Now let me start by saying there have been so many false starts. Say (1) A cloudy summer in the middle of failing undergrad thesis (2) Right after a major fallout a year later (3) the it’s time phase (4) post-hermetic 2018 Redemption Arc, and (5) finally getting that ticket out of the country. Now that i’m three months in on here, i can safely say that yeah sure, Charlie Don’t Surf– but at the end of the river, at its mouth, where all my fathers’ dead bodies bloat and pile up on the dark murky delta, there Charlie rises up the water. He does a bit and then reveals knew how to swim. Brando lost his mind after that. A steel of a man. The Chao Phraya is no Jordan, there are no redemptions here, like the black Guadalupe that swims right through the core of my numerous layers.. I’ve never had a friend in a river and I only speak in waves, it’s hard-coded in me since the days of boar hunting and solar years of yore. To assume that across the saltwater there’s always another shore- a new life — and that the crossing closes up all the old wounds. But it ain’t true cause i’m still pus-yellow bleeding in here. How absolutely insular of me.
I tried to squeeze a poem out of that it’s been zero visibility since. I live in the first floor with a big sliding window facing a gray wall. I can’t tell if it’s day or night and the gradients seem to just mesh into one. Maybe I should give the rooftop bars a chance. Do the touristy things. I never talk in full sentences since jeez, i dont know, ive been told that i explain things too much and too often. And I tend to not finish anything. Just a different kind of depth to it, that.