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We looked inside some of the posts by kai-sija and here's what we found interesting.
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15K
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8K
Reblog Per Post
6K
Reply Per Post
8
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2 months
Number of Posts By Type
Text
13
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1
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Text
Reiterate
Everything has changed to the point of return. Regardless, spring is always melancholic. I mourn losing last year to the freeze, born again to relive the cycle. I write the same damn things again and again, perpetuating the endless loop of unoriginal introspection, locked in the navel-gaze.
The beer foam tastes like banana and long walks home on a crisp night. The asphalt smells like rain. Now, the cherry trees' dark bark stands striking against white blossoms and a grey sky. It’s all raining and green, it’s all blue-washed with grey skies, yet the cracks in my living room wall deepen. I cannot bring myself to read the writing of others or rally myself out of bed. I lose my voice. I hide in the library stacks. I yearn for keys I cannot touch (for the door, for music, for locked-up boxes). I hope writing will bring me peace, but I fail to pick up the pen.
Reiterate.
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bloodshed in vivo
In the chrysalis, the two beings—unknowingly once one— fought with vitriol. Parts of the evolved me mingled with, twisted, occluded the primitive. They both wanted to survive; they both wanted to become me. Only one would crawl out, raw and renewed, into the stinging air of life.
As they fought, elements of me cut deep, supplanted by pieces of me taken from the other. I became a collage, a resurrection, caught between the two sides and construed into something else, something worse. Unfocused, reduced to clouded eyes and occluded thoughts. I go through motions, and I mourn the girl we killed, the girl who killed her, and the girl who never was. I try to find myself in quiet moments, in graffiti and the rumble of the city. A bitter black coffee and an eavesdropped conversation. I kick over stones, looking for traces of her long-gone essence. Suspended between the supposed rock and a hard place. I walk the line and then walk it again, unaware that falling from grace wouldn’t be too bad after all.
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Plate 2 of ‘Urizen’: ‘Teach these Souls to Fly’, Tate Museum, William Blake, ~1796.
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a dyad of found poems
Merely Fiction
It is December.
Our fiction passed
though not in despair, illicit.
(Consider us forsaken, forbidden)
I begin as always:
harking back to last summer.
Compressions into its chest
attempting to reinvigorate the time.
My memories war against
the projections of my nostalgia.
Sympathy for lost times.
***
Sense of the Present
The girl lives with others, deeply
unconnected.
Voices, scenery, the starving
— a lot of Scotch.
"Some of us are Gray"
they say.
She worries, she teaches;
figuratively, not literally
Furrowing her brow,
a proud supporter of inaction.
She cannot see past her nose,
blind to what exists beyond.
She misses the point of it all:
The past and the future are one
and lovers aren't congruent.
They remain alive only in conversation:
First, as velvet, then, as the richness of
Heaven.
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Figs
“I wonder why their figs
are bigger than ours.”
–Uranium?
“From the bombings.”
He laughed.
I laughed.
Snow settled on my grandmother’s lawn,
the cherry trees lost their leaves.
The figs grew dormant.
The firewood high-stacked,
the water, undrinkable.
My fingertips,
cold;
the fig, rubber between my teeth.
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There’s a woman who walks between wakefulness and sleeping: Delirium. She's neither old nor young, kind or evil ... she's a boundless being of disorder. You think it’s nighttime when she creeps in, holding your hand fast to her chest. You can feel her warm, staccato breath on your ear. But when the morning light breaches the window, her hair glows a spectacular fiery auburn, the most striking you'll ever damn see. You try and you fail to save yourself from her grasp, but she’s always there. All you know, all you'll ever know, is she's fucking beautiful.
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Horses.
Our "self" refracts our perception of the physical world through our existence in its scheme. Each person perceives a given subject differently. Wherein I see horses, others see flowers or birds. If I see horses when others do not, does that make me delusional or more observant? No, it simply makes me see horses. We all perceive ourselves in relation to how others perceive us, providing us a thousand lenses to peer through. It is our burden to seek "the good" -- our horses -- as we transiently drift.
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7-14-23 | Notes on Suhail Malik's "Nihilism and Life: Cosmobiology and Ontopoiesis in Heidegger’s Nietzsche"
"The body feels the "throng of sensations", and through internal and external stimulus, it indicates the chaos of whatever it encounters, creating the living perception …The body is "in" the chaos, "is" the chaos", or, at least, it is of chaos." (Pearson et al. 96)
The body is an example of a chaotic system, albeit proximately balanced and homeostatic. In my rationale, the body hosts the psychological and the physiological in two interlinked yet separated 'houses'. However, let's consider these chaotic reactions as an emotional response. Chaos can exist far more unbounded within the mind, forcing the body in on itself, constructing a labyrinth of thought with unending possibilities. (We can consider these internal possibilities when looking at case studies conducted by therapists, each unique). Such reasoning explains rash decisions, reactions, and ideas; mentalities such as nihilism or depression. Is our response to stimulus always chaotic (e.g. fight, flight, freeze), even if it is calculated? Are we, frankly, perpetuating chaos? If we are chaos and produce chaos, is the world not chaotic? Then, is there such a concept as order, or more realistically: 'acceptable' chaos? This can keep upending itself, so I digress…
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