sex is the lesser enemy
So I've reached another growing season with my thoughts. Damn trees don't grow the same fruit, and I'm stuck with random feelings and detached nature from my lack of consistancy. Not to mention thoughts spoil quickly. Much like a poetic statement. Not only does it have to be written in a short amount of time or it will mutate and become unstable, but it holds little weight after existing for a few days.
Sex is not the enemy, but it certainly gets in the way. I can't stand when I'm in someone's way and I certainly can't stand to be in someone's way, therefore I try to not be in anyone's way... unfortunately they do not do so for me.
So la ti do.

Tea, a drink with jam and bread. No time to say hello, goodbye! I'm late I'm late I'm late. And a very merry unbirthday to you. And likewise, a very unmerry birthday, as all must be in balance.

Balance. That fucking control over all things small and large, the one thing I've come to associate Schylar with. For all the crap she's ever gone through, she's found something good to hold on to, and that one good thing keeps balance. Life on the edge of a knife blade, go one way or the other, and you fall. The breaking of the fellowship. The building of an army. We are not young here, we just choose to be. Our lives are determined by our own paths that may or may not be lain out before us. Let's just walk through the grass then, and make our own path. Oh, no, I'd hate to disrespect that damned grass.

Let's try this from a different perspective.

How
Do
Things
Work
In
Poetry?

Any thing can be poetic
If you know the way to form it.
This is not poetry, rather
A visual presentation of
My mind in motion and




space.






Sometimes I'd like to know what's going on. Sometimes I feel my life in my own hands and realize that my hands are no longer attached, or my control is not, at least. Then I see as things dissolve as I slide away into the pool below me, watching my life mingle in the netherworld we've created.

A funny thing, the line between life and death. Maybe dead people have simply decided to take a peaceful approach on life. Everything will attack them but they will do nothing back. Time takes full venegence. They never truly die, just become a piece of the background, not wanting to participate any longer.
Of course, when we ask to die, we most often live to tell of it.
Cruel cruel fate, to be given the contradiction of our wishes.
Maybe some reverse psychology? No. We don't work with human minds, but whatever gives us our contradicting power works with our minds. It's a game, a beautiful fucking game that we cannot live on. Cannot die on.
And it's all an illusion, be it what I've said, written, spoken, or thought.

Because all I do is pick fruit from my garden. And all it does is rot in realistic air. All I can see is what's been placed before me by some force that will always be greater than me. I can be no vixen, one because I'm male, two because I cannot achieve superiority to this force.

And sex is the lesser enemy. We can choose to give life or to take it. We cannot choose to be given life. And that indeterminate thing is our downfall. Our want for more.





A labyrinth works to lead it's users in an intended
path that might lead to distruction
but the path will go only as far as the follower
follows. Therefore a lab- yrinth holds no power
beyond the user. The creation holds little
beyond the created. the created chooses

to split or end a path altogether.



And so I eat what I can find of this gorgeous fruit, growing in it's own season, and I enjoy and fear each harvest knowing I might learn something.








Such is the way of the tree of knowledge.

lie