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dotsJournal: dots
Mood: The Usual

Ceci n'est pas un poème

Bursting and bustling ideals
busted open by a stalled out engine
where do you go when you lose your 'go'
Stained and stayed, left to right, anything will do
just to not be alone. you're groaning
at these growing pains and wake up
to how baked up these ideals really are.
mundane aches feel worse than world-ending tremors;
to lose a child is agonizing enough to make you blind
to the fires consuming the would-be world
of your undone child.

...Created 2021-04-20 07:14:17

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: The Usual

Winter in a stranger's company.

I wish that I could hold in my hands
water in a way to make a great big bay
dolphins and whales, salmon and sand
a warm sunny place, clear water ways

I wish that sun-kissed meant god-kissed
that the idea of today, tomorrow wasn't haste
instead I rage at myself, reach for drunken bliss
and feel winter's first cold embrace with distaste

...Created 2020-09-23 05:11:54

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: The Usual

J'ai toujours eu besoin d'un dictionnaire. Non par ce que je ne connais la langue, mais par ce qu'elle change d'un jour à l'autre, et donc l'on doit se reintroduire. Peut-être qu'elle ne me reconnait plus, mais moi je la connaitra jusqu'au moment ou je ne serais plus rien, et encore là. Elle me dira "Qui es-tu déjà? Mathias?", et avec le coeur à mi-berne, je lui dira "Et non. Je suis Marc."

I understand why I love science and books and don't play well with people. It is because I'm a dope, a slowpoke. I never thought I'd get to a point where I'd genuinely find others childish (spoilt, stupid, naive––any of these perhaps, but not childish), but here we are. Your beautiful sun-kissed hands are being eclipsed behind whatever it is you seem to not understand about me. Your hug was desolately unfamiliar.

...Created 2019-10-31 04:54:27

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: Sleepy

Time for bed (not yet)

I feel so heavy, so tired
Like there's a randian giant
trapped inside of me
untempered excitement,
excruciating selfishness
alas, I hope he'll rise
and pick up this momentum
I've been weaving since birth.
Waiting, I've been waiting
for so long
to feel it. to feel it live.
to feel it at last.
whatever it is my mind keeps
dreaming up.
I feel so heavy,
like I'm at the end of an under water marathon
holding on with the very tips of my finger tips
hanging under the overhanging cliff
huffing along like a train without all of the mechanical bits.
I have my eye locked on nature,
truly tied by sight to it––
the other one is a little too lazy.

...Created 2019-09-01 01:48:57

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: The Usual

It's the Persian fellow who answers my questions best
that scares me the most. His meticulous mind
unwinding my every action to dissect what's
imperfect. He's polite, or so he tries.
There is a bit of me in there.

My used-to-be neighbour's ability to make small talk
was like a bridge that could extend far beyond
the support subtending it. My responses lacked
a degree of caring. But I smiled.
This could be me given the right accident.

In a room of people clamoring to be anywhere else
there are those who can't help but speak up all
of the air, as if to say: SEE ME, I AM HERE.
I do not make any eye contact with them,
I'm ashamed to be there.

The knife wielding girl who shorts everyone––
she has this kind of burning sun inside of her hands.
The warm kind of blinding that soothes you and
gives you a moment of peace when you look up,
before the bus pulls up. She has her God.
And I hate God. I might be jealous.

...Created 2019-08-21 23:02:15

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: The Usual

Not much makes me feel that feeling of wanting to dance. Mais une jolie gosse qui taquine, ses yeux si profond, résignés à une existence misérable––cela me pousserait à danser.

...Created 2019-03-17 03:32:15

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: The Usual

Tu murmures tes petits mots en cachette
comme un renard à nez long qui voile ses
intentions carnivores. Tu regardes de tes yeux
pointus le rossignol qui chante à poitrine
pleine d'air fraiche ses chansons d'oiseaux
sur sa branche périlleuse. Tu l'écoutes, et lui
à son tour, écoute son voisinage pour entendre
la chanson qui sera chantée en réponse. Ton ventre
lui chante une belle chanson de gargouillement,
chaque note plus longue que la dernière. Il
s'envole avec sa réponse, encore une fois déçu.

...Created 2019-03-08 21:10:33

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: The Usual

Ça fait un bon moment depuis la dernière fois que j'vous ai emmerdé avec mon français. Quoi que ça fait également aussi longtemps que je n'ai pas eu de raison pour écrire mes pensées. Je commencerai bientôt mon prochain emploi avec le gouvernement et ce dans un poste bilingue qui, d'un côté, me tâchera d'écrire souvent en français. Alors, pourquoi ne pas pratiquer ici, avec vous, les personnes sur qui je dépenderai possiblement pour le restant de ma vie.

Débutons notre correspondance avec une histoire peut-être sans importance. Celle de monsieur Lapelle Sectuvoeux, ou Sec tout court. Courtois, raffiné et d'une allure stricte; c'est un homme avec une petite stature et une épaisseur qui laisse peu à en vouloir. Une mine épouvantable, lamentable et qui n'inspire aucune considération de respect. Histoire d'en finir avec cet exercice, c'est un homme peu notable, peu désirable et de petite importance.

Voilà que, comme je suis sûr est le cas pour plusieurs d'entre vous, ses matins commencent au bout d'un repos insuffisant et au début d'une sonnerie qui sonne un peu trop fortement. Il ne se souvient pas d'avoir eu des rêves, ni de brosser ses dents avant de sortir de la porte. Pressé, il se dirige entre les voitures sur l'autoroute 34, lentement dans sa petite Peugeot. Avancer c'est un exercice du diable. Finalement arrivé dans la voie qui bouge et elle resserre, toutes les voitures s'arrêtent. On se regarde par les fenêtres: la madame qui se coiffe toujours la face avec encore plus de maquillage, le monsieur qui commence déjà sa journée de travail sur son mobile, la mademoiselle qui ne porte pas attention parce qu'elle envoie un message. Au fait, c'est seulement notre héros du jour Sec qui observe. Je ne suis pas si digne de me croire plus important, il se dit. Ne t'en soucis pas Sec, tu n'es pas important, non, mais eux ils sont plus importants que toi, ça j'en suis sûr.

C'est tout pour le moment. Je me rends compte que c'est probablement difficile à lire, parce que ça fait longtemps que j'ai écrit quelque chose en français. Mais bon, ça n'importe (plus ou moins parce qu'il n'y a pas de lecteur). J'y reviendrai bientôt, j'espère.

...Created 2019-01-06 04:38:40

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: The Usual

I'm actually in awe of movie and show scoring, or more particularly the people who do it. Daily, casual music for the sake of expression always dances around the paradox of being so relevant and irrelevant. It always makes sense right now, because this moment in history is its only plausible context. A context which invariably and quickly becomes lost.

The grand imagination it must take. Movies kind of solve that problem, and in it music doesn't have to deal with all of this nonsense. It just has to focus on what makes us human, and how to tell that human side of us a story.

Just to be clear, with things like Dumbo, the music sinks into and supports the story. With things like frozen, the dialogue is just emboldened, but the music often comes at the price of story pacing. I've always hated musicals.

...Created 2018-03-13 13:19:57

dotsJournal: dots
Mood: The Usual

I've wondered once or twice whether single-serving emotions exist,
or whether saying your baseline mood is sad
is just being in denial of depression.

It is okay, because this is what you're used to.
It is okay, because this is what you can handle.
And sure, maybe that breaking point isn't as far off
as it could be, but that's also okay;
we should all live a little more dangerously,
on the edge.

A challenge is beautiful, a whole new world onto
dimly lit minds, glistening brightly like fire at night.
And the warmth of tragedy, before the frigid solitude of shock;
that warmth is sublime humanity -- should it exist.

Maybe that's the point though, that change is good.
Maybe it wouldn't hurt to move that baseline
up a couple notches. But how? Love yourself,
or love the world. Maybe both. Maybe love is the problem (the gateway to romanticism).

What if change means death -- death to the you
beneath yourself, beneath the behemoth struggling
to force itself onto you. What if, change is giving up? It could be amazing to be unchanging.
It could be tragic too. An untidy statue.

...Created 2018-03-11 23:57:33