere and essentiality all of their own. There is always a path to be found somewhere, even if it is not intended or built to be found. They are also built naturally by other paths. There is a diversion to every corner. An alternative to every solution. A choice to every decision.
Everything is guided by the essence of moonlight. The realness is bares from such a incredible distance. Several years to walk. Yet the sound of it, the silence of it, shines over and touches you in a heartbeat. It binds and penetrates, contracts and collaborates, reverses and subtracts waves of undefined aware energy that enlightens the world with an intensing reassurance. The strongest. The hands of it hold you, enwrapture you countlessly, sexually and emotionally. The two combined. No guilt. Just warmth.
And that is what has been empowered by this spiritual immensity. Brought to life and existance by it's own awareness. Awareness brought to others of it, if not directly and at first. Awareness of itself to be born into existance, no matter how that occured, weather it had been unknown to any conscious living thing untill one day sprying to the single thought of one person, or simply silently accompanied every move and action made by anything and anyone untill they were intelligent enough to be able to know how to think in words to make sense of what they were feeling. Perhaps, perhaps.
Another world is the world you see so cheaply and elaborately in full blossom day by day in front of your very eyes. The world that can enrich such happiness amongst those who hide on it yet so much hurt and devastation to the same people, some of whom are not nurtured mentally enough to develop an understanding as to why the thing's that happen around them do happen. Some even so blinded with resentment for their persinal massacres that they cease to realise that what infact they are searching for is a reason and a resolution to why they feel like their entirely is simply coming apart around them like snowflakes. Some peoples heart break with devestation. Others break for the beaty of it. The beauty that comes with the total awareness of every last existing emotion inside it, lightened by the fire of truth, reality, realisation of what it is we really want. It's funny how it takes danger staring us in the face to make us realise what it is we truly want.
And this ungrates a doorway to the strong path into the opposed universe i have been describing. The universe that melted boundries. That felt the sky as a safe roof to lay under. A space of nurturing and relishment, contempt and oblivion. Of love.