by my side there is a table, a table scratched with the lines of age … maybe more accurately remorse, forgetfulness, doubt, fatigue, distraction, complusive nervousness … consistent in its presence, metaphysical in its consistensy … these indents and fingernail gouges, these flicking-away, compressed-wood splinters, the veneer coating peel, all give way to the inner workings of how its form holds such history … such significance … concrete signs of all the states i’ve been through … the anguished haziness of a life that slips through grasping, red-knuckled fingers, so effortlessly, like the necessary scratchings on the surface, the texture of human imprints, the vestige of human will … how i could relate so vigorously to inanimate objects such as these is not unknown to me as everyday curiosities are to most human consciousness (always take everything for granted, do not appreciate anything, especially the deep grooves beneath their finger nerve endings, the ones they feel beneath thier skin subconscious everyday, the obvious scratches of pain, the words worn into the surface with physical depth and dimension, solidified in more than ink, they carry more weight, but are usually the first one would pass over … merely a giggle to its vague messages of love and irony) because i desire to know myself, i desire to lie in my own piss and shit because it is mine, and i created it, i indulged in the release, i indulged in its consumption, it is a part of me … it is who i am … i created these everyday scars with all my narcissistic insecurity, all its denied vanity, all its waking anxiety and preocuppation, all its reverse psychological bullshit, all its naive ramblings, all its percieved habits of cliche and personal loss … i created this wall surface, this table and chair that i sit in for comfort because i get so tired of standing, my mind flushes its oxygen blood to the toes, and my hands itch to be doing something with the potential and frustration inherent to their very nature:
spindled grasping, clutching, versatile evolutions of nature that they are, a natural machine that took milleniums of trial and error to be firmly stuck at the nubs of my arms, to be fully functional, to be rational and useful … i wonder then are these minds that inhabit these evolutioned bodies a side show experiment of nature still in process? are my personal struggles the repurcussions within the system, the vibrating strings to the larger instrument, the permeating mass of evolutionary struggle to build a machine that is perfectly adaptable because of its ability to change the meaning of perfection as perfection is challenged and created anew?

streams of consciousness i will not take for granted, it is the only true honesty i have with anything nowadays …