Kaiden Blake

I apologize for typos/grammatical issues -- this was a free-write & I'm on the borderline of developing a sporadic case of narcolepsy, so I'll edit later.

A cacophony of thoughts have been ricocheting throughout my brain for quite some time. A slug of a process to devour, never truly vacationing in the bowels of the beast. My nagging thoughts lived vicariously through an alarm clock on a particular morning my bones resented the idea of propelling forward. The songbirds outside summoned me to the surface - a clamor of lucid dreams.

Time to replenish the aesthetics. I'll pay particularly close attention to the bleach being applied to my roots, erasing the traces of normality. To some, this is the process of destruction - planting a deadly fertilizer and waiting coyly for it to seep into the brain. As time ensues, brain cells will become stagnant, writhing in the darkest corners in the mind. Who will exorcise these victims?

Some see this process as a guilty pleasure, made guilty by society. A delicacy for the butterflies thriving in the pit of your stomach. However, thou who shalt eat candy without remorse will be subjected to a foreign concept plastered across the top of a scale. Who decided to manufacture such devices to bring such anxietude to an individual?

My roots are snow white and my seven dwarves are figuratively sitting on either side of my shoulder, not behaving. Three and a half are pleading with me to enter a grey area which happens to specialize in irony, containing a bombardment of blue. The other three and a half are swaying their index fingers in front of me as if they've all been cordially invited to a prestigious ball. A jury cannot be cast, due to one stubborn dwarf whom insists on being split down the middle; he cannot choose a side of the argument solely out of mere obligation alone. The other dwarves are offering him super glue, because they've heard Humpty Dumpty was able to get back up from off of the ground with an easy fix. Or so they heard. There is always a simple answer - a simple solution, they muse.

I went ahead and decided to conceal the white with an extra-rich shade of electric blue. It would compliment one half of my mood. One half of society. Oh, but their eyes will be sugarcoated. A film of confectioner sugar blossoming from the the iris.

How can one exist at opposite sides of the spectrum at once, yet not at all?

I danced around the figurines on this carousel for long enough. Just like the fixture at a carnival, some horses are rooted to the ground, while others are more buoyant. I can't be drenched in ex's and o's any longer, while retaining the statuesque bobblehead demeanor.

I am able to dream, to think, to bask in the great heights of euphoria, but there's a predicament: I like cupcakes. I have blue hair, my style is eccentric, dubbed as "scene" by "them," who "they" can never pin-point. I love pop culture, and adorn my body with articles of clothing and accessories that should have been branded upon my six year old body. The lack of ability in being able to thoroughly grow up as a "child" in my childhood has impaired me subconsciously to regress back to old ways, which in reality aren't old at all. They're new.

Trends will come knocking on our doorsteps, trying to sell us the newest recipe. We'll contemplate, sometimes giving in until "they" recall the one hit wonders that will end up reserved upon the shelves in a museum only to reoccur. Showcasing the end of a chapter which is never fully written.

I exist solely to exist. I have always retained my best interests at hand, but I succumbed. I kept running to either end of the spectrum to please "them." If I was a writer, a thinker, a dreamer,  I had to be represented in vacated shambles. There was no color for such a colorful mind. If I took photos with a few of my "guilty" pleasures (again, made "guilty" by "them") then the respect I was showered with previously was suddenly revoked.

Hence, the unseen scene.

Can the two really not co-exist? Must one be entirely vacant and glazed over, lacking the ability to connect the dots in the form of logistics and psychobabble? Must one really be extravagant, yet wear a mask of a sullen individual? Welcome to the paradox.

I solemnly swear to not buckle down in the center of this balance beam. Gymnastics in the form of flatlining have never appealed to me; I would rather pull the plug and short circuit, savoring the livewire for myself.

I will continue to enjoy the aesthetics that I genuinely am partial to, and they will no longer be "guilty." My desire is justification enough. I will continue to allow myself to deter away from the silent wallflower that never quite blooms, just to please the current state of the season.

"Love" is dubbed as the term that is thrown around loosely, but in reality, it's respect. Respect is convenient. Respect is given to those individuals who are close enough in the mind for the sender to deem them fit enough for tangibility. Rarely is respect stretched, morphed - malleable.

Cheers to philosophy flavored frosting cupcakes & notoriety in the form of neon intellect.

- Kaiden
xo