MacKenzie, on a whim

the sad fact of the matter is we have failed each other both becoming exactly what we feared most, what we knew about each other all along, the reason we pretend to have never known. because pretending not to know hurts less than knowing the plain truth: we have forsaken each other's trust in the worst way possible to the opposite individual.  i don't blame you, i can't blame you because i am just as guilty yes, i failed you. if I could regret, I would regret hurting you i forgot about you, as you had forgotten me so that nothing i was doing was to you, had nothing to do with you, i convinced myself you didn't exist at least in this, my, world. then i heard you singing and the weight of the world fell upon my chest strapping your grey t shirt to me, ripping everything open finally i could feel you again, in that way i could only feel you in our silence, in-between the electromagnetic waves of us you were real again how did...

Michael Muller

Happy Thanksgiving, pumpkin pancakes for breakfast in a foreign, dirty ass house. An angel let me sleep in her bed last night and I got a full night's sleep for once. Now we're miles away, stranded, once again, with the scent of chlorine and coffee. What am I thankful for this year? It's my most thankful year yet. I haven't stopped yelling it from the top of my lungs since the Bay of Islands. That was a year ago, huh? You and I, flannel clad in the rain, completely alone on the opposite side of the world. Then and now. Well, thank you more please for everything; the places we've seen, strangers we've loved, lands we've grounded ourselves on, support systems and the mattresses on the floor. But mostly thanks for you and me, for unrequited love and laughing at every misfortune that comes our way. Thank you for brushing it off your shoulders, for the package that saved our lives that lonely week, the emails I came home to. Thank you for showing me who you reall...

Congratulations, you have figured out the perfect formula for seeming too cool and uninterested to make everyone around you feel like shit. You've learned how to control a situation by just not giving any fucks at all; you suck the soul out of those around you who are trying desperately to seem just as cool, calm, collected, uninterested as you seem. Sounds like a deep, deep pool you swim in. You must be doing flips. What a satisfying life you must lead, always putting up a front, explaining that you simply just don't have that much going on up there. WOW, the girls must be begging to get into your sheets. Not her, not us. We want to get into your head, into your heart. But that's too much to ask, god forbid anyone actually know you. Why don't you try a real conversation on for size? Would it clash too much with your Hawaiian shirt and striped shorts? It's not fuckin' rad.

Hello old friend of a feeling, it's been a while since we've met. Time to pack everything up, this time though, we're leaving some things behind. I promise we'll be back, how many times have I said that. Yesterday in the fields of music and youth the sun shone on my face and it was all so far away. Today, wake up, smell the chemical coffee and start packing up, throwing out, gearing up. Smoke a ciggie out front with Alex and my hands are shaking. It's probably time to eat some breakfast. One week left here? Goodbye to the insane asylum, drunkards in the back yard smoking and speaking words I don't understand. Their eyes are piercing and they scare me. So here we go. I got this, I think. The calm before the storm is over, we're about to enter the eye. It's the moon, the sun, and the sky. Sometimes I wonder if my strength is a facade, a trick I'm subconsciously playing on myself. I am completely unaware and in control at the same time. Technology has...

Shake It Out demo

A postcard arrived in the mail today; beautiful words laced with love in tiny script. Like the many I have packed in a shoebox in my childhood bedroom. She read the words out loud and I heard your voice rattling that shoebox, spilling your soul to me from miles away again in my bedroom, in my mind, reminders of the silence we share Again I heard the words a foreign tongue speaking to someone else. Slowly, I was the dusty shoe box, filled with the emptiness of you, stuffed to the brim with my own silence. I see photographs of your face - I can hardly believe you're still real. You are but a character from a story I'm not even reading anymore

People are always telling me I think too much about things. Like there's some magical switch in my brain I can turn off, like my thinkometer can reach a certain level and all of the sudden my mind will shut down and think about nothing, or something else entirely. I guess I try to believe that you are in complete control of your thoughts at all times, but are you in complete control of how much you think them? I'm not sure I understand how I'm supposed to not think about things so much, or why I'm supposed to not think about them so much. Maybe you should think about things a bit more, did you ever think of that? Maybe thinking so much isn't a bad thing, maybe it's no better than not thinking at all though. Do most people not think a lot? Does it make me strange to think? To say conversations are beautiful and to want to know people's innermost thoughts? What else are we here to do? Human beings are the most incredible species in the world because we have th...

I've become quite fond of my spot on the bed. The internet connection is strongest there, right on my bedside table, below photographs of all of us as children. I can see the corner of Bridge Road from my spot, there are a few trees, some oddly placed palm trees outside of the window. From here, I see endless airplanes arrive and take off. I imagine the people on those airplanes, where they are going, how happy they are to arrive here, the tricks their minds have played on them by creating false pretenses of what this island should be. The sun falls with the night, making room for a moon that's been visible all day. Shadows lie on the tree canopies, warmth fades from the building facades, another plane goes by. As the minutes pass, I get closer and closer to my favorite part of the day, soon she will be home, we will fill this room with smoke and words, the scent of 5 dollar vegetable curry from down the road. Not much longer until she arrives but in the mean time, here I sit, ...

(artwork by Adonna Khare )