“Time doesn’t stop, or stand still. Moments are pockets of time captured forever in your memory. Others will be involved without knowing, not remembering the same moment. Perceptions based upon these moments distorts reality, it’s the in-between where people believe the truth.
Truth–such a funny word. Yet it holds the holds of all one’s events and thoughts, a very serious action. Is it an action, truth? A noun, a thing?? Truth is one’s perception of what they want to hear, see, smell, touch… It is what one is willing to accept. Regardless if what you believe is true or not, by steering away from one’s own truth creates an unbalance of events. Life will become out-of-control, like an LSD trip. Unraveling like a ball of yarn and in the middle will escape a smaller version of yourself, rolling around waiting for the end–where will it dump you?
These are the elements Jim Morrison may have tripped about. Maybe not.”
I am certainly feeling the need to write. I just don’t know where to start. I have so many thoughts and feelings streaming through me, they are too fast–my fingers just can’t keep up. It’s exhausting. But, this is why I must write. I have found myself in a new zone, but my mode is staying strong–it is not budging. However it’s molding so as to fit into the new space. Super difficult. I am finding myself having to stand up to or be against my own actions–hypocrite. I have to hide because of someone else–or rather I won’t change. And we’re not just talking about habits, it’s so much more, everything, how I see the world. All the ingredients to which the reason for the event to happen in the first place. I don’t feel like myself anymore, and I want to scream. Where is my looking mirror? I need The Voice to steer me back. How do I stand tall and express who I am without tainting the young in some way. What can I change without losing who I am? It’s Not that I am a bad human, but how do my actions and my morals, my perceptions stay in check as to not influence those around me–who are still growing, learning, becoming their own under someone else’s understanding. How do I love the man who sees the world differently than I do. Not even, how do I afford his mask that he wears during certain moments, at certain times, for certain reasons. Too many limitations for me I say–in the meantime I can’t help but feel his constraints. Yogi breaths, Yogi breaths…