the stages of post-misunderstanding:

1. i did something wrong
2. i didnt do anything wrong
3. did i?
4. he can go fuck himself
5. i appreciate his honesty

on feeling stupid. hard-earned insight is always forgotten in the face of light. i'm an impressionable young person, and more than anything, flammable. confidence is optional, but how do you look at the sun without being blinded? fly closer without being burned?

so much to do so little time. in freedom i'm sat staring and deciding, in duty time wasted devours my mind. tomorrow's spotlight exposes my limits and yets; a dreadful ritual. then i sit back down.

and in freedom i think, and in duty i mourn.

spectator. rationalisations are the weapon of the weak-willed but do you still give when the room gives nothing back? give and take i thought but theres nothing to engage with. i resign to the backseat.

it's hard to carry disruption alone, but passivity is poison and the autopilot is the enemy. for now mild deviations and blunt honesty accompany me while the real key looms overhead. its dull and grotesque and must be held.

low horse. the high horse can run around as much as it pleases before its collapse, leaving you with nothing but a heap of bones and uncertainty. it could be me after all.

the decision was supposedly self assured but there are clear memories of delay and endurance. with it an expectation was established, and the cage thus lowered. initially a choice, now a binding agreement.

i seek to walk the middle road. conviction still holds many things sacred, and that's why i wish everything was unseen.

the self and the image are far apart, and the mismatch is widening. but vanity is not the case more apathy towards the fuss.

like the tonsured monk i subscribe to sticking it up to the ego and social legibility, but i do not revel in the pains of the right death. a judgement still lands when the symbol is emphasised more than the philosophy. and a misjudgement at that.

my interpretation would be loud while i grimace at every move, yet i find myself looking forward to it. but i won't let it touch what's dear. i fear sorrow more than anger.

it's easy to admire a revolutionary from the side-lines, not to be one in your own present. no one talks about how hard personal liberation is when you love and live easy.

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“How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.” ― Henry David Thoreau