The Danger Of My Story

The mistake of assembling the hours to our days make me feel small towards the all circumstances around the Sun

I drive through a can of pathetical misery from a substantial matter to a crazy grey part of my smoky brain of ideas. I drank fast until it was cold. We never know what our story of lives is going to dig out in front of ourselves revealing our way of pretending we know better… Ideas jump through scenes picturing my single way of misunderstand myself. Of getting what I want, and I want nothing, out of the day that it’s arising like a game of colors sounds madness and substantial joy, like the bleeding scar cut on the skin.

My eyes stares me at my bathroom mirror while I draw lines in between lines, dots inside dots, and mice among mice . I never saw that filthy single one of powering destroying my world of words and images mixing the coffee with the sugar and the sugar with the salt and with the butter and the butter with the fingers and the fingers with our arms..

My closed heart reveals my open mind, and the danger of my story. Of my way. And of my side. And the danger is mine.