I guess you don't see it.

.

New Ideas

All I have are new ideas to keep me alive. I live in the daily milleu of old ideas, old desires, old expectations and old age symptoms. I have no doubt that one causes the next. Mind body and soul specialists would argue this point with varying intelligence but I'll simply mention the point and leave it to you to accept. I've lost my thrill for proving, because proving proven points is like doing the same workout every day, after awhile you actually aren't even doing yourself a favour.

The tears streaming from my lids to my chin dissolve more truth on their path than my words do on theirs. Luckily for me, they waited until this late hour, where nobody can see tears in the office. Everyone by now is at home laughing. My tears are like an obedient pet, they don't ask to be let out until it's convenient for me to do so. Again, they serve me better than my words.

What to do with old ideas - if I don't stop them now, my ankle will never get better, my back will never get better, my wrist, my knees - for as long as I subscribe to the idea that I am accomplished, that I have achieved something, that I have an inherent value hidden beneath layers of shame, I will continue to hurt. I will continue to lose sleep wondering why I'm here and not there, and I will continue to wake up each morning more tired than when I went to bed. I go to bed with old ideas and wake up to find them missing. Every morning is a mental scramble to find out how I might find them today. Where could they be? Could they be in the office, in the parking lot, near the subway down the street, in my room. I wonder where I would have to go and what I would have to do to finally get back in touch with the idea that I'm on the right track.

Today I think I realize that one night when I went to sleep all of my ideas for the future became ideas I had in the past. They're so beyond being ideas now. They existed, they were real, they happened, they were held and celebrated and then discouraged. They gave rise to the man that is at his desk tonight, but all of my ideas are old ones, set down on old paper as a script that I will act out this year. This year has no hidden actor's notes, no intriguing stage directions such as [with suprise] or [with eagerness and joy]. At least the next 6 months will be the resounding yet plainly delivered soliloquy, cue the saxophone and then exit stage left. I won`t stay for curtain call, I`m tired of this play. I need a new script, which means new ideas. I need a new scrpt and new ideas to persevere.

I`m going back to school.

I see it

I see it. Carefully moved between your legs, behind the table, or tucked in beneath your sleeve, I see it. I smile to see your gesture despite the pain of seeing it. I smile only when I focus on you instead of myself, for I am not worth the effort of a smile. Maybe tomorrow or in some great future I will be worth that effort but today I conjure only frowns, like an inspired but untalented mime.

I focus on you and stop seeing tomorrow. I see the effort you make today to hide it from me and I smile. I can get so lost between deciding whether you're making a gesture or a suggestion. I wonder sometimes whether you are trying to protect my heart from stoping or whether you are trying to start my heart. Are you afraid of me dying or trying to tell me that we're still alive. One could argue that there is no difference, but as a one myself I'm simply tired of arguing with myself. So I don't ask about tomorrow. I let myself believe sometimes that tomorrow will have happiness, I let myself believe sometimes that it will not. I reflect in the fact that today you alone administer to my heart, and I concede that for the time being I have no more controyyl over tomorrow than you do.

But while I applaud your bedside manner, only recently I fear you will be making your rounds to another patient once my heart has reach the desired cardiac action potential.

While regaining consciousness by your side I gazed upon you as you quench your thirst, and rather willingly you let me see it, and I do, tucked behind nothing. It glimmers just as it did on the first day, I imagine. Tomorrow can infest today in an instant and when it does I realize there is nothing we can do to change the decisions of yesterday. Today is the sum of yesterday's choices. And yet, though I have been swallowed by the twin despairs of fate and fatality, I can still see that this truth has transitive properties, and so it follows that tomorrow is the sum of today's choices. There is still a glimmer of hope for tomorrow that has come from all this effort you put in having me only see today. Despite the mist of yesterday, I still see today in tomorrow.

Do you see it?

Madonna Frozen

Driving home from New York, this song came up on my ipod, and it spurred on self-reflection: You singing this to me, and rightfully so.

You only see what your eyes want to see
How can life be what you want it to be
You're frozen
When your heart's not open

You're so consumed with how much you get
You waste your time with hate and regret
You're broken
When your heart's not open

[Chorus:]

Mmmmmm, if I could melt your heart
Mmmmmm, we'd never be apart
Mmmmmm, give yourself to me
Mmmmmm, you hold the key

Now there's no point in placing the blame
And you should know I suffer the same
If I lose you
My heart will be broken

Love is a bird, she needs to fly
Let all the hurt inside of you die
You're frozen
When your heart's not open