JustFloat’s blog

Adoringly crouched and curled around your side with his sleepy head, you play him into a tempting sleep.  He floats in a cradled hopeful and adolescent safety.

His heavy eyes do not allow a retirement from your concentrated profile.

You play and you play in the various ways that draw his hands around your bent waist.  This does not break your determined efforts.  The desire to distract you with his hand settles for the expression on your face.

The focus of your stare provokes his glance that sleep cannot blanket. 

He forgets this could be time passing.  He forgets this could be a waiting room.  He forgets that your distance equals miles from his travelled heart.  What is this thing in his chest?  

Low to the ground, the sides of his body slide in for an assurance.  A possible opening.  He never was fond of the walls some unknowingly create.

And there are many times he could have leaked, slipped, poured, dripped 

And if he runs away from the oozing of his thoughts he will regret the opportunity to hear him play what he has in store for the future. 

Play him once again.  Maybe in the desert.  In a hut.  There's a tree there.  With a piano waiting for the emergency of fingers.  And cosmos and weeping tall wild grass.  A golden string shoots up into the sky through the black box.

His heart is a wanderer.  Searching and searching.  Like the acquired callouses that desire the strumming of strings. Silver.  A silver lining.  There in your hands.  This is something tatooed in his mind.  He wakes up next to you, and now for long moment he has no idea what to think. 

This could be what he has left.  This could be it you know.  Slowly slowly.... we can be robots.  Marionettes as would suit them well for control.

They consume and consume everything around them.

They consume me.

For what?

With their bags of all shapes and sizes.

Hysteria radiates from their eyes.

Frantic and franticly marching along

spinning in circles.

More

MORE!

give me MORE!!

have to have MORE!!!

What's the latest thing? What's this?

I've got to have it!

Foaming at the mouth

Don't get in their way either mister.

Oh, don't get in their way. Oh no.

They are vicious.  Like mad dogs.

And give them what they want.  Give it to um' now. NOW NOW NOW.

Oh and they look at each other on the way to the line. 

They glare at one another as if they are in a showdown.

Cause they're in a rush.  They gotta get here, there and everywhere before it's too late.  For what? 

Self importance. 

We are all going to die someday anyway.

And I could just slap a bitch right in the mouth with that disgusting scowl of impatience and materialistic lust.

As if the purchace could make you cum or something.  As if your life depended on it.

I'm tellin you I could slap a bitch right in the mouth.

That would make me cum.  Right now.

If only they would just shut the fuck up for five seconds I could breathe.   I could make sense of things. 

I could get out of this hell.  I could get something done.  I could change the world.

If they'd just shut the fuck up and take a deep breath.

Like me.  A deep breath and leave this hell.

Maybe find a place.  A place of my own.  A place I could share with the one that calms me and makes me feel safe.

Are you kidding me?  This morning on the train ride home, I was listening to my ipod on shuffle.  Various songs with amazingly confessional lyrics reguarding feelings for another person played on consecutively.  I began to think.  How amazing one must feel to know they are the subject of such greatness.  It also got me thininking that romance seems to only live on in fantasy within songs, stories, movies etc.....   so I guess the question is this... Is romance and emotional vulnerablity dead?  Have people become afraid of people? 

Modern Day Romance........(after the train ride home)

10:50 am. Friday morning. I'm sitting on the bus. It's loud. Fuck. I hate when I have these realizations. They always ALWAYS complicate and perplex the currency of my life situation.  They take over an entire 24 hour agenda.   Early this morning, while on the train ride home, filled with a tugging fear. I had this idea about romance. I suppose I have been told I am a "romantic" and look at things quite idealistically and romantically. So romance, modern day romance. Does it exist? Or is it gradually dying a slow but sudden death? As more time goes by and as I get older I notice only on rare occasions do people allow themselves to be quite uninhibitited with eachother. Why do I feel so shocked when I begin to let someone "in".  Am I slowly giving into this "modern day romance"?

It is more like an experience. It's what is happening. What is and what isn't stimulating.

Has it come to a point where we are so full of ourselves that we are no longer hold a capacity for other people as we once did? The flood gates are slowly opening for me. I had to let some of myself out. To make room.  Has it really taken me from age ( hmm I don't know 15-25) to have the desire to make room for another person.  The vacancy I possess is quite the sancuary.  Yet, I am unable to predict how the occupant may rearrange pieces and parts.   (to be continued).

I live vicariously through songs.  Each second, words cling and clang around with sounds in the distance.  In my head.  It's all just in my head.  The songs don't come out.  They slip sometimes, but mostly they hang on.  Are they even real?  I could say something to you,  I want to, but instead I construct lyrics and noises and write them down when I get a chance.  They aren't heard.  They are written.  And yeah.  I play um too.  Later though.  

The difference between adulthood and childhood.  Yes, there is a difference.  The development of fear - Like a lil' chick-a-dee runnin' around with it's head cut off - tryin' to find it - cause it knows that everything he's acquired is in there - but it's rollin' down the ole' dirt road.  As it's winkin' back at um.  The child is now alone without a head - the head looks for something to attach itself to.  It needs to reattach, or it is so long, farewell, good bye.  But to what? 

How about the wise old horsey down the lane.  Who has loved before.  Who is not a child, and hasn't been for quite awhile. 

Oh Mr. Horsey take me away to adulthood.  Gallop me to the glowing grassy fields with damp dirt and bloomin' buds of soft cotton and cherry blossom.  Lay me there with my chicken head and horse body - won't you marry me horse?  We don't need legal documents here, because we are heavy in love.  I float with the warm breezy wind and magical moist ground.  I am being lifted. 

Let me teach you - what I can - And don't be afraid.  Cause none of us knows anything at all and we are the blind who follow and lead eachother on various dirty and magical paths.  Till death do us part chicken horse.  I will always love you. 

post script:  Thanks for extracting my fear.  Thank you.

Aren't we all just waiting for that moment?  I know this is obscure.  But, sometimes to be obscure is to be safe.  There is alot at risk, it seems, if you are anything more than obscure.  With dating, liking, loving.  We pinch ourselves so that we don't say what is exactly on our minds.  To be safe.  To insure that we don't ruin something great.  If something is so great should we be so careless?  Should we question?  In my opinion, (from one who questions everything), I find myself forgetting to question now (but I do, because it is easy, it is safe).  To do, seems a way to survive.  Time floats so far away, when you think.  Think think think.  This applies to many aspects of life.  As a boy, honesty was important.  Today, life has become a game.  A slow game.  That allows time to swiftly leave you in the dark.  I tend to predict outcomes, soon after I question.  The past suddenly becomes the present and the future is untouchable because of the simple questions, what should I say, what should I do, what would be the best way, when will be a good time to be "even more obscure".  There is a diffence between mystery and obscurity.  Well, I'm ready to pick up this mystery and find out where it is going to go.  Maybe this is all of the tequila talking.  Maybe alcohol tells me not to beat around the bushy bushes.  The thick dense bushes that are covered in thorns.  Can someone really matter this much?  Is it all worth it?  I suppose you can only wait around, and let more time pass by.  And hopefully you will find yourself somewhere in the future.  My emotions are in a state of emergency.  They flail around the room and taunt my purpose.  My desires.  My honesty.  I will consult the big black box.

Someone pinch me right now.  I mean it.  Smack me more than once and tell me something about something.  About myself, about you, about him, about her, about us.  Tell me what the fuck is going on.  Tell me what the fuck I'm gonna do.  Tell me if I have the fucking time to do it.  Tell me if I'll have my heart burnt. 

I look around myself sometimes with different eyes.  I look around this neighborhood - I see you, you and you and I stop.  I sense a bit of loneliness.  Fair enough.  Thrown into it all, the unfamiliar faces, places, and building's- injected lips, a ten dollar bill balled up on the ground. Crinkle.  Massive breast that desperately want to float away if they weren't attached.  Permanent smiles on their faces that cover the overwhelming self-hate.  These people, oh yes these people, and yes, myself.  I am a people person.  I see them everywhere.  People, people, people.  People dancing, singing, masturbating, walking, talking, fucking, smoking, drinking, loving, crying, hating, tasting, touching, oppressing, repressing, pushing, pulling, trying to get someplace.  Is it heaven or hell, is it the condo on the lake, is it in someones safe and loving arms, is it on stage, is it on the big screen, a billboard, a magazine.  Maybe these people are little ants.  Scurry Scurry if you can, cause the big big man's gonna get ya.  I think I want to get the big man.  Yeah.. he'll burn my heart. 

So yeah.  I can talk talk talk about all the loopy di lu lu lopsided shit I want.  To make a difference is good.  Where is this pen going to take me.  A secret booklet with writing, I copy with keys for whoever to see, with love and with a lost sense of dignity.

"Come on!  Come on! I have to show you something"  He quickly walks ahead of me and his hand reaches out behind him.  I look around, not sure where I am.  My head feels as though it is spinning.  I am unable to keep up.  He takes a glance from the corner of his eye, to see me stumble around the broken branches and dead leaves.  What seems to be fog, is low to the ground and obstructs the objects in front of me.  Even him.  His green eye's turn forward and he is gone.  I begin to breathe much faster.  I can't focus.  After about one minute I find where the fog subsides.  He's there.  "Come here, I told you there was something."  I walk up to him and stand in front of a large condemned barn.  It is so dark and the air is thicker than I have ever experienced, I could eat it.  The wood is gray and cracked. The remains of this structure seemed a shell.  Gutted and hollow.  I wander along the premise for perhaps a minute, still delirious and my heart thumps with an unfamiliar excitement.  I turn to a dimmly lit corner and I see him, well I'm not sure what he's doing. So, I step a few feet closer and I notice he is digging in the ground with bare hands.  Dirt flies in the air past my shoulder.  Franticly, he pulls what seems to be a long strand of fabric from the hole.  He turns and runs toward the entryway and I follow.  It is not as dark as it was when we first entered the barn.  The light was dimmly making it's way through the heavy fog and the air was still heavy in my mouth and throat.  I grab his hand as we stumble over to outside walls.  He stops to look at me and without breaking my stare, he places the gritty piece of tattered damp and dirty fabric in my hand.  I hold it in both of my hands as he pulls me forward, by the wrist.  He walks backward to lean against the gray wooden wall. My face is scraped by a bush of thorns.  I shove him before his back could reach to lean and I notice the green again. I can feel warm blood running down my cheek.  Unsure and bewildered I kiss him for what seems to be an endless amount of time in the smokey, and heavy light.  It's 6:22 a.m. when I realize where I am.    

You blame your daddy for your inability to cum.  You can only see his hand slapping that face of yours.  Go ahead dig deeper.  Plow the dirt between your fingers and toes.  You've found one.  One to listen to you, hold you, touch you, please you.  So you gather them up - so well spun you've got um - in the palms of your feet Fig, are their hearts.  Have your way with them, till they want you more and more.  Clutched between your thighs he takes and he takes.  He has no idea he's stealing your spirit.  The glow across your mouth is quite the temptation a redemption from the sins of childhood, yesterday, last night, this morning, a few minutes ago.  Softer tha n I thought.  The softness of your own hand cannot calm the expression on your face, nor absorb the hot tears that carry their way onto the pillow. Face down.  Face buried.  It's to be determined, the outcome.  It terrifies me, the harm this can cause.  Yes, you are the one.  The one who feels everything around you.  The air you breathe effects how you taste. In your palms, his warm liquid defies the doubt you had once had. What have you done?  What have you done again? 

Stimulated to the point of crawlies on my skin.  I can crawl on the ground and feel satisfied with the sounds I hear.  Roll around.  Roll on the ground.  Can't take it.  It feeds me a terror I absorb.  Is this love. In love with what I can feel. In love with myself.  Over stimulated.  I can't stand.  Only crawl with my head down.  Slow motion.  Slow with pounding sound.  Drag me across the ground.  On my face.  Let's annihilate. What existed before this.  Don't want to step another foot back into that ground hole.  A balancing act around the edge.   Looking in.  Looking out.  At myself as I crawl, crawl, crawl. Away.  I bite my lip.  My fingers move with odd motion.  You said three days.  Three days to see the change.  The metamorphosis of my pulse, that leads me to creative orgasm. (to be continued)