May We?

My Monthly Aresian Horoscope

March 21 - April 19

Aries is about Orange and Apple Juice. Its about making a fool of yourself but then dusting the dirt off and stepping right into your natural tempo. Its an older gentleman saying you have a "walk" and remarking that no one can talk to you while you walk 'cause you seem so far away even if you were standing right next to the person. Spring is the season that seasons you, adds flavor and compliments your taste to create an original note on the palette. Spring is one long Valentines Day, four months of a truly New Year. March or April should be the first month of the year, other countries know the deal, a year should begin with Spring not the climax of Winter. Today will be Wednesday, day of Mercury, messengers, Miercoles, words exchanged, hints noted.

Observe

Stranger, When We Meet

by AE Paulino

I rode the train back home

and couldn't keep my eyes off my reflection,

this always happens--

obsessed, I have to know how I look

moment to moment, stop to stop,

the subtle changes in who I am,

glass acrossly framed, tells me

in transparent summary;

There's no time to meet

the attractive eyes of a stranger,

the jealous, the nervous, or the curious--

No, no, there's no room on that glass

where I'm strange enough for me,

jealous enough, nervous, and by every mean--

curious.

I know some can see my amazement,

my fascination, my subject;

I worry they think me two dimensionally vain

but, only for a slight second's fraction--

before I notice how such a thought

shapes my face, gives it character,

establishes a reserved countenance

of satisfied disappointment, paranoid trust,

of discorded agreement with the fellow

in the glass who, for a second's fraction

did not mirror my vision--

and like a director to an unprepared actor,

I function it my privilege

to extract that performance;

for myself and the strangers

That Sound in the Background

My Monthly Aresian Horoscope

March 21 - April 19

I could be a serial killer. It isn't the violence or the regard and respect for life that stops me. I stop me only from that last reserve of fear, a reservoir in fact, abundantly holding the thirst at bay, there is no thirst to go further so long as that fear holds me there.

I know perfectly well what would happen past that point. The thrill of acting out that desire, that freedom after drilling out of that fettering inhibition. How fulfilling to finish that which the mind initiates. How proud, how greatly satisfied, magnificently palliated even, as if it were from an ailment I were temporarily dismissed of; as it were it not rather from an ailment I was dismissed towards.

I could be a serial killer.

That first time would not be enough. Nothing is of a lasting duration, everything slips away or the memory becomes insufficient, I'm left a drunk sucking liquor off ice cubes. My thirst will not silence any less when that reservoir shrinks to a puddle. And that first time is all it takes to dry the reserve to half its inhibition. In its place, in the negative space, the half-empty, what plays in its stead is a dare, a thrilling, exciting dare that is always new, that displays for the first time for all to see what's there at the bottom of that man made lake. Fear becomes mud. One doesn't regularly drown in mud only gets himself dirtied. And in the mud there are two types of people, those who get partially dirtied and must become clean right there and then, and then there are those who don't see the difference between being a bit dirty and going further.

I have an obsessive personality, that is, I obsess and form habits easily. Given the amount of happiness or temporary pleasure I derive from certain activities I could become addicted no sooner than once after losing my virginity to that activity. It all takes nothing more than that first step past the last reserve of fear.

I could be a serial killer.

I'd repeat again and again, there's no reason as to why I should stop besides boredom. Even if I wanted to stop, if the personal satisfaction outweighed the personal discomfort afterwards, I wouldn't. The personal discomfort would probably be momentarily silenced by the next exorcising of the haunting act itself. This would become the final surviving bliss I'd be capable of, perhaps even suitable for.

Yet, all this said and nothing done as the reservoir is ever so faithfully obliging to that thirst. I am only a coward and can only empty the literary correspondent to that reserve through words. This isn't enough, its all a matter of how much you are aware of this fact, it isn't enough.