Missing Shadows. Nostalgia bites.

Rice is really nice and light on the stomach

I should probably eat more but I don’t wanna

I think there’s a case to be made for neo-Hardboiled modernism in this generation

With the twitter and sparse attention spans

The easier ones content is to consume the more one will consume it (most likely)

I dated someone with Bipolar once

I think about that person often and how things might’ve been different if I knew more about Bipolar then as I do now

But I myself was ignorant of my aspergers and A.D.D

I miss that person; I wish we went for friendship as opposed to relationship

They were admitted into a mental institution several times, but unlike a previous lover who seemed to always be slipping away or we never quite gelled together (another relationship which would have been better left in the friend-zone), with this one I always felt like I could be there for them no matter what

There’s something about being with a person who has their own demons. Real mental shadows that move things around. A unique bond is formed. Aliens amongst their own.

But I was not the grown up I am today and my default reaction to almost anything back then was to jump ship whenever I felt my presence was detrimental to the person I was around (whether perceived or accurate)

Rather than solve.

The funny thing is; once I knew I was an aspie; I embraced that mindset of solution orientation

But sometimes, starting things intimately and trying to revert back to more friendly parameters is impossible, I know it is with me.

So I remember a shadow of that person. Encapsuled in time, in my memory, reimagined in my fiction and art.

In my heart.

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She Was an Ernest Person

POSTMODERN ART2
Part of POSTMODERN Zeitschrifte collection ©2015 by Asperganoid

 

She, alive or dead, loves her kids.

She, dead or alive, wants to live.

Rigid Hand To Crooked Heart

Loved myself once.
Now lines have taken over my face.
The, rotting away of time, almost tangible.
I can’t stand to be around any youth with their enthusiasm and their ignorance of what’s to come.
I know too well; sometimes I wake up and I smell it.
Strong stench of fate; its ebony hand reaching out, stroking my hollow cheek.
Was in love with myself. Didn’t do me any good.

Dancing in the mud

Mother sat on the beach stool out front
Watched the cars and baked in the sun
I always snuk out back like a cat
Payed HER a visit
She lived behind a locksmith shop where her father worked
Right next to a tall mountain; almost like a wall reaching for the sun
We talked ’bout all sorts of stuff.
These violet orbs hung over her head like discarded halos running out of power.
It makes my kidneys sore thinking ’bout them days.
I’ll just get on with feeding the rhinos and take my daily hike now.
Bye.