The last goodbye

Try that stream of consciousness thing...

I strongly believe there are very few things we control in life and these would include and may be limited to; ourselves- our behavior, our words and our thoughts.

Some may even argue that this is not the case; that they can't control themselves. It may take a lifetime to learn to control these things the way we'd like to. Still we persist. 

I would say that from these things, our thoughts are where our biggest challenge is found. They say 'actions speak louder than words' and 'death and life are in the power of the tongue'. When we are in the same room and you do something, I can see it, I know it was you. The words you say; whether you own them, whether you mean them or not is really irrelevant. It's done, it's out there and it came from you. These things are a kind of proof. Yet I can't see your thoughts, your motives, your intention...

What point is this bringing us to?

I think part of learning to control your own thought life is to become more aware about how you're thinking. In an effort to understand myself [my thoughts] more I took a pen and made note of thoughts as they came, not dismissing anything. I will share it with you here and I would encourage you to do the same. If we want to be in control of our thoughts we must become more conscious of the way in which we are thinking. 

To give this some context, i was travelling from the Netherlands back to London at the time:

There are gaps in the spiral stairs.

i tried, but i can't sleep.

'kiss and ride' said the sign,

we never kissed.

no one was around so i looked down, 

a little shaky;

still wanting to throw everything i had over the stone wall of the new church.

it didn't make any sense, all spread out that way.

don't leave me alone anymore.

shoe lace and seat-belt undone.

independent. 

i will find my own way to follow you.

is it here?

376 steps, the rest?

i want you to go before me and to stay.

if i had only on choice it would be- stay.

stay.

i can only do any thing with you.

take me where you feel most at home.

i don't remember that feeling.

don't or can't?

can't or won't?

don't cry,

unless it helps-

im talking to myself again now.

i cried in every city.

where is the blood?

where there is blood there is something either living or dying

and why is it red?

they're drawing squares in the sky again.

its means nothing to me.

is it hard to tell the difference?

im ok with that.

all the strangers look, some look like strangers,

others like friends- faces like other faces i know.

we didn't talk about it, i think they're in a hurry.

the chocolate was fair-trade.

i think im learning.

he helped me; i didn't understand the machine,

the coins, the paper,

the smallest coffee in the biggest cup.

sometimes i think im still in love with him.

it didn't taste like melbourne but it didn't matter.

its all green except the blood- christmas colours.

a dying art form.

why the wait?

not to complain, only to wonder...

passing everything

catch your breath, only this is real.

whether its getting better, improving, developing at a pace you'd prefer is irrelevant 

but now, try to know it,

to know yourself in this- now.

no sugar.

blueberries and memories.

last week seems only a distant dream, in this now.

he smiled, he touched my elbow. 

   

#immune

lovely willow,
hid peaceful immortal war Babylon.
i flew
raged
never returned home.
three four correcting it carefully,
giving in
into the blue.
church towers, the lines
the balloons the guns
immune

one day we will fly

i've consumed more tea in the last two weeks than i have in my life time...

i was trying to think of a time from my childhood where i really believed that i could fly. it seems like something a child could believe but i struggle to find memories from that time. Where do they go? The memories, i mean...

maybe there's something deeply sad about that. 

none of my childhood memories are solid, i could try but i'd always be questioning- did that really happen or was it a dream i had? i remember hiding from my dad under the bed until my mum got home and not in fun way...it's never actually the way we remember it, is it...? 

Sure i could start to tell you how i was playing in the sand box when i was five and he throw sand in my eyes and instead of crying about it, i pick up one of his tonka trucks and used my best aim and strongest arm and that's why he's still got that scar on his forehead today. But that never happened; it's just one of those things i tell my friend's in social situations when they ask "wait, how do you two actually know each other?" when really they're referring to a stranger, i've just met. i love strangers. infinite potential. and i talk to them like i know them because i want to- know them. sometimes i want to know who everyone is...

anyway i drew this #paperairplane because i could not remember a time when i believed i could fly...