Pieces of April is a flawless movie

2004-03-26, 8:52 p.m.

i think i've been having trouble writing lately, and the sinew in my body is straining so that i feel like a twisted band of feeling. somewhere in me there is a dam, a build up words that have simmered, have bled into my veins and made the night sky into a blank canvas.

its the rememberence of windy midnights in my backyard, and of a awkward conversation in a foreign coffee house, those memories which draws us to life with its sweet fragrance. on the road, i am accustomed to finding both the smooth and dark asphalt, but also the diseased holes that ooze with the muddy rain water and the bits of together which now float in obscure existence on the waters surface. where is my life to be ended? in either of these places? no matter, for the intrigue doesnt dissapate like tar from rock, but rather it is the face of each little bit of Matter.

and sometimes i have to believe in all the fairy tales, because i see such honesty in people who are around me (treating the faces in the news like pure fiction because evil doers dont really exist). the jester, which is perception, will give us the glasses to see rosey twighlights, and the trick mirrors that show our own distorted reflections. we look into the sky with envy, and at our own flesh with contempt or yearning for "improvement". so we do sit-ups, and we pay for mechanical stairs, but we drive past the wet flowers because we already know what they smell like.

every ounce of me is falling forward and headed towards the hard realization, but in my terminal descent there is no need to know when i land. i only need to know, be promised, that the days ahead are going to be just as beautiful.