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A poem to all my fellow insomniatic writers.


42 Portals

Originally posted on tismond:

If you’ve ever found yourself writing your best work during what the normal folk call “ungodly hours” then I think you’ll agree with me on this one:

The Unobserved Hour

The clock strikes three
A time where logic loses its edge
And the conscious mind free falls
Off the edge of sanity,

Where the burdened brain shatters
And impossibilities merge with reality
Into a kaleidoscope so obscene
That only cold dreamers can perceive:

They watch our long caged desires
Transcend the laws of religion
Tear through the holes of science
And past the prison of society

To a place where none shall judge you
No inferno to sway your conscience
All boundaries removed and banished
So creativity shall reign supreme

This is the hour of lovers
All poets and artists to be
Once bound by the chains of reason
Now freed from their slavery.


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Getting at 42 from Every Angle

What if I’m this one god?
My own god of course. Not yours. That would be boreing. Maybe Hunger Games is what I volunteered for.
The where do I start even asking where to start kind of deamon angel horned winged gamer lore freak.
Wrote the catalyst or got addicted to this game.
I get to gamble. Play to lose. Beat the odds and fail till winning feels like crack. The hurdles falling out of the sky, and shat . Continuous onflicts of interest dilemma unthinkable choices, loss, impossible hopes hilarious sad unimaginable loss and stupidity. The twisty brilliant dark twists. The secrets. Reveals double no triple mystery magic re-corkscrew twists.
I wonder if maybe I was undefined haughty ass all or semi all-powerful god who couldn’t be courageous.
Humans are better than gods. Humans are brave sweet hularious story vulnerable-precious. Gods aren’t precious. Are they?
From godhood I rose to Humanity.
The only thing I was good for, really good at as an asshole god was design. I engineer a story life to get at myself from every angle. To challenge wonder fight take risks hurt live die. To grow a soul.
Real Gods don’t have them.


Who would want to be one of those?
Who but me would write play in and direct this antidote to existential boredom for myself. Take the game to the next level. Me not play?
Human may be the new god/deamon.

prodigal sister


42 Somewhere

Originally posted on Gabriela's Blog:

I’ve been having a lot of reflecting time lately.  This period in my life is different since I went to Mexico and came back.  My priorities have been realigned.  Things that used to be so important faded in glory, and other things I thought I would one day do, have emerged as the new priority. I dropped out of most of my social groups, and had the excuse of being way too busy, which was, in fact, entirely true.  I have missed seeing their faces, but I can’t hold up conversation.  Just can’t.

I used to talk about the things I wanted to do. Now I am silent and just doing it.  But what am I doing? I am writing, reading, painting, changing.  I am noticing myself filled up with energy that wants to give itself as support without the need of being understood by anyone.  I find myself being not…

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