If it isn't clear by now I have finishing problems, in more ways than one. I struggle most to finish for myself. If someone else needs me to finish a project I'll do it. Yet my will is not so strong as to push on for my own benefit.
Until now anyway.
I'm on a ride that feels wild and out of control all the while my drive and desire grips my hand and throat. I strangle myself every time my eyes drift away. I punch any delusion. Mine is the drive and the vision. It is as if to wonder if God had to cut my strings, over and over, until my spine was a ramrod. I know not.
The desires remain there, festering like the wound on my hand. Each day it hurts I apply a salve, yet it does not mend. It remains there to remind me of what weakness is, of my own shortcomings. I must see that which I'm running from and at the same remain mindful of what I am running towards.
I'm almost always excited these days, and with frustration comes a boiling need. I dig this tunnel, as my shovel strikes that which is harder my body quavers, my breath starts. I am but a hammer with a wood handle. The vibrations from the chisel travel back to my hand. Oh! But to stop?! Madness.
"Down, Down, Down you go
No way to stop
as you fall, hear me call
No! No! No!
listen to this warning and consider these
simple words of advice:
stop stop stop."
Ah but such madness leads towards the sweet hell that is oblivion. What is this man but weak flesh contrasted with a will that exceeds his ability? I consider my desires all the while. Ah how I love myself, ah how I despise my body, my weakness. My will has swelled, fed like a raging fire with the kindling of failure and the fuel of understanding. I push on.
"my friends all said you've lost your head, now what are you trying to do?
you've been keeping your neighbors up all night sayin "What the hell's the matter with you?"
This might sound mean but this digging machine's gonna leave your feelings hurt
you gonna dig straight down to the center of the earth to find out that there's nothing there but
dirt, just dirt, no women, aw man, dirt!"
Digging Machine, Logan Whitehurst.
For the journey is the thing I am on. The journey hurts and tires the wanderer, yes? But the wonders the eye sees only on the journey. To sit still would be satisfying, but to miss those sights and sounds that come only from a new world born every day? Solitude and depths untold, lessons new and wisdom old. I'm a philosophic old hippie these days, and a pragmatic little engineer. Who is he, that man I will be when my days come to an end? Is he kind or is he smart? Has he any friends?
Fucking poetry. Fucking sex, mystic legends and wild tales. Who knows what is real anymore? And why would it matter? It only matters that I appear to function. Ah, I function well. It's all madness inside and a tower of reason and productivity outwards. Ah the wonderful things I cannot touch, and the things I dream of but shouldn't have.
Such is my need for a controlling power that I become it myself. Would that God would take that mantle back. Someday I think he will.
The solitude is getting all the stranger these days. I crave it and run from it. When I am alone there are just the right number of voices: There's what I want, what I don't want and what needs doing. Other people are odd in a way I can't put my finger on. It is as though they find satisfaction with their weakness. Others soak up that which I am repelled by. How the crap are humans supposed to work? Is there a model or a template? I've found no common one. Thus I am vague when others ask how they should behave. Yet if they ask me how I would act, well that's easy. I would analyze and move forward. There is little else in the core of me. I am but a digging machine myself. Even my pain instructs me on better self care. I get better at juggling.
It strikes me that writing here again I'm discussing myself quite a bit. It's sloppy writing, but words I need to get out. One day there will be a great sorting out of self and other undertaken by me. Ah, again the journey is the trans-formative process. I started this adventure as a naive hobbit, yet I am no Frodo to be pulled along by events. I am a Bilbo, finding myself and strangely pleased with the reformation. There is no going back, we are round the bend already and safety is far gone, if it was ever there at all.
Until now anyway.
I'm on a ride that feels wild and out of control all the while my drive and desire grips my hand and throat. I strangle myself every time my eyes drift away. I punch any delusion. Mine is the drive and the vision. It is as if to wonder if God had to cut my strings, over and over, until my spine was a ramrod. I know not.
The desires remain there, festering like the wound on my hand. Each day it hurts I apply a salve, yet it does not mend. It remains there to remind me of what weakness is, of my own shortcomings. I must see that which I'm running from and at the same remain mindful of what I am running towards.
I'm almost always excited these days, and with frustration comes a boiling need. I dig this tunnel, as my shovel strikes that which is harder my body quavers, my breath starts. I am but a hammer with a wood handle. The vibrations from the chisel travel back to my hand. Oh! But to stop?! Madness.
"Down, Down, Down you go
No way to stop
as you fall, hear me call
No! No! No!
listen to this warning and consider these
simple words of advice:
stop stop stop."
Ah but such madness leads towards the sweet hell that is oblivion. What is this man but weak flesh contrasted with a will that exceeds his ability? I consider my desires all the while. Ah how I love myself, ah how I despise my body, my weakness. My will has swelled, fed like a raging fire with the kindling of failure and the fuel of understanding. I push on.
"my friends all said you've lost your head, now what are you trying to do?
you've been keeping your neighbors up all night sayin "What the hell's the matter with you?"
This might sound mean but this digging machine's gonna leave your feelings hurt
you gonna dig straight down to the center of the earth to find out that there's nothing there but
dirt, just dirt, no women, aw man, dirt!"
Digging Machine, Logan Whitehurst.
For the journey is the thing I am on. The journey hurts and tires the wanderer, yes? But the wonders the eye sees only on the journey. To sit still would be satisfying, but to miss those sights and sounds that come only from a new world born every day? Solitude and depths untold, lessons new and wisdom old. I'm a philosophic old hippie these days, and a pragmatic little engineer. Who is he, that man I will be when my days come to an end? Is he kind or is he smart? Has he any friends?
Fucking poetry. Fucking sex, mystic legends and wild tales. Who knows what is real anymore? And why would it matter? It only matters that I appear to function. Ah, I function well. It's all madness inside and a tower of reason and productivity outwards. Ah the wonderful things I cannot touch, and the things I dream of but shouldn't have.
Such is my need for a controlling power that I become it myself. Would that God would take that mantle back. Someday I think he will.
The solitude is getting all the stranger these days. I crave it and run from it. When I am alone there are just the right number of voices: There's what I want, what I don't want and what needs doing. Other people are odd in a way I can't put my finger on. It is as though they find satisfaction with their weakness. Others soak up that which I am repelled by. How the crap are humans supposed to work? Is there a model or a template? I've found no common one. Thus I am vague when others ask how they should behave. Yet if they ask me how I would act, well that's easy. I would analyze and move forward. There is little else in the core of me. I am but a digging machine myself. Even my pain instructs me on better self care. I get better at juggling.
It strikes me that writing here again I'm discussing myself quite a bit. It's sloppy writing, but words I need to get out. One day there will be a great sorting out of self and other undertaken by me. Ah, again the journey is the trans-formative process. I started this adventure as a naive hobbit, yet I am no Frodo to be pulled along by events. I am a Bilbo, finding myself and strangely pleased with the reformation. There is no going back, we are round the bend already and safety is far gone, if it was ever there at all.
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