justin

i don't know why i feel i need to justify this. i think i fear the pointless and infantile or a strengthening mental aesthetic masturbation. sometimes i seem like an expression that quickly becomes out of date. i need to interject reality because the experiment is evolving. which is good and bad and living. this writing was and still is simply a meditation on the painful construction of words. it is an act that becomes meaningful not in the writing but in the meditation. so i have explained myself then, i write when my insides wrestle like worms and my organs become claustrophobic to their own crowding. it is only this crowding that lays its presence here. you do not know me who sings and dances possessed to silver cold nights and the noise of a million humming street lamps. talks screams makes love laughs sleeps on carpeted floors in strange cities. and this is the way it should be. this is my new emptiness governed by the laws of cyberpsychology. a transition from Lack to the exploration of personal unconnection. none the less, i am still made of mass and am not of the virtual. here then, in the cyberpsychological realm, my non-virtual organs have been writhing again. this writhing, a stinging incongruence that refuses to let my eyes leave the mistake before me, is called justin.

when i was 18 i knew a man. dark dark eyebrows record players denver winters belle and sebastian. i had him for a small amount of time but nine years difference was too much and i lost him. i was so young, it shouldn't still matter. a child to the momentum of this blanketing city, i am (caught by its gravity and hot flashes, part of its grimy loving embrace, a hole that is missed when i'm from it and its from me). he doesn't make sense to me. a Real collection of Virtual pixels i accidently found tore through me today. recalled me of the everything that was my exhilaration and is my discontinuity. this fake him, love to some other fake her. absurdity grows with time and lifetimes have been granted me sense. now thousands of arms embrace me at night. they are faceless. impossible stupid arms that have no right save my reciprocal embrace. but Past is a disease within me that i either need to ignore or explain. both actions pull ('ignore', 'explain', the 'repulsion of arms and heart') to predictable poles. i tire with fighting these invisible fields. i tumble with their lines. i cover myself up there to rest. then, after the immediate, with new faceless people and places i try once more and rediscover my periodicity. i can't move from it or here or him. i sometimes believe i am the most ill-defined of all sets. Gödel's living and breathing prized proof of incompleteness. then other times my motion is damped and i cannot wrestle with discontinuity any more. my shining broken differential equation tires of approximating itself. ( ) is what is done within minds, all the rest is symbols on paper. so i, a variable, a mere scratch on the page.