Awe of No Importance
Jess Padilla some time between 2003 and now
I look through this world with tired eyes, and a sullen medicated mind. Who we are and, who we knew only happened by some blind chance. The sound of your voice echoes in my mind as I picture some desolate seen. This is it. This is our chance, our time, our last breath, the onset of something unforeseen but of tremendous importance. The build up that comes before the great anxiety talks to me, swirling around my mind like an autumn breeze. Awe, it's of no importance, just got to ride it out let the fire burn out. Let go of all this and it might let go of you. After all she's always right about these things. You know her, that little voice in the back of your head, who speaks to you through all the others. If only I could drop everything and listen, maybe I wouldn't be so still half the time, like a dear who hears your approaching foot steps, but is unsure of weather to dart through the woods yet. Still and hanging on every sound, waiting watching, hearing then... Bam! Off she goes, is that the moment I finally decide to start typing? Or is this me going off my rocker? She'll tell us all in time.
I'm sure it'll be a combination like everything always is, a great big stew, so much in the pot, weather large or small, it's bound to sum it all. Only to take us back to the same entropy. Taking a look through these memories, moving past the moment, who else is looking when your looking at them? I wonder about things like this on a perpetual basis. It's like asking how tall is time? Where did they all go? Who drew the shortest straw? The way the best lines are always said when there's no paper around. What quenches the need for originality always seems to dissipate into the air and through the past, only to be buried and untouched by the very clouds that brought them there.
So now there she is, in my mind's eye, the face of originality. She looks threw me with those ever penetrating eyes and says, "I know what your doing."
The real answer is NO, that is to the ever evasive question, "do I know what I'm doing?". This seems to be something that's been eluded to through oh to many half conversations, and surface chatter. This colamity called the existing moment, is just another excuse to penetrate time. I remember the spit in my face, and I remember wiping it off of my eye with my sleeve, and moving on to the next moment as though it never happened. That was a triumph in a moment that I never saw coming. I barely took notice of something that would have other wise got me down. That my dear friends is what I'm doing. Finding solemn moments of victory within the shattered images that play before me.
Jess Padilla some time between 2003 and now
I look through this world with tired eyes, and a sullen medicated mind. Who we are and, who we knew only happened by some blind chance. The sound of your voice echoes in my mind as I picture some desolate seen. This is it. This is our chance, our time, our last breath, the onset of something unforeseen but of tremendous importance. The build up that comes before the great anxiety talks to me, swirling around my mind like an autumn breeze. Awe, it's of no importance, just got to ride it out let the fire burn out. Let go of all this and it might let go of you. After all she's always right about these things. You know her, that little voice in the back of your head, who speaks to you through all the others. If only I could drop everything and listen, maybe I wouldn't be so still half the time, like a dear who hears your approaching foot steps, but is unsure of weather to dart through the woods yet. Still and hanging on every sound, waiting watching, hearing then... Bam! Off she goes, is that the moment I finally decide to start typing? Or is this me going off my rocker? She'll tell us all in time.
I'm sure it'll be a combination like everything always is, a great big stew, so much in the pot, weather large or small, it's bound to sum it all. Only to take us back to the same entropy. Taking a look through these memories, moving past the moment, who else is looking when your looking at them? I wonder about things like this on a perpetual basis. It's like asking how tall is time? Where did they all go? Who drew the shortest straw? The way the best lines are always said when there's no paper around. What quenches the need for originality always seems to dissipate into the air and through the past, only to be buried and untouched by the very clouds that brought them there.
So now there she is, in my mind's eye, the face of originality. She looks threw me with those ever penetrating eyes and says, "I know what your doing."
The real answer is NO, that is to the ever evasive question, "do I know what I'm doing?". This seems to be something that's been eluded to through oh to many half conversations, and surface chatter. This colamity called the existing moment, is just another excuse to penetrate time. I remember the spit in my face, and I remember wiping it off of my eye with my sleeve, and moving on to the next moment as though it never happened. That was a triumph in a moment that I never saw coming. I barely took notice of something that would have other wise got me down. That my dear friends is what I'm doing. Finding solemn moments of victory within the shattered images that play before me.