my mind went into a tunnel. the visions were blurred from my eyes, it appeared i was on the brink of an out of body experience. the footsteps were muffled in my ears, and it felt as if i was detached from my mind, or else on an acid trip or something similar to that. what ensued was the penalty of being forced to climb up six or seven flights of stairs to enter the laundry room, all for the favour of washing my clothes. every step, every flight proved more difficult, and my breath gasped for air heavily. i remember feeling the blurred visions and the intense pressure on my chest as if someone were stepping on me and prohibiting me from breathing. i should probably exercise when i have time, to make sure this never happens to me again. or at least, i will know not to climb six or seven flights of stairs next time, i will save the burden and take the elevator. but the feeling was interesting, feeling as if your mind were detached from body and the perception of vision being abstract and blurred, like the pupils have been tightened, and the environment fades from your eyes. i thought i would black out, or else vomit on the floor. but no, i rested some moments on the floor and now am back in my room to write this. now, i feel normal or what i consider to be feeling as normal.
the shit taste has disappeared from my mouth, coughing up something last night while sitting here, came out a piece of food or some tiny fabric of digestion that had laid dormant in my throat for some weeks. this is the proof that my mouth had tasted of shit, after coughing it up, the smell that had plagued my mouth for weeks was sensed, i quickly threw this article of shit away and scrubbed and cleaned my hands.
finishing an eight page paper for my english class was solved today; the sexual isolation of margaret atwood and her handmaid's tale, the erasing of sexual desire for favor of the production and biological necessity of sex for the sole benefit of the state. my mind is already debased enough, thanks to the stair labyrinth i have just climbed.
i will read murakami again today, and i will also read juan rulfo.
a quote from rulfo and a quote from murakami to ease this post...

I then reached the sexual peak-although, rather than a peak, it felt more as if I were being thrown down from a high cliff. I screamed, and I felt as if every piece of glass in the room had shattered. I not only felt it: I actually saw and heard the windows and drinking glasses shattering into powdered fragments and felt them raining down on me. I then felt horribly sick to my stomach. My consciousness began to slip away, and my body turned cold. I know this will sound strange, but I felt as if I had turned into a bowl of cold porridge-all sticky and lumpy, and the lumps were throbbing: it had happened to me before. Nor did it take very long for me to recall what it was. I knew it as that dull, fatal, never-ending pain that I had experienced before my failed suicide attempt. And, like a crowbar, the pain was prying open the lid of my consciousness-prying it open with an irresistible force and dragging out the jellied contents of my memory without reference to my will. Strange as it may sound, this was like a dead person watching her own autopsy. Do you see what I mean? I felt as if I were watching from some vantage point as my body was being cut open and one slimy organ after another was being pulled out of me.

-Murakami

There is more. The vision of God. The soft light of his infinite Heaven. The rejoicing of the cherubim and song of the seraphim. The joy in the eyes of God, which is the last, fleeting vision of those condemned to eternal suffering. Eternal suffering joined to earthly pain. The marrow of our bones becomes like live coals and the blood in our veins threads of fire, inflicting unbelievable agony that never abates for it is fanned constantly by the wrath of God.

-Juan Rulfo

walking into the cafeteria, and the hordes of people crowded around the buffet table. today a crab and seafood dinner was being served. blue tickets were handed out in admittance for the crab. a frenzied line was waiting for the red crab meat that lay before them. the shit taste still has permeated my taste buds and left me with staleness with everything that i eat from there. again, proceeding from cafeteria to elevator to room, now i sit and write this. and i really don't know what i should say now. maybe the mystical leaning of Murakami can approach me again as i continue to delve deeper into his Wind Up Bird Chronicle. music is something that makes me happy, writing is something that makes me happy, reading is something that makes me happy. i find the greatest beauty in latin american and japanese literature. Spring Snow, Pedro Paramo. i wish i could write with the intense zeal that these books are written in and i try to perfect but, but i don't think and i don't think it will ever quite happen.

i am currently hearing mandala by thievery corporation and about to go into murakami's head once again. the sitar is played into my ears and the bass is dub like matched with the tribal percussion of the drums...

my taste buds have been incinerated with a stale taste whenever i try to eat something. the occurrence is unusual and it seems that a river of shit has flowed inside of my opened mouth, it must be the cafeteria food that i eat every day; breakfast, lunch, dinner.
staleness is a bitter word, more bitter is the process of mundane thinking or thinking with no self-awareness or with no moral thought in general.
for instance, the acknowledging of people to think that any country other than their own is worse off than theirs. for example, that there is nothing wrong with the united states, the chinese government is bad, because a country is underdeveloped means that a developed country is far superior to the underdeveloped. nothing is superior, we are never countries that proclaim to be an uber mensch, we are far from it. in my eyes, we are underdeveloped, because it seems that time and time again, we are bred with indifference to everything that seems so much more alien than what we are used to seeing. we are a nation of immigrants, so why is there this indifference to every other country other than our own? there is nothing that is american, because america is a new nation, a nation borne from the blood of others. i understand why so many people leave, because of the indifference and total disrespect in general of a culture that is different.

as i write, the light in my room is dim, and the lights of my roommate's quarters are turned completely off. completely is an adverb describing the mode of how off my roommate's lights are. the stuffed teddy bear rests on my bed staring at the wall and the bareness of the ceiling. the same stuffed teddy bear that i go to sleep with every night and that i hold, because it shelters me while i am here and tells me to forget that i am a human that is indifferent to others. i am human yes, and i am scared of this realization. scared that i too, like every other human have lied, and done things so out of my nature. i am unaware of being indifferent and at the same time, aware of being indifferent. i read octavio paz again and underlined the stanzas that rang in my ears,
some of them erotic. some of them i want to make love with and to stand above my chair naked and read them to the walls. some of them i love so much that i try to imitate them, but i cannot fathom the genius that it took to write them. of one of the underlined stanzas, one of them reads;

your skirt of corn ripples and sings,
your skirt of crystal, your skirt of water,
your lips, your hair, your glances rain
all through the night, and all day long
you open my chest with your fingers of water,
you close my eyes with your mouth of water,
you rain on my bones, a tree of liquid
sending roots of water into my chest.

personification of nature into a woman, body of a woman, pablo neruda, i could sing that song to my lover every night, just before sleep. beauty of nature, cornucopia of breath, of life, of death,
my sweet elixir. i will sleep this night, i will dream, with the stuffed teddy bear in my arms, i, embracing it, and the laughter of silence will ring in my lobes, and i will breathe and rest heavily. i will be asleep and unconscious, my mind will wander planes, plains, and fields. i will be on and off from seperate realities. i will awake and i will brush my teeth, and maybe have a morning shit.i will eat the breakfast, lunch, and dinner again and be brought back to that taste of staleness that plagues me every day. i have two other blogs, this is my first, and this is the one that i want to update more. i will fill it with prose, poems, and thought. this is my journal. this journal is to who i am singing, i write freely. oh journal, oh blog, permit me to write freely.
write to me so that i keep running from indifference...

life

i've recently moved from my hometown to a university, only a 40 minute drive from the place where i grew up. i am 1 and 1 half hours from chicago and the dormitory i live in stands erect like a protruding missile of a penis into the sky, upon entering my city you can see this landmark sticking out of the dead ground, it serves as a marking point for the biggest dormitory complex in the state. i navigate elevators every day to my classes, the elevators being full of people with countless chatter. a multitude of cunts and all of them with nothing interesting to speak, a gathering of boys and all of them with nothing interesting to say, they wear their hats and backwards and concern themselves with alcohol and fucking anything in their eye vision with two legs and no brain. i remain quiet and impatient in the elevators only to come back to my room where i fancy myself with reading octavio paz or listening to sigur ros at the emerging of a night moon creeping into my window. i sleep with the window open sometimes and my ears are given the noise of outside to pollute inside of my dreams. sometimes the scream of drunks on the street and the sound of cars riding the veins of the road. as of lately, i have been hearing strange carnival or circus music emitting from the outside of my window or the sound of church bells. unknowingly, i invite them into my dreams and they plague my mind. my roommate, i have one, always arrives home late and utters prayers in his sleep and sometimes quiet laughter if a succubus were in his room and tickling the tiny nails of his feet. i, last night like a drunkard, half asleep hit my head on the wall and proceeded to say "ouch," in which, i felt the landscape of my head for the appearance of a bump, which, apparently, did not grow onto me.
i shower during the night time and then i lie down, there i sleep, there i get up, there i eat breakfast, there i go to my classes, there i eat lunch, and there i talk with my girlfriend and read.


weekends i am with my girlfriend, staying with her, being free, talking with her, and laughing with her, this is when i am at ease, when i am at the university i still feel alienated. when i am with her i am at the sense of my being, at the sense of what i am.
so far we get this; university=my student life, hardly working, receiving good scores, writing, and listening
weekends away from university=my love life, my splendor, my joy, my passion, my cry, my hope, my blood.

yeah, i am growing into what i want to be, and what i want to be is more than i could ever hope to want to be....

FIN

I

the emerging of light,and the breadbasket of a bountyplaced before my hands,the hands, the palms, the fingernails,the pristine nails, the clarity of them,the touch of the nails against smooth bodies of skin,the skin, the soft wrapping of the nails,the quiet wrapping of the palms against the seamsof my body, against the outline, the stitches that trace the outline and contours of the inside,running of the fingers down the core of legs,slow touchings on the embracing body being borne by the embraced,the hairs stand by their ends and dwindle like threads,the threads of my loins that move as minutes pass into hours, into weeks, into months, into years,the face becomes hard and boiled over,the aging face wears itself,face that is young, that is soon to be old;it will look forever the way it looks as it sees the face of you,of eternal time shown in a face, the intervals of the face, the bone of the face warily accepting the mortality of being a face,the opposite face,the face of yours,hugs my felt tip hairs,nestles my deepest hairs,i stand on ends,your yellowed face melts my being,i am a phosphorous flame,enabled to burn,the end, the root of the sun,the taste of wheat amongst the open fields,encompassing the length of miles,trail, stream, life giver, sustainer, and supporter of words,cultivator of youth, divinity of youth,your face sparks reflections,your face enables history, veins to flow and to run,lips that chisel the hardness of age and the current of wind blown from your breath as it sucks into my mouth, the wind, the air that i breathe,my soul is blown back into me,i can feel myself breathe from the inside,the body is lifted, the soul is made indent,the etchings could never wither, you are not mechanical time,time as an abstraction, that beats measurably, a constructed artifice of human heart,you are the continual time,the time that is not aware of itself,time that simply is,epochs are constructed out of your wind,the same wind that every face knows,the crispness of your wind,blow into mouths and indented souls,cornucopia of wheat,sustain life to my presence,

el surgimiento de la luz, y el granero de una recompensa colocado delante de mis manos, las manos, las palmas, las uñas, las uñas prístina, la claridad de ellos, el toque de las uñas contra los órganos lisa de la piel, la piel, la envoltura suave de las uñas, el envoltorio tranquila de las palmas contra las costuras de mi cuerpo, contra el esquema, los puntos que trazan el perfil y el contorno del interior, funcionamiento de los dedos por el centro de las piernas, retoques lentos en abrazar el cuerpo está a cargo de la abrazó, el vello se levante por sus extremos y se reducen como hilos, los hilos de mis entrañas que se mueven como minutos pasan a la hora, en semanas, en meses, en años, la cara se pone duro y se desbordó, Ante el envejecimiento en sí lleva, cara que es joven, que pronto va a ser viejo; que se verá para siempre la forma en que parece que se ve el rostro de ustedes, del tiempo eterno mostrada en la cara, los intervalos de la cara, el hueso de la cara con cautela la aceptación de la mortalidad de ser un rostro, la cara opuesta, la cara de los suyos, abrazos mi sentir pelos de punta, anida mi más profundo pelos, i stand en los extremos, su cara amarilla se derrite mi ser, Soy una llama de fósforo, activado para poder quemar, Al final, la raíz del sol, el sabor de trigo entre los campos abiertos, que abarca la longitud de kilómetros, camino, arroyo, dador de vida, el sustentador, y partidario de las palabras, cultivador de la juventud, la divinidad de la juventud, su cara chispas reflexiones, su cara permite la historia, las venas fluya y para ejecutarla labios que el cincel de la dureza de la edad y la corriente de viento que sale por la respiración mientras se chupa en la boca, el viento, el aire que respiro, mi alma se sopla de nuevo en mí, Siento que me respira desde el interior, el cuerpo se levanta, el alma se hace guión, los grabados nunca se marchitan, no son mecánicas tiempo, tiempo como una abstracción, que late mensurable, un artificio construido de corazón humano, usted es el tiempo continuo, el momento en que no tiene conocimiento de sí mismo, momento en que simplemente es, épocas se construyen fuera de su viento, el mismo viento que conoce todas las caras, la frescura de tu viento, golpe en la boca y el alma con sangría, cuerno de la abundancia de trigo, sostener la vida a mi presencia,