Thursday, June 28, 2007

 

06.28.07

Logic is my self-defense mechanism.

Before I make a brash decision in a heavy situation, I take whatever time I have to put myself and the scenario at hand into context, allowing myself to see the ups and the downs, the positives and the negatives and the right course to potentially take.

And that's how I get by.

But I can't help but feel like I'm making a mistake.

Things have been taking up my time lately, drastic or not.

But I find that I'm neglecting one.

Even moreso, I'm running away because the thought of it scares me and the hypocrisy scars me.

Still, I revert to the others, thinking that I'm helping build bridges and strengthening existing bonds.

And that's how I get by.

But I can't help but feel like I'm making a mistake.

I find myself listening, but the only words I hear are linguistic combos whose semantics echo meanings of regret and loss.

The only songs I notice are dirges of a balance disrupted.

But I tell myself that I'm just filtering, that it's just one of those days.

And that's how I get by.

But I can't help but feel like I'm making a mistake.

The thoughts still linger in enigmatic pools of aversion and the words ready themselves to make their way up from under my breath and pass the gates of silence and repression that have been holding them hostage for the past few weeks.

They feel I have wronged them and have denied them the glory that they so rightfully deserve.

But every situation has its winners and its losers.

I keep repeating that if there's an off-chance that I can have you, that I'd want all of you and not just a part of you.

And that's how I get by.

But I can't help but feel like I'm making a mistake.

Just take the time to analyze this particular picture.

As wonderful as it may be, I know it's a lie draped in extravagant vestitures of enticing logical brights and warm colors,

because the optics of my optimism exist in two-fold dimensions, finding its residence on both sides of the issue at hand.

You chip away deep enough, you'll find below the layers a plain backdrop of split black and white that are both surprisingly gray.

And while both ends pain me, I decide that one gray suits the base moreso perfectly than the other.

And that's how I get by.

But I can't help but feel like I'm making a mistake.

Four o' clock in the AM and I'm looking outside.

The world's a dark blue, with rays of streetlight amber darting here and there in suggestive ways.

It was hard being that far away.

It's even harder being that close.

Directly out my door, I find a determined path that I turn my back upon because I trick myself into believing that it's not worth losing any sleep over.

You certainly are, no doubt.

Sleeping, I mean.

And that's how I get by.

But I can't help but feel like I'm making a mistake.

Docking out...
-Ryan : what we aim for

Ryan posted this at 4:06 AM.

Friday, June 22, 2007

 

06.22.07

Hey, yo, Life. How's it going, mang?

Could it hurt you to throw me a bone every once in a while?

I mean, really now.

I've never really had a problem with any one.

But you're really pushing it, homie.

Are you trying to get on my bad side or what?

Do you have some sort of vendetta or beef?

In a previous existence, did I happen to rock you that hard?

No, I'm not complaining.

I'm just saying.

I love the fact that you repeatedley allow me to put myself on a pedestal of esteem, confidence, assurance and tranquility of self, only to have you slowly chip away at it until I fall flat on my ass in bedfuddlement and a state of perplexity.

Why must you tempt and test me?

Why must you make me excercise the process of becoming the Ryan Mose that I know and love, huh?

Where is the love, mo'fruckah?

Where is the love?!

I'm not saying that I'm not grateful.

I've had it pretty good.

But you know, we all have our own struggles, just at different levels, and I've dealt with my share of them all my life.

And with a smile on my face, at that.

Now, I don't know first-hand how it feels to be this close of having to living on the curb.

I've never known what it's like to be addicted to something that's destructive to your own body.

I've never been in a situation where I'm longing for any social contact.

But I have indirect knowledge of what they and other social-psychological conflicts are like and I directly know the effects they have on people and those around them.

My question at the moment is: Why?

Why do I know these things?

How different might things be if I hadn't dealt with those things.

Why do I have within me this immense sense of empathy, the ability to see what counts in a person and the urge to draw an intangible line above people that I want to help them reach?

Why do I care so much about how angry or sad people are?

Why do I always feel like I'm just spitting common sense at kids?

I take that back.

I know.

I understand.

You just keep blowing wind in my face, Life, and it's getting kind of old, yo.

But very rarely has anyone ever gotten the best of me...

and I refuse to let you mold me into the bitter somethings that I've seen you create.

Keep the shots coming.

I've dodged so many of your bullets in the past 20 years.

Where do you think the Wachowski brothers got the idea for the Agents, hmm?

Peace easy, sucka.

Docking out...
-Ryan : I don't even have a metaphor for that

Ryan posted this at 12:52 AM.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

 

06.20.07

Fantastic Four - Rise of the Silver Surfer.

Horrible.

In the midst of all that lead to it's craptastic composite was a random dance scene near the beginning.

The rest of the repulsive script aside, who thought it'd be a good idea to waste 5 minutes by having Mr. Fantastic DANCE?!

That is, if you could call it that. It was not graceful, smooth, entertaining or even cool.

Is this representative of the type of dance Hollywood thinks is entertaining and what they believe America wants to see?

Stop. Just, no.

I think my soul died watching that scene.

I was a bit offended.

I'm just saying.

I have seen many beautiful pieces of movement in my lifetime.

That scene, and many other scenes in film and television are just criminal.

There's a certain ambiance that is created when watching a real performance.

It moves, impresses and entertains.

Watching dancers in perfect harmony, or partners with uncanny chemistry...

It's just smooth, beautiful and graceful.

Sexy, even.


Every performance I watch, I find myself falling in love.

It's a powerful medium.

Respect it.

Docking out...
-Ryan : don't let me get shot

Ryan posted this at 10:01 PM.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

 

06.16.07

It's weird seeing the sum of everything that was your life for the past year to be so easily organized, packed and stacked in a neat little pyramid when it was just recently a random array of here and there.

And to think, give or take a short amount of time, it'll happen again.

Lather, rinse and repeat.

Life's kind of the same way.

But the meaning of it all is that there is no meaning.

Is this what it's like in the long run?

If so, then the only thing that makes it exciting (and/or even worth it, some would say) are the little bumps and spikes in the linear path.

Good or bad.

You have to give it meaning.

I've said it before:

There are those who argue that nothing in this world is significant at all-- that's it only when we start giving things value that they hold a concept of worth.

I like to imagine reality easily set-up like a piece of graph paper-- a series of intersecting linear lines.

It is, however, different in the fact that these lines rotate on a 360 degree axis infinitely with varying degrees of angular speed at any given moment.

We all ride our lines from beginning to finish.

And they all intersect at different places and different times, regardless of whether or not we're at that exact location at that time.

I don't believe that things happen for a reason (that would just go against the idea of free will), but I do believe that things happen and they become reasons for us to make alterations in our lives-- it's these things that shape who we are, how we view things, how we develop relationships with eachother and how we live our lives.

You just have to be in the right place at the right time or, in the unfortunate circumstance, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Life's been too unpredictable in my experience to not view it in such a way.

Plan all you want.

You can cover all the angles-- I try and succeed at it very often.

But things just fall down to percentages and very likely's.

It's a game that can't be won, only played.

Stop or start.

Make it work.

To find the beauty out of every situation, that is my main intention.

One poem, one song, one number, one act, one piece--

One peace.

It's funny how the littlest thing can bring about doubt, making you view every little detail in retrospect and making you wish you had done things just a little big differently because maybe if you did, that person's life would be that much better and they wouldn't be in the grind and wear in tear of the streets.

It's funny how the littlest thing can remind you of something, and bring a slight smirk upon your face.

It's also funny how the littlest thing can make your heart ache like nothing else can, no matter how stalwart or even jaded you've become to certain things.

And it's funny how you can let things go, no matter how hard, because you know how important or maybe even right it is, no matter the amount of denial you may be in considering the fact you do all you can not to think about it but inevitably find yourself doing so.

For what it's worth, at the very least, this rollercoaster of emotions is making me feel alive and gives me confidence that my silent fortress hasn't gotten the best of me.

You gotta realize that the idea of "home" starts internally.

If you're not comfortable with yourself, you'll never be comfortable anywhere.

=-=-=

There's only one shot that's in perfect harmony with the field. One shot that's his...

Authentic shot.

That shot is going to choose him. There's a perfect shot trying to find every one of us.

All we got to do is get ourselves out of its way...

And let it choose us.

=-=-=

Not that it matters anymore, but this just conjured itself in my mind the other night...

When she beds, there is a certain type of warmth that permeates and emanates from her cuddlesome body that beckons for kind indulgence. Yet, at the same time, there is an inherent frailty in her slumber, a sort of delicacy within the rhythmic up and downs of her chest and the susurrous breaths that escape her tender lips that are somehow melodic and euphoniously induce sleep with a magnitude that no amount of sheep or Sandman could ever hope to produce.

Son.

Docking out...
-Ryan : inured, not injured

Ryan posted this at 2:33 PM.

Friday, June 15, 2007

 

06.15.07

And in the middle of the night, he clings to his newly cherished small blanket, using it as a conduit for the embrace that he so longingly languishes for.

Docking out...
-Ryan : my heart hates me

Ryan posted this at 4:43 AM.

Sunday, June 03, 2007

 

06.03.07

The world can't adapt to you, so you must adapt to it.

Life's too serious to be taken seriously, so adjust accordingly.

It's not the hand that you're dealt, but how you play with your cards.

Gotta roll with the punches.

This time, taking my own advice.

While they may not have aided in developing my malleable nature, my parents sure had a definite hand in my situation perspectives.

It's amazing. She's gets laid off, and she turns it into a humorous scenario.

She trades in an ML and gets a Miata.

And she already has a big plan made in the span of a 3-day arc.

I'm developing a language and I'm calling it my own.

I intend to save a world.

So, I'm on the train and it's about to come to a stop, right?

An old lady posts up next to me.

Now, it's a simple law of physics: what's in motion wants to stay in motion.

I know that this lady is not ready for the jolting lapse in motion when the train makes its stop.

So, I put my arm behind her just in case it's a big jolt and she falls.

I put my arm on the wrong side.

It is a big jolt.

She hits the ground.

Fortunately, she's not tremendously hurt-- bruises, tops.

I help her up, with the aid of another young girl next to us.

I help take her bags, against her modest suggestions that I shouldn't.

And all I could think about was, "I should have known she would've moved toward that side."

Or even, "I should've boxed her in."

No, I'm not trying to be the good guy.

Really.

For whatever odd reason, I am compelled to help people.

It's weird how now I find myself restraining myself from going over here and there every now and then.

Sure, it may not be my responsibility.

They should be able to handle it on their own, yeah?

That's not always the case.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm always performing.

And I get the distinct feeling that I'm never really in a state of down-time.

But I really like it when people smile, regardless of whether I assisted in its creation or not.

And once again, it's the questions.

It's the questions.

Always the questions.

Every time I get close. It's the damn questions.

No, I'm not stressing, but feel like I'm questing.

Musing or abusing, or I am plain testing?

I'm feeling arrested. At times compressed and

don't know what I'm feeling and my mind is congested.

She has my attention, my thoughts she's infested.

Anonymous suggestion, a real world connection.

Gorgeous complexion, an object of affection.

A perfect reflection, my main contention.

Bouts of retention, apprehension, and prevention.

Yet, if she were the teacher, I would go to detention.

Don't know how I long I could milk this extension.

Constantly on my mind when it reaches the day's end.

Always finding myself turning in her direction.

Docking out...
-Ryan : jibba-jabba, cada-va

Ryan posted this at 3:32 PM.