At Your Tombstone…

Nobody really knew this, but you were the reason I got interested in the possibility of starting a blog. It’s been interesting. I kind of wish you could see it. August is getting nearer, and the weeks are getting harder.

Things seemed to have surrounded me. It’s just reversion and it’s slow; slow and enduring. The world feels grey, and I’m lost in it. I can’t differentiate from the places I find myself in, all I know is it just feels out of place and misunderstood wherever I go. That bothers me, because my progress felt so content after those heavy years of abandonment and isolation. I don’t know what this is for, why am I even typing this?

I think the truth is I miss you; or rather I miss your understanding, or just feeling understood. While some people say I’m too nice or too much of a prick, you were the one that made me feel just right. You sort of got that awkward disposition. It’s just a concoction of the brittle world I’ve found myself in; it all feels so raw. There’s no light left and it’s gotten too dark to see anything. Hopeless and remorseful, will I ever be content? This is very unfocused, but this is desperation. I miss you, it hurts and I thought I’d be used to it by now. I think of your tombstone and I wish I could live in our conversation. It all felt so warm, I miss that understanding: that mutual wavelength.

Now things feel desolate again, I can feel the distance. As food loses its taste and I somehow forget the sound of your voice, I remember you fondly, but think of you with a chest of heavy glass. I currently feel such bitter hatred to people; everything feels rotted and decayed like an old poison that won’t let go. It’s this mass of animosity I feel, I’m not sure with who, it feels like everyone and no one at the same time. Isolated and cold, it’s all so misguided.

In conclusion, I wish you here, I wish you near, I wish you were anywhere but gone.

Unfaithfully Yours, Peanut…


Parenthell + Vice

A broken man. These are the words I would use to describe my uncle. His son has recently died, and when I saw him in July it just seemed as though all his thread had come loose and the colour had dulled from his waking life. The loss of a child had bled the family dry and still demanded they be brave enough to go out. I’ll never forgot that day, nor the emptiness of his eyes. A brittle version of a man previously brimming with joy and life, he was left monotone.

After that day I had dwelled on the concept of loss and how it may contrast. It seeps and refuses your ignorance. You feel in the back of your mind like an unyielding itch that will not appease. It now holds a special place in every thought I pursue. Have you ever felt loss? You should be so lucky.

I say this fully understanding the devastation and impact it may have on your life, not apathetically so. I get it, but the contrast is far more important. It does not seem understandable to only have joy, you need loss to appreciate the moment. The day would not seem so bright without the blackness of the night. Be lucky, lose it all. Only those have lost can grow to gain,because it is only them who appreciate. The lucky ones, there is honour in the struggle.

As we lose the ones closest to us, a piece of us goes with them as they fall from our life until there’s nothing left of us for anyone else to love. It is only with this that we understand a that a lost one is truly free in their moments of happiness. I’ve grown to appreciate that. In conclusion, so should you. Be lucky, lose it all.

Unfaithfully Yours, Peanut…

I am Spite

Spite: the black sheep of motivation. I’ve heard people say feeding it can just burn you, but I think it’s effective. It’s a good reason to live: to prove people wrong. Spite is my saving grace. Spite is genuinely the main reason I wake up, because people no longer expect me to.

You see it as black and fickle, but it works, so who really cares about honour? Dignity and integrity seem kind of heavenly, but heaven’s boring anyway. Why do you think sarcasm makes us smile, because deep down we’re all a little fucked up. I like to think with spite on our side, you could be the nicest asshole I’ll ever meet.

Spite is good, despite the words of your elders; they’re outdated anyway. Think of this ravenous plead, what this cold nature of your dragging axe is like. Sweet and unforgiving, I think that’s a poisonous nature; which is good.  Poison is good, poison has a purpose. It doesn’t disappoint when it dismantles. Crave that drive.

In conclusion, why not give in? It works and the wrong side of the track has the best atmosphere. Lower your pinkies and hoist your bottles, it’s time for a little bloodshed.

Unfaithfully Yours, Peanut.

Mood Filter

I find a deep regret in the moments of beauty I’ve failed to notice, simply by being preoccupied by a heavy heart and a fragile chest.

It’s always appeared strange how it is that even the brightest colours pale when tragedy climbs in; even a bad day can drain the flavour from a dish and the joy from our face. We do nothing to stop it, because we know better. As you read this, you’ll think back to things you’ve found to iron out the creases in the transition, whether it be the swirling amber suctioned from a bottle or a mild nap to skip through time.

It’s tragic. In conclusion, the pain is our constant. A meek aspect of our journey to remind us we are alive. In a place with no space and time, the pain will find a way. You should count yourself lucky, the dead and gone feel nothing at all. I have nothing more to say.

Unfaithfully Yours, Peanut

Modern Anarchism

This will be short. Anarchism. You ever seen Fight Club? Well that’s a bit of optimistic view of what we can accomplish. Yes, optimistic. In light of the recent protests, it seems breeding chaos is no longer such a fallacy anymore. No longer happy with a lot of our authorities and government, the people have been recognised as wanting to be heard. What they are saying is change and they speaking through disorderly means in small occurrences of retaliation, but more marching and less pitchforks. Their more rage and misguided hatred in this movement though, which is sad. A leaderless revolt isn’t really something I can get behind. It will ultimately collapse, and crumble. We’ve reached a stage where an aspect is lost to this movement. It is more a fight for power, rather than fighting for power. A battle royale. Unfortunately once we get the power, without the leadership what will we do once we have the power? Modern anarchism cannot win.

Unfaithfully Yours, Peanut…

The Two Ravens

Thought and Memory. Fly for Odin. Memory can lead to a vast spectrum, be it torture or bliss. Depending on the emotional connection, that’s where the second raven perches. It all comes down to what you think of that memory, which leads to how heavy or light your chest feels when the memory rears in. It’s inescapable, this very articulate race as a species cannot hide from itself.

It seems interesting to me how very malleable memories can become in the way they affect you. At the base of it a memory is basically a thought, thinking about the past. Everything’s a thought, from pain to lust to melancholy and rage. It’s all a signal from the brain. A stab or a break up, it’s all just neuron-communication. How very dismal, that we are nothing but what we think in a world where 1 quarter of people think very little of themselves and 2 quarters of people barely think at all. In line with this analogy, these people are tiny. I like that. A world filled with midgets makes me smile, even if I’m among the masses.

But I digress,why it is malleable is an entirely different branch(get it?) of life. Unlike Memory, Thought is definitely the more fragile of the ravens. Brave, open and the colour of coal, thought lingers on the front line. While Memory remains stoic and obstinate, with only traces of its brother thought, Thought lies open. Thought is susceptible to change and can always wither, even in its rarity. A peaceful thought can be brought to carnage, a menacing array of how very easy a situation changes. From love to malice in the instance of the distance suddenly between 2 lovers. Memory is played with by the braver Thought.

While the memory may see warm and happy, a simple change in thought can make you miss that dynamic and drown it in sorrow. Even Memory being hard-headed and unmoved has a breaking point to fall to the wounded Thought. But doesn’t this  dynamic help move on? Gliding with our ravens, perched for the days they soar rather than land and scour the muck.

In conclusion, there’s only so many feathers, let one be your quill.

Unfaithfully Yours, Peanut…

It’s Quiet

It’s quiet. It’s very quiet. 3 AM. It’s quiet to hear the teenager next door. She’s smoking while everyone’s asleep, but it’s quiet enough to hear her cigarette burn. I like that. Not the cigarette, but the quiet; though my affinity for fire will always bring a smile to my face.

Time doesn’t feel as slow as the normal day, nor does it feel as fast. Activity has a weight and it feels like you’re wading through the minutes, tick by tock and stroke by stroke. A plain work of moving now into the past, knowing we wasted time.

At this hour, it feels more like walking on the floor of the ocean. Time is not wasted, but executed at our own will. The most prevalent of words come to mind. It’s just man, the star and the space between us. I like that. It’s quiet, very quiet. I like that.

Unfaithfully Yours, Peanut

Parenthell Consent

First of all, fuck those kids. Okay, not really. Children are precious and the light of life, but before all that they’re fragile and that’s what makes them terrifying; especially in our youth. While we are youthfully arrogant and semi-disturbed by how very focused on ourselves we project ourselves in everyday life, it seems mythical that we may care for another human being. How we love one another and give a piece of ourselves to save the ones we care about, when we get home all we think about is the piece we’re missing rather than the piece or friends have gained.

As the young ones, we are brilliantly selfish and spend time revolving time around our next steps, ignoring the timelines unfolding around us. Children need us to be attentive and claim our love so they may survive. That dependence is almost sinister, because how on Earth will we find the focus for such a chore.

A fulfilling chore, it does seem challenging. We see our dark corners and it’s terrifying that we may project it onto those who need us. I personally am scared at the thought that, in a world where I’m constantly suffocated, how I will breathe life into this blobbish life force. I made it, my own blood.

I know better than anyone how very tainted and cursed that blood is, it sees grey cloud and stained daydreams. Why do I crave this familial legacy to punish with life, a brutal extract that passes us by? Is it selfish, is it vain? Is it even right? I need to breathe to think, I won’t be ready. Nobody can be. Thrust and pulled, parenthood can only undo my belief in humanity.

But isn’t that what makes it good to us? A tingling tilt and massive energy to love and protect. Think of the pedestal you put your parents on, this splendid goddess figure you’d fight to defend. They were once like you, a fallen soldier, clutching to the Earth and terrified of letting you down. Now they feel what you feel and celebrate in your gorgeous chaos. They’re not perfect, but they’re the closest you find. Before you, they were just another person. The responsibility you lit in their future flung them to greater heights and you can is be grateful.

In conclusion, if you’re scared you’re not alone in that. We’re all scared. Fear is good. It is only through fear, discomfort and pressure that we can find grace. Feed grace and starve cowardice.

Unfaithfully Yours, Peanut