tinseltown

that birthed on a bed of irony and grew rapid on the hope of new life, rebirthed, every day, every minute, chanel on one wrist, estee lauder on the other, afterbirth never smelled so sweet. and I havent showered for a day, slept for two, an elephant follows me, pressing into my head and trumpeting.

tinseltown with its heliotrope boxes and bottles, watches and diamonds, goggles and wines, squiggly satin bows and soft yellow mirrors. flashing on the hulking mass of bad decisions, who don't sleep well and wander, looking for manna.

with its constant costume parties feat. wandering zombies all dressed up and waiting, for life to happen. tinseltown that made a destination of the wait, sparkling, addictive, until destiny is but a distant dream, transforming to a journey. The journey, to tinseltown.

tinseltown that became manna. by promising a journey to. logical to the very end, with correct hair and severe black suits, flowy ethnic dresses and mojo boots. they who live in tinseltown have frozen with vigilant smiles, those who pass through, take antifreeze with you.

I used to be just a wanderer when first I found tinseltown, and found manna, for a different reason, one of my last refuges for anonymity, my allowance to wander sightless without reason, without question.

And now after wandering its gardens that stand so still, its passions that wind so thin, I am blued and bored, a little broken and betrayed, by my finest refuge. I am tunnelled through and there is just a tiny trickle of glamour left, my half closed eyes only want sleep and hot water, so I may knit back together and rush back into tinseltown, to compete for the journey, instead of seeking the destination.

the journey is so much easier than thinking about where it leads. tinseltown comes guaranteed, to be its own destination, to lead you true, lead you nowhere. this version of real turns hours and hours away. tinseltown, where life has more meaning, because death don't exist...

but life has no meaning if death don't exist....

tinseltown, kingdom of unconscious irony, far more addictive than it ought to be

my prayer for writing

I come to this desk daily. I come alone, and terrified. I come to this desk without any expectation outside the pages I will fill. I come knowing that a few tea stained pages, a few kb files with my heart and soul on it, have meanings beyond my understanding. I come in peace, in anger, in desperation, in war, in love, in lust, in envy, in happiness, in hate, in fear, in boredom, in excitement, in utero.

I come to this desk every day not knowing if I will ever come again. I come knowing I can never stay. I know this because I come with no recommendations, no baggage, unarmed, unclothed. I come knowing that when I leave the desk, I will feel happier, richer and more at peace. And that is still not enough to guarantee I will come tomorrow.

I come to this desk knowing that I will often not make any sense, I will often be corrected, often by myself. I come to this desk to come closer to truth, my truth, to examine how beautiful it is, to have one perfect moment with it, and never talk about it again. I come with humility, to be granted permission over myself

I come with an open mind and an open heart, wearing my best possible honesty with the most colors, and adding more every day. I come with the power of echoes and the power of silence. As so many have before me, I come because I want to and because I'm good at it

I come each day aware of myself and my reality and its constant demands, I come aware and thankful and unapologetic of the sacrifices I make and my loved ones make, so I can sit here each day, I come to be only with myself, to find my own voice. I come aware that this time is entirely intangible, and in real world terms, irrelevant. I come each day to change reality

Reposted - After a 2 year self-imposed exile, to reaffirm faith