The ties that bind will bind your life.

There's a blanket of flowers on my front lawn, the color somewhere between that of a bruise and that last bit of a purple sunset right before the blanket of night. In thirteen Marchs I've never seen them before.

My Sundays have now seem to have emerged a general pattern. There's a lot of sadness and joy-but not strain. It comes easy now, and it goes so fast.

As each spring comes, so comes a season change in my mind. It's never the same, but it always comes with some vigor, and some doubt. It's as if my biology is gearing up for it's annual number shift, and starts a new cycle of mindsets.

I'm a little scared of this one. The future is happening in ways I never could have or would have imagined. I've never been one to have a long string of future plans laid out before me, but I've usually been able to see the next few steps. Now, though, it's as if I'm walking in a dense fog. I'm not a fan of surprises, but I can get a grip on spontaneous.

This, though, this is weird. So the countdown is closing in on 27 soon-although the mindset has been there a while. It won't be so much a shift as it is an affirmation of where I've been. I very much need this kind of reinforcement, because it seems where I'm going is turning in a much different direction than I had ever thought.

I saw your picture, and it made me want to weep. My name was there, but it wasn't me.

And it goes so bloody fast.

Wisdom of words.

Anyone who tells you they have nothing to hide certainly has something to hide.

There has been an influx of peering into my world. Some of it uninvited, some of it broadcasted from the mountaintops. I really hope I'm worth all that effort. There's a chance that things could turn out peculiar in an effort to maintain sanity, but who's to say, ya dig?

So, my little skybird, if I may be vindictive if only on your behalf: this world belongs to me. Believe what you choose to, because I create quite a bit of my own fiction. This space began as a sub-let of a story I wrote, titled 'True stories and other lies I tell myself.' This world here my friend, this world belongs to me-visit all you like but don't for one moment claim any ownership and understanding of my art or craft. Because one man can look through telescope, it doesn't mean he can decipher what's on the other side of his neighbor's wall.

Yes, some things do really happen, but reality can be found as easily in dreams as in flesh.

We are terribly unique creatures, in that we can bend the world to fit our perception. This wonderful and awesome ability does not belong to any but mankind on this marble. To a dolphin, one bit of sea is not theirs, to a skunk, your trashcan is fair game. Ownership of situations and knowledge of the world is a terrifying illusion, brought about only because we all agree on a majority basis that what is, is.

Your little Kardiff has nothing to hide.

I, dear self, in this grizzly machination, prefer to hide in plain sight.

To the Quick; futility.

I can say a few things with certainty:

What follows below will certainly not be what I set out to write;
It's been a few months since my mind was in this state of complete incoherence;
There is clearly something wrong with me;
I'm very much ok with that fact.

So let's begin!

     Already the viscousity of my lethargy is slowing down the gears that only hours ago were powering my thoughts. Clarity is the wrong word to use, as when I am in this state my mind is anything but clear; in fact it becomes more cluttered than ever. Over a long period of time I've practiced, and become quite adept at, clearing my mind of unnecessary thoughts. This is often to my detriment, but it's generally preferable to the alternative. When the right combination of events exhausts me physically and mentally to this point, that wall of quiet in my head bursts like a rotted dam, flooding in everything that sought attention.

Ineedtorunaway.IwanttowatchQuantumLeap.Ishouldn'ttrytoinspireotherstogreatnessasdoingsoonlycreatescompetition.PeopleoftenmistakemeascreativebecauseIregurgitateobscurethingsthatmirrorsomeformoforiginality.I'manuneducatedarrogantfraud.TheonlypersonI'vefeltatrueconnectionwithisleavingmylifeforever.Ishould'vefoughtharder,Ishould'vestayed,Ishouldn'thavegonehomewithher.IdrinktoomuchsmoketoomuchspendtoomuchtimeabsorbedinmyownheadandIabandonedallhopeofbeinghappy.I'mincapableofmaintaininganysortofadultrelationshipwithoutbitternessandresentment.IalwaysdothistomyselfwhyamIsoselfdetructivewhoamItryingtoimpresswhycan'tIbesatisfiedwhyamIbroken.Ishouldn'thaveeatenlunch.Thereisbeautyeverywhereandit'soktobeselfishsometimesandIamnotnowincontrolandhaven'tbeenforalongtimebecausecontrolisanillusionwhenitfailsandafailurewhenitsucceeds.Iwantanap.

And on and on and on.

But today, it felt glorious.

I am not ok. The thoughts above were the only ones I could hold down long enough to record. There are many many more, cramming themselves in with unimaginable speed, no filter, a desire to listen to a song weighed equally with the idea of becoming a millionare, thousands of little sentences crowding into my mind with no order or cohesion-mental image: every kindergarten student in the country all screaming out their favorite things all at the same time, for hours. No cohesion, no clarity. You just have to lean back and enjoy the ride. Or stop the rollercoaster before it goes over the drop.

The more I try to put this down, the more my brain fights me.

And I'm not sure I know how to handle this for very long.