Never ending Story

This is the neverending story,

Technically, every story is unending, but this is different. Its not a poem. Its an Idea, the idea of Tommy. Thomas.

I sit here disgruntled, confused, and amazed at these occurences that have driven me to write. I never write. Sure I could have become one, but I don’t find myself on that path. Im not a writer, I am a person. I am not a man or a child. I am. I am an upset to enigmatic pattern of reality, But the truest statement I know right now. Is that I, am. I exist, despite all this chaos and beauty I cannot find myself not existing.

These plants and trees, are proof of my nostalgia, where have these things come to be.

The story of a poison arrow still leads me to question, I am questions, I am the idea in my mind of ambition, and curiosity.

I was raised a man of everything, sin, and love. Raised by my wonderful mother, and a man. A true man, who I cannot comprehend how he is.

My father is much of a mystery to me that it actually made me cry. This man is somone I can dream to be. He’s awesome. (I feel that that word has lost some of its power in todays society.) I admire this man more than any other, Yet, I know nothing of him.

How am I to be great, when I know nothing.

Sure I can do calculus, physics, chemistry, roughly speak 4 languages, fix things, and solve almost any problem. He raised me, I am Him, but he has achieved. Hes there. And I cannot find words to describe how much I appreciate my father and my mother.

I was told that we are the ,century/ or children, we are the lost, I am lost, I strive for things I can attain. But reality proves otherwise, How am I to be, when I cannot. My efforts to connect are lost.

The continuous Idea of it lies me speechless, so I write. Is this world like these stars I see? Wonderful, but a dream, as Thoreau said, we go to nature to find meaning. And I am awestruck, by the idea of such things. The mathematics in the trees, the unsmooth calculus and fractals that encompass their growth, the physics of this water, the chemistry and biological cycles of these plants and animals. The physics of the astrological entities, that I can never reach but just watch. The rythmic beat of my heart to the sound of the gentle breeze of this wind.

The river that has become, when I sit and stare. Why must I have consciousness, to aspire to such great endevors of truth when the river flows softly by.

I cannot write, but it was at least an attempt.

Theres something about music.

Its wonderful. Of all the things in the world, some people found a new way to express emotion, its music. My brain on music, its an article maybe even in books. But it makes life worth while. No matter what goes on, there is music. There is always Music. It makes me cry.

whats wrong with being vulnerable?

well when somone opens their heart

to a girl.

girls have this little thing called expectations that are very high, and preconditional assumptions and previous circumstances that make their opinions biased and not in tune with the reality that the guy expects. now these girls already having a bias are mean, and once they know what hurts you, because you have been subliminal with them, can tear you apart and once they do or leave you that subliminal connection you felt with another human being becomes cut and it feels like a thousand glass slivers are inside your muscles

and everytime you think of that person after they have left you, after having that connection... because its gone the split needles hurt...

thats why its bad to be vulnerable.

because every time ive been vulnerable, gratification has been taken from me, and reality slaps me in the face and laughs and says

haha you thought it was that easy didnt you!

there are times of our lives where we come to a pristine standstill.

where everything we though was true, has become a pile of rubble upon the floor at which we sit and stare at clueless,

incomprehendable measures of our favorite songs become the blank lyrical compositions of our abysmall ideas of nothingness,

it comes to the point where everything, means nothing,

where everything doesnt matter,

why lend the hand of affections, when all that is returned is nothing.

just a stare of disconent measures of unacceptable metaphores which in the end lead to nothing in particular.

where the time comes where you dream of the wind past your face from a falling building,

the image of happiness the end of everything as you know it in sight,

so you understand,

and dont have to worry about the elastic means of the universe.

where nothing is predicatble,

ever.

please let these ideas fleet from my mind and let me sleep while i still have myself.

before I have gone away, and everything is gone.

stay away from me.

leave me to myself, so nothing but myself is wrong in the world.

please, stay away from me.

this tightrope is a double edged sword

my face is its reflection on the edge.

dont falter to far, this edge is on the rope,

walk back while you still can while i still hope,

This side of the sword

is like cardboard

im close to ovebard so dont let me fall,

while the truth is,

you will cut the rope yourself,

just to watch me drown.

remove the ties of your own accord,

while you still can,

what you can control can be the end.

just dont let the edge of this rope,

become your friend.

The end is what you intend,

fall to the water of your own consciousness

to let yourself be free of the edges of the cord

just makes sure, you do it of your own accord.

for every euphoric high there is an inconceievable low,

evry right turn we take, there is another that we are mistaken,

for every opposite, there is a positive,

for ever action there is an equal and opposite reaction,

for without 1 there is no zero,

for without zero , there is no 1.

it is all just another bad day in paradise,

the place which onced kept you warm,

is a forboding place of an illusional demon,

when did this dam break.

i saw the cracks, but they were overplastered,

but why havent all the other dams broken,

why is mine this way.

i made it, picturesqe

modeled after virtue,

and truth.

with an unending chivlrous endever i was raised upon.

no doubt im cursed.

we can pretend things happen for a reason,

while im the one it happens to,

remember you'll be sorry when im gone.

Why is it that i stare at a grain of salt and see eternity,

when the world around me seems so...terminal.

i dont understand it, I am, i am good, i feel empathy,

i feel more than i should. and its going to be my end.

why must i read of things that i am,

hamlet shouldnt die.

christopher shouldnt have been punished.

regardless of the view that people keep,

it was not punishment,

god does not punish,

I hate you people.

you miss the Earth, and all its beauties.

I have been made into what i am, and the evil.

i look into a mirror and see the end of which i began.

this cradle rocks soo steeply.

why does it rock so.

can i not look at the sunset one last time, before i know.

where is my eternity.

this grain does not mock me,

it does nothing, for its peaceful existence is because of the destruction of something else.

am i to be that?

for when my chaos is ended, that something else may live to see the sunset i long to watch.

when these winds stop blowing against my hair?

when the water of silk has become coarse like sandpaper.

where is my messanger.

ive sent out my message, but he has not come back.

the poison arrow does not remedy me. for i will always question why thing arent, when something like this universe is.

the impossible is possible, so why is my possibilities,

always improbable.

heart of mind does not influence the world, the heart and mind are inspired by the world, but i cannot comprehend.