5.09.2006

Ready To Die

Davey is a poet. I’ve always been intrigued by that myself, as the composition of poetry is only a game I play at, something to pass the time until more words find themselves stringing together in my head in some sort of suitable fashion. It was when I still lived in Florida that we realized our mutual obsession with crafting language, our own and those of others; realized that in our heads all of these words suit the same purpose. Neither Davey or I are the type to sit still; we have to keep moving, see more, move, travel, search. Search for something we will know we have found when we’ve found it and write it down whether we succeed or fail. We, together wait for the day when all of our airline miles and nomad pursuits have purpose, because we will have found a God that will be devised by our pens. Found that pocket where truth and knowledge are one in the same. I think about this often and smile.

[note to DH--Dude, I'm almost glad I'm doing this. It's kind of neat--and look how awesome we sound! Like, I could write that we're Brilliant, and poof--it's true. Weird, yeah?
note to NM--I already feel terrible even writing about you. If you really wanna hear all the you-realted stuff, I'll e-mail it to you when it's done. I say that I fear nothing--that's clearly not true. I'm truly frightened to post this piece in it's entirety.]

--M

1 comment:

~PhoenixRising said...

... Dude... I keep calling you, making grand plans to go out and embrace life, and then I fall asleep...

Like I called a taxi company that night, and NO TAXIS IN ORLANDO REACH SOUTH EAST ORLANDO! I couldn't even bribe the person answering phones with an extra 20$... damned Orlando...

w00t.