Mind Control

Beware the path of instant dread,

That easy stream inside your head.

Red herrings swoop and plague your brain,

“What could be? Is it me?

Conclusions falling cold as rain.

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Infant thoughts so soft and small,

While waiting longer for a call.

Clawing, scratching, desperate plea.

“What to do? Not a clue!”

Don’t follow your anxiety.

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Quenching thoughts of self destruction,

Will your way to their disruption.

Avoid the fall into the view,

“It’s all done! I’m no one!”

And choose to think anew.

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All you do is all you can,

Your mind’s direction needs a plan,

To stop the worry based on myth.

“I was true. Tomorrow’s new.”

Control the voices you live with.

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Written by Randall Evans

It’s The End of the Day, Shoes Off!

It’s the end of the day, shoes off!
But, in the bed you lie,
When an itch, starts itching, on your foot.
Something hurts and can’t be good
On your feet all day you stood,
But the itch was feeling shy.

It’s the end of the day, shoes off!
It starts to hurt a bit.
Friction through your sock so tight,
See that this is man’s delight.
That when his pain is brought to light,
He hasn’t got the wit.

It’s the end of the day, shoes off!
A little bit of blood.
The foot stings a little more,
It’s a pain now standing on the floor.
More than what it was before,
Stinging welling like a flood.

It’s the end of the day, shoes off!
Why’d the pain start then?
Buried in a confined space.
A pain that start’s late in the race,
Waits ‘till dusk to show it’s face,
But on the base of men.

It’s the end of the day, shoes off!
I want to shout at you!
Don’t scratch me when it’s late.
See to me when I don’t ache
Hidden pain controls your fate,
Fix me well before I’m due.

Written By Randall Evans

This was a new rhythm for me inspired by “Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?” By Thomas Hardy 1913

He Makes Us Laugh !

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The clown’s mask drips down his cheeks, but he has no face paint on. Sitting under a lamp in the corner of a lonely street his mind wanders. The waters rise from his heart to his head, making it impossible to get up and walk home.

This man, this, ‘clown’, spends his time exchanging laughter for pain. People want him around. They lean on him, laugh with him and seek him for comfort.

Everyday he cuts off small pieces from his body and gives it to whoever’s in need. Everyday he becomes more and more… empty. He gives what he wants to receive, yet he doesn’t know how to receive what he gives.

He can’t stay above the surface of the water, because the flood is within himself.

Is there ever balance in life? Is the emotional landscape like the rolling waves? Does the happiness that crashes on the shore eventually have to flush out through the rip tide into the sea?

The man, the clown, the ocean, stands up in the lonely street. He doesn’t stand straight like a hero on a mission. He doesn’t stand defeated like a man who’s lost it all. He stands in his pain with his eyes closed.

He applies his mental face paint.

Another man walks past. Concerned he asks, “Are you alright?”

The clown looks him in the eye.

“No. I’m not alright. I have a left hand as well.”

This is The Vile Mint

Written By Randall Evans

Invisible Pain

Invisible pain is rarely invisible. It comes in the form of slammed doors, raised voices or the sounds of a speeding engine traveling far away.

The thought may surface that making logic of emotional hurt is what does the most damage. For if we had no mind, we wouldn’t mind. It’s the process of attempting to make sense of a situation that has no solution that drives the knives deeper into the chest. It’s these logical pathways that plants the seeds of frustration.

The never ending search for an answer to illogical situations drives one insane. Every internal  argument starting with the phrase, “I just don’t get it!”

Solutions to this blackhole of despair is what should interest us, but it doesn’t. Depression and anger, anger most of all, is addictive. Exhausting, yes, but addictive. As I write this with the tone of a pretensions upperclass professor who has never experienced real pain, my fingers shake with uncontrollable ferocity that results from uncontrolable emotion. I like it.

Your blood boils. You feel like riping up everything in your life and bringing it all back to zero. If anyone dare look at me, their blood with pave the streets beneath me!

Pause.

Press the pause button for fuck’s sake.

Solutions is what we should be interested in. The logical solution is that there is no solution.

Indeed, back to professor tone.

To make logic of emotional pain is illogical, but the logic that it’s illogical is logical. Does this open up new ways of coping with the situation? How do we act?

I guess we are forgetting the main problem; Humans are illogical creatures. Illogical creatures must make illogical decisions and experience illogical pain and pass that pain off to others.

Where does this leave us? Do we have any choice in our reactions? Are we snowflakes? Unique from each other in appearance only, but doomed to freeze and fall without any say in the matter? I’d rather melt.

Sometimes I wish to react on instinct and go out in a blaze of glory, but I (think) I know better. I know the boring way.

Put as much time ahead of your reaction as possible. As you can see, this time sparked the initial question. Does creating logic around an emotional pain do more harm than good?

Perhaps internalising creates self pain, externalising creates pain in others. Either way, the pain must be felt somehow.

Did you feel it through this post? I wonder…

– By Randall Evans.

Pluto

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Did you know that there’s a mysterious place far beyond our reach? A place we once knew, but that keeps us, (and itself) in the dark.

It was once defined, but then forgotten. Who were we to demote a planet? Insignificant specks on earth pointing our fingers outward.

But it was waiting. Suspended in the dark.

Suppression.

You though you were in control. But now she rises! In plain sight she destroys everything you though you knew, everything you though you were.

Pluto is emotion.

It’s the undefined emotional current that streams through us all. It hides away until we forget it exists. It hides away, alone.

We once dismissed her, we called her small and insignificant.

But, now we know.

It’s what we have always known. The deepest voice inside ourself. The deepest breath that was once so audible, only a whisper amongst white noise, is now screaming.

Screaming.

What does your pluto scream?

– By Randall Evans.

Joshologue #2

There are too many elephants in my room.

I’m talking to myself again. The fact that we have two ears and one mouth means that what we say about ourselves is amplified exponentially until it explodes in our minds. The feedback of actualization.

Part of the reason I talk to myself is to hear my own voice. I know that must sound strange, but that’s how our voices sound when we hear them; Strange. Haven’t you ever heard your voice on a recording and asked, ‘Is that what I sound like?’

I bet you can’t even remember the last time you heard your own voice when no one else could.

After listening to myself I realized that my voice doesn’t belong to me.

The voices are coming from the elephants.

The speak on my behalf as I rush to cover them with hay. The more I hide them, the bigger they become.

When I try to hide things about myself I become like a drunk man trying to present himself sober to enter a bar. What I’m hiding becomes obvious.

But then the people watching ask the most important question of all:

“Why does he want to be in the bar so desperately?”

– By Randall Evans.