Kalani Perry v5.6

Is it bad that I love you but I don’t like you? Is it bad that I think you’re beautiful but everything out of your mouth that you’re not mimicking is almost always stupid? And the stuff you mimic is almost as bad, but it’s better thought out. Like the holocaust. Terrible and tragic, but there was a plan.

I’m torn between worship and disgust.

There was a time when I had nothing to explain or ask explanations of. When I see you I see an angel. Who doesn’t give one fuck about anything except being angelic.
You look at me and call me a devil. I know exactly what I am.

There are words I don’t say. There are places I don’t like to look at. I made a mess in some of them, but that’s not why I don’t like to look. The difference between you and me, and I hate to think about it even. You don’t know how to look.

I’m going to lie in this hospital bed that’s actually my bed. I don’t want to be dead. I certainly didn’t try to be here. But if I could not exist anymore and be happy at the same time, that would be my choice.

A happy life to you has no conflict. Life is conflict. When it ends, so do you.

I realized that in my downward spiral of hopelessness, I was actually falling into the huge hole created by my absence of basic human graces. The most obvious was forgiveness. When relationships become a ledger of profit and loss, you have no friends. Just pluses and minuses. You are absolutely alone.

Thunder is an emotion. I remember crying when I heard it. I never felt tough. I was never that guy. I was the one that had thoughts in my head. I was beat up by guys like you. I wasn’t fond of taking a slap.

But I guess you had to endure the pains life gave you. Gives you. Keeps giving. You may have asked for this. I didn’t ask for this. It just sort of happened.

I keep attention maybe two seconds at a time. It’s a blessing and a curse. Most likely a curse if you don’t like what I have to say. That doesn’t make me wrong.

Life is a mystery inside a riddle inside an absurdity. And we all know it. And we ignore it. You are a mess. I am a mess. And it’s such a mess when we push our mess together.

If you’d have asked me ten years ago, I would say I hate myself and want to die. Now people like that frustrate me. They make me sad in a way that I don’t like to be sad.

Words come easily. Words come like water. They flow. Sometimes they overwhelm me. They’re like a wave. They feel bigger than me. They are larger than life. But they’re just syllables. Just harmless vowels and consonants. They push together to make ideas. Ideas are what’s truly fucked. They make you think things. I’d prefer to have ice cream.

Be here to love, otherwise everything is speculation. I’m not here to be angry, though given the right circumstance I can usually be counted on to be so. Old behavior is extrapolated into guesses about what will happen. Vague memories have a way of becoming hard truth. Everyone knows what happened, but everyone knows differently, passionately. There are no witnesses that have actually seen anything except what they’ve heard. Credibility is a measure more valuable than a credit score. It means more than the truth.

Nothing happens without an equal and opposite reaction. Lies beget lies. Sorrow makes thing sad. Revenge makes retaliation inevitable. I’m not interested in propagating any of that. I realize my choices might put me in the background for now. I’ve never stayed there before. Why would I?

What’s happening outside is not an ever after. Things will get worse before they get better. But things will change. It always has a way of coming around. See less