I find coincidences healing they’re fascinating and every bit revealing, they conjure thoughts of monkeys as far as the eye can see, they’re on office chairs spinning and flicking the v. They’re too busy typing to know what they’re writing but eventually they’ll deliver a Shakespearian comedy. The tragedy for me is looking for the deeper meaning, coincidences happen so you can drop all your reasoning.
He entered and registered his attention with the tender who was playing poker at the time with another punter. Ordering simply his taste was apt for the sea. “I’ll take a scotch and you can leave the bottle with me.” The bartender obliged and sat down by his side. “Anything else you need and you where I’ll be.” The poker continued into the night and the fisherman sat quietly drinking just out of sight.
When the track skips everyone stops and the phone rings I’ll be on the roof hanging onto what tomorrow brings.
My new project
The unexpected becomes accepted once you’ve thought it through, a predictable paradox out of the blue. Baked ideas tend to appear raw before placing in the oven or leaving to mature. Mad lines for mad times, never mind the meaning, make it up to me it’s all interpretable. Pause, be patient and apply poker face. Retrace, fluctuate, count to eight and think straight. Still nothing? Procrastinate; don’t talk to me about a stitch in time I’ll be fine. Foresight is overrated I’d rather learn the hard way.
Appearances can be deceiving teaming with a cavalier reasoning. A risky way of being but bravery and taking things day by day tends to take the edge away. What’s next you may say, decision making, deliberating, procrastinating until the problem goes away. How bizarre you think I’m a Zoltar or something. Sadly I don’t have the answers, I’d rather dance or say something with no substance, take a chance and have a laugh.
Lead me to a path of palatable tangible hassle free sanctuary, suffer me or at least humour me. Fiction provides some fun but we’ll have to settle down some time. Send me a postcard when you’re afar, I’ll flip burgers figuratively and try my best not to flip out literally. Faster than a dyeing thought, a tumbling taste of your last retort. We’ll walk, properly be haunted, we’ll find the coast. Wash away the mystery. Remind me of the tide, that time we used variety to our advantage and hold hands in my mind.
Supplying a lingering out of time rhyme an unusual kind, it’s a broken half line half rhythm; chime in your mind’s eye. It’s a funny feeling, almost empathetic in its meaning. Be kind and unwind.
(via inspirinquotes)
You’ve a risqué attitude coupled with a pocket full of potential, leaving you rather remarkably uncomfortably fumbling for the forum. Seems precaution means we don’t learn but sit on our thrown of mediocrity. Supposedly therapy heals I’m not so sure, not scornful or remorseful, just thinking about the remedy it seems trouble-free. Anyway, I had wanted to just say a little something about the ‘cliché’. Thinking out loud now, I’m not backing the discovery that you can be anything you want to be. Somewhat disappointingly, in my mind it seems like I’m championing a certain countries saying about a dream. Again I end with a viewing of multiple possibilities unfortunately currently none of these are foreseeable pragmatically.
Reaching for the last Oreo doesn’t seem very spiritual, does a pivotal moment, an absolute pinnacle evolve around a sugary morsel. Mostly we put or energy into our next promotion, spending on credit and dreading the next bill, decency tends to help us on the streets, stops us being shrill, shame it does nothing to help us see what’s real.
Listening carefully, patiently deciphering as you rip through sentences, sacrifice the social romance we once had. Sharing a rare idea, it’s a self-righteous, inward type of thinking. Don’t tell me, sell me down the river, get dry and brush off your new lines, wrap up the conversation with a bow, tie up the last few moments in your mind. The time has come to unwind, most amazing spaces lurk in a memory, immortalised and that utopian rise that arrives in the feeling. When you’re walking down the path you might come across a snake in the grass, pass by graciously without worry be happy and guilt free.
Flying a flag of possibility, a menu it seems would offer vast variety. Providing an illusion of free choice and a fair voice, we’ll rejoice in a do nothing nation. A failing and failing backwards prosperity a rescuing need for improvised greed, in the place of hard graft and human spark. We’ll sin and sing, not to get preachy or creepy but the thought of camel’s humps makes you think run. Drink rum on the balcony and go over how your days been. A fraught sort of sadness is glazed and stays until the next day. We went on a road trip. Seventy miles, not too far, destined for a better place, Tracy Chapman grace. My old man’s got a problem, hope for the best and prepare for the worst. The ability to dream, understanding what we see, making the most of a possibility and a tempestuous need for exciting scenes, reaching new seas and believing in ones dreams.
So I stopped thinking about the madness of our shopping needs and looked around at empty streets, took in a deep breath of melancholy and embraced the change in pace. Not remorseful in our failings we’ll remember to blame our neighbour, and rejoice in the saviour. Keep the craving quiet and observe the self inflicted, dire, restrictive ramifications of our actions, flailing stubbornness and a savoury taste.
