Jason's blog

Headaches again. But you break through them. Your timing is amazing.

Tu me manques.

And as is so often the case, a single choice has altered my course forever.

And as is so often the case when I play chess, I have in the light of hindsight, clearly made the wrong choice.

How was I to know? How could I have possibly foreseen the One. That magical, almost mythical One.

I spent most of my life a cynic. A grumpy, crunchy cynic. Never believing in love. Not deep love anyway. Not love like all those artists painted, or wrote about or sang about.

No, that was all nonsense. Would still be nonsense if not for you.

Some days I have fleeting thoughts of , "Oh god why couldn't it all go back to being nonsense?"

Those are the thoughts that come when I ache beyond my ability to express it. I ache to touch. Hold. Caress.

I had thought there would be a refuge from feeling in the headaches. Or at least a different kind of feeling that would take my focus.

And yet, even at this moment, when the pounding and drilling and fire all rage in my skull, you pierce through it all with a white-hot brilliance. I am again transfixed by your single point of light.

I see more clearly than ever that there will be no release from this. And forever seems hardly enough time to spend captive to it.

Time and distance has done nothing to alter or quell the storm inside.

It is a simple truth of life that if you stick your hand in the blender, it will get blended.
Unless you unplug the blender before you put your hand in it.
If you even have a blender.
Why don't you have a blender? I have a blender. I never use it to blend my hands but I have one. So I could blend my hands if I wanted to.
Which I don't. Are you nuts? Blending your hands? You could only do it well once. All the times after that you'd just be mashing at the buttons with your mangled hands.
I have no idea why my mind goes where it does.

I hate mail.

That is all.

Tell me that you want to dance
I want to feel your pulse on mine
Just treat me like a stolen glance
To yourself

A dark shape on a golden floor
A sleeping planet with a molten core
From above we'd cut a slow eight shape
And much more

I'm a peasant in your princess arms
Penniless with only charm
As we're leveled by the low, hot lights
And disarmed

I'm not afraid of anything even time
It'll eke away at everything but we'll be fine

I'm folded in the bread you made
You're cold until my body bathes
You in the heat I kept aside
All these days

I'm not afraid of anything even time
It'll eke away at everything but we'll be fine