To understand something, I tend to turn towards the moments that something breaks. Breaking points teach a lot: you get a grasp of its limits, and in turn what it can do; how each parts fit together, grasping what makes it click; and it is easier to peer past the exterior, in order to observe the machinations inside.

I have learned a lot about myself, this way.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

I move too slow for time. It will not listen, it will not yield
My feet drag behind me in the cleft of weaving moments. Time can not listen, Time cannot yield.
I shout my frustration, condemning each future or past moment with one of my present.
Time has no ears. Time has no blame.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Wash your hands for 30 seconds.

To seek closure, to complete what has been started and connect the pieces of a puzzle, a goal which to many are inherent. There is a joy to discovery, heightened by said discovery's need. To hunt is to discover and conquer sources of sustenance, a necessity. Once closure has been found in a hunt, we are left with the spoils. A hunt gratifies mind and body, the spoils sates ones needs. But a puzzle, has less to offer.

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It arrived on my doorstep a few nights ago. I have yet to touch it, yet to acknowledge. It is easier for me to let it lie, let all take its course, to step around the threshold when I am needed outside. Or, to simply stay home, to stay away from the world it came from. Perhaps it is best to leave it be.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Sometimes days take too long to process. And I start going over it in my head again and again, until it is long into the next day, and there is even more to digest. Eventually there is so much I power down, and reset to a blank slate to catch up with myself. But then it happens again.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

They say the spirits whisper,
on cold days by the fountain,
about a lonesome spirit wisher,
their existence debated, uncertain.

She once held claims of her own,
and many did she berate,
but now in the dump she's thrown,
those who believe it, do relate.

But the whispers aren't lasting,
their memories... are passing.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Once devoted, now deceased. And yet devotion outlives the devoted, as it does the cause. There is safety in the sensation, the belief of purpose and belonging, stronger than that of words or motivation.
It forges and tempers effort, though has long since lost the control over its subjects.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

When time slows to a crawl,
where to can you go at all?
If every moments last a life,
when is there time for fun and vice?
Whence hours die and seconds come to rest,
You will discover your patience put to the test.

Happy Vore Day~.

Relief is said to come when you alleviate your ties, the tension eases and your mind unwinds. Perhaps that is so, but were I to listen, I would relinquish all that my mind is tied to. If I untie one know, who is to say it won't undo them all? And if not, who's the say the next knot won't? Or the next? Or the next?

Perhaps I have already sunken too deep. Perhaps I have made it unattainable to myself, perhaps it doesn't matter.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Closure is, perhaps, only a word.
One which is brought up and spoken to highly,
for the merits it provide is lauded as the sole justice.
But in the end, closure brings little joy.
It is a word, that has to exist.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Passion demands sacrifice. Sacrifice which makes itself known in time, investments, or devotion. They are core to passion, for passion is not static, passion exists in the moment it is paid tribute to.

Happy Clean Filthy Friday~.

Floating in silence. There is no embrace to catch you, nor bottom to reach. Falling was lost on you long ago, the sense integrating to your thoughts, your sensations, to your routine. Perpetual. That is how your mind sees it. That is how you make your mind see it. The thing with falls. Is that there is always a bottom.

Happy Filthy Black Friday~.

Thoughts malign affect those close,
expression wry and worries rose.
Infectious is the thought of ill,
inviting by mystery and promise of thrill.
Soon one thought has turned for the worst,
and the subject in question, afflicted and cursed.

Wishing you all a Happy Filthy Friday~.

I took part in a Pony Vore art-pack, if you an find my other profiles, you can find it. Happy new year.

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There was a little circuit man,
Welded from the scraps of cards.
They built up themselves as a handy man,
Improving to escape the junkyard.

But all time spent upgrading,
oblivious to his trading,
the times which he could cherish,
for the date to which he'd perish.

Happy Clean Filthy Friday~.

Where does everything go when there is too much of it?
Some articles of life appears easier to ignore the larger of a quantity there is. Perhaps it relates to the forest, stocked with trees and yet we rarely pay attention to particular trunks. Would then the best way to ignore something, to expose yourself to it, until it was no longer part of your conscious intake?
Perhaps that is a way addiction starts.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Keep on the lookout for a new artpack.

Always comfortable to know that I have access to the backdoor. That whatever dreadful occasions take place in the bow, there remains an alternative, a space of safety to indulge in when all goes poorly. As long as I don't lose the key, that is.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Poison and medicine overlap. A poison, in a small dose, functions as a medicine. Whilst a medicine, in a large dose, functions as a poison. Do you see it? In a sense, a factor of whether a substance qualifies as poison or medicine, lies in its amount. It is said not to take too much of a good thing, in the same vein, a small amount of poison, need not necessarily cause harm.

Happy Twin Month, and happy Filthy Friday~.

Results are often the boring part of an endeavor: they signify an end. The culmination of work, time, effort, and planning. Yet, once you arrive at the results it is over. What do you do next? Listen to the world provide you feedback? What for? So you can begin your next journey towards a result.
Another Journey.
Another Wait.
Another one.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

We bounce, between the real and the unreal, between the worlds nourished by unconcsious and those fed the impressions we decypher from the world at large. Clockworks threading towards their chime, is never heard. Every other tick, is mystery, every other tock, is waking. A blend of the natural and unreal. Yet, to a clock, all seconds chime the same.

Happy Filthy Friday~.