A gringo dancing familiarity

so i went to hang with classmates,
and i ended up reacquainting myself
with the past that died.
i was exposed to latin culture,
something of which i’ve not
experienced since i was young.
to be surrounded by such being,
infused my time with pleasant memories.
i found that the people were raised
upon a rhythm felt,
not taught.
for this,
i was witness to
platonic camaraderie.
i felt much a part as
i did separate.

Putting you before me except after, let’s see

what’s worth all this fighting and control if what we fight for and try to control is extinguished the moment we die? of course, we should not give up on living an ideal of a good life, but is there a way to attain what we want without hurting others? in a similar fashion of lessening our environmental footprint, can we not take the same precautions towards that of our fellow neighbours? there are things i want in life and in order to get them i must put myself first. although, in doing so i feel like i’ve now become an obstacle in someone else’s pursuit. i question my self-worth and don’t see why i should value myself over another. progress cannot be made atop of faulty foundation. i guess i really should just take stock and invest it in a stronger framework. i know that where i’m going, there’s no need to rush, nor will i have to¬† cut in line. the finish line is marked, but the end is indeterminate. i might a well suck the life out of each second because that’s how long it all takes.

Living to make-believe understanding

Since I was 5 years old, I’d always had a compulsion to make, but that doesn’t mean I was destined to become a creative. I just happened to like art-related things. And just because I’ve got a diploma in an art related field, doesn’t mean shit.

Or maybe it means exactly that? No, that can’t be true. Who in the right mind wants to hire someone for their shit? A coprophile? A farmer? Either way, I’m not a big enough shit, nor produce enough to satisfy the needs of supply and demand. I create because it’s fun to imagine. Now I’m feeling pressure that I must create things that hold retail value with no real intrinsic value.

I still live to pretend, maybe imagine the ideal. But I’ve noticed, this can be harmful to one’s own mental health. Living contrary to reality is an open request for hardship, but can also be a source of inspiration. I think the problem is that the environments I’m immersed in do not encourage my creative tendencies. Therefore, I’m left creating halfhearted ideals whose force is expunged but misconception. Or, I just create when I want to create because making things when I feel like it usually turn out better than those that are forced.

It seems that I’ve spent my life creating something do not understand. But according this newly acquired paper, I know something. Then what’s with all this doubt?

Truth found in death

I’m awake while they preform their autopsy. I feel it all. The quick and decisive strokes of their cold and sterile steel. Poking and prodding, looking for what killed me. If I could talk I would put an end to this unnecessary ordeal. They uselessly searched for what they caused. How could they have known when they tried to help. Their distorted faces were public access, yet no one person could point a direct finger. We all could see them, contorted in their wretchedness. Their facade’s censor was highly attuned and adaptive. We saw only trails, remains, remnants, left only with the teasing hypotheticals of our imagination. We followed unknowningly, in search of truth. All we found was unfulfillment and death. Surely, we marked plenty times of joy, but those were fleeting. No matter how hard we held, it was consumed by emptiness. All we knew was the truth found in death. So how did I die? They same way you did. Even though I don’t know you and you don’t know me.