Don’t Pet the Sweaty Things

You can stare at the fingerprints on the edge of your rocks glass until they mean something.

You can look at the patterns the light leaves inside your closed eyelids. You can sit and sulk and daydream about things being other than how they are. You can wish you’d done better. Been a better person. Tried harder, or tried something different. You can dwell on all the things that are not, while ignoring the things that are.

You certainly can. I know I have. I’ve gotten very good at it. Too good, I fear.

I know, I know… It’s been a while. A very long while since the last time I’ve written anything here. As a young man, just shy a quarter of a century, it’s hard to believe I’m able to say that I used to write a lot. I’ve written poems and songs and essays and short stories. I’ve written a whole novel, a complete first draft, that I’ve ignored for months. I used to act, too. Lots of plays, funny and sad- Improv too. Hell, I used to do stand up comedy. I opened for someone currently on Saturday Night Live, what seems like a lifetime ago.

Very few men my age get to say such things. Not that it is any sort of blessing. It may only mean that the peak was too soon. That it’s all been used up. That there is nothing left. It may mean that, but I certainly hope is does not. The younger man I used to be most definitely does not. But he might have been better than I am.

Yet…

If there is one thing I was brought up to despise, it is a pity parade. And even with the sacrifices made, willing or otherwise, I am here, at this very particular moment in time. I hold my baggage, as do you, if you happen to be bored enough to read this.

Sensationalism was never my forte, and I cannot pull myself to do a “top ten things that 20 somethings feel about blah, blah blabbity blah”. You know, that shit websites love to pick up and litter across your social media addiction. I won’t be reposted by Huffpo, or Buzzfeed or anything of the sort. I won’t even be reposted by my friends, most likely. Maybe a dozen people will read this. Maybe less. Maybe no one. But I don’t write because it helps other people. I write because it helps me.

A year, and a few days. That’s the last time anything new was published to this lonely blog narrated by a boy struggling to learn how to be a man. A year ago was a different world. My hair was longer and my eyes had seen less than the ones resting in my skull now. I wasn’t obliged to do much for anyone unless I felt the inclination. Not now.

Now it’s my job. It’s my job to help people, strangers, in whatever we’re called for. That would be myself and the men I work with. We never know when the tones go off, and it doesn’t matter what we were doing. All that sound means, is that it is time to go. But that is my profession. That is how I earn my living.

Further than that, is even more profound. Further than that is the only thing that will really matter to me. You see, in a few days, everything will change. In a few days, really at any moment, I will be a father.

Pardon me, that took a moment. I needed another sip and stare at the fingerprints upon my glass. Fingerprints that leave behind DNA. The same sort of stuff that has been brewing another person. A person who is part me, though I hope she will be spared all of my poor qualities, as many as they might be. But I’m not here to talk about her. I won’t speculate about her, as she is not here yet. And I will not talk about circumstances, as they are not business of yours.

Just know that while you read this. To those who are parents, I am only on the cusp of understanding. To those who are not, know that it is not something that you cannot even pretend to understand. Just be grateful if your parents were good to you. And if they weren’t, know that it is the largest burden that our species faces and it is most certainly not for everyone.

But that is enough about that.

I don’t know exactly why this was the moment I chose to write again. It may be desperation. It may be that the time is right to reinvigorate the lost passion. I cannot say for sure. Yet, I am writing just the same.

I don’t have the answers. If you were hoping I did, I apologize. I don’t know if anyone does, but everyone has their own slice of the universe. We all have our own lives. Our own pasts and presents and futures. We mat share many of those, but no one shares them completely. Our singularity may be a curse, but it is the one thing that makes us undeniably human.

I hate to leave this so vague, but I cannot truthfully give you anything more specific. I will keep trying. I will try and keep the promise that I made to a young man who shares the skin I’ve worn down. But all I can do is try, as that is all any of us can do.

If anyone told you they have the answer they are a liar. If they told you that they didn’t know, know that they told the truth. I will try and write again. I cannot guarantee that it will be worth reading. I will guarantee that I will try and make it worth your while.

Until next time.

capandme

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In Five Years Time

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves. – Shakespeare

 

Five years.

Half a decade, sixty months, 5% of a century or how every you would like to represent it numerically. It doesn’t matter. Humans like seeing patterns and five just seems to scream its aesthetic value to us.

From the past, the future of five years seemed vast and never ending. Go ahead and ask yourself where you were five years ago- physically and metaphysically. What were you doing? Your plans? Your friends? Who did you admire, crush on, love or hate? Where did you live? What did you know?

In five years, who has lived and died? Who has gone from your life without kicking the bucket? Who got kicked out? Who did you trust? Did you think God was still there? Is he now?

What’s happened around you? Where has the world gone? What’s changed? Have you?

I have. Or at least, I believe that I have.

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I must have since five years ago I’d never seen a naked girl in person. Five years ago I had just written my first short story and an open mic was just a daydream of the future, let alone doing 15 minutes opening for a member of Saturday Night Live.

I had never touched a cigarette aside from hiding or throwing out my mother’s. I never hosted a radio show aside from that one my best friend and I made up in 1st grade on those bus rides home. We would pretend to be callers with names like Seymour Butts and would sing the songs ourselves. We I’m famous, this will be seen as brilliant. As of now, it seems like I should have been medicated as a child.

I couldn’t grow a mustache and had never worn a real kilt. I hadn’t fallen in love with and on St. Patrick’s Day. I hadn’t walked down a Brooklyn street with a freshly broken heart at 5am, Tom Waits singing in my ears and whiskey and beer heavy on my breath.

I couldn’t wait to turn 18. Now I can’t believe I’m going to be 23. In five more years, I’ll probably have a crisis about how close 30 is. In 100 years, I’ll hopefully be dead. You probably will be too. We could be dead in five but I hope that’s less likely.

Four of the past five trips around the sun were the best and last years I had ever spent in school. The last five years I feel I had learned more about myself than in the previous seventeen. That may just be perspective, but from where I’m looking I can see more of those years than anything predating them.

We hope that each year makes us stronger and smarter. And by we, I mean me. And by me, I mean I have seen things in the last split decade that were never anything but fantasy prior. That includes the tragedies, traumas and downfalls just as much as those grand and glorious glimpses at bliss. I want to say that the happy times will last longer than the bad, but those revelations regarding mortality I’ve had will hang around until I’m facing down my own, I’d imagine. Some things can’t be forgotten, even if it would be better to let them go.

For now, I work at the college that I recently graduated from. They had the first new student orientation today and yesterday and as the go-to A/V guy on campus, my participation was forced for the sake of microphones and video presentations. These young men and women are of the same age and generation of a few of the kids I used to teach karate to. To me, I saw mostly young slutty girls and dopey, dipshit young men. I don’t figure they see themselves as such. They never do.

But when I wore the shoes they find themselves in, a young man, all foolish and doe-eyed was far too excited, wore the same skin wrapped around me now. He was starved of fresh experience. He wanted to dive in head first, smiling a shit-eating grin from ear to ear. And he did. Eat shit, that is.

He ended up getting tossed around by the first current that caught him. Dripping wet with saltwater and hints of blood, I discovered how shallow the water can be at times. You know, like a metaphor and junk.

From there I made a monster, who very much like the one made by Dr. Frankenstein, was adored by his creator. The difference is that lots of other folks seemed to like my monster too. He was charming, talented and good looking- and for a time he was unaware of it. Though that didn’t last and the monster was let loose into the world, some part of that doe-eyed young fool could never die.

He still hasn’t. And although he doesn’t make as many decisions as he used to, he still makes many of the important ones. So perhaps, despite all the thoughts and sights of change, the core remains the same. Or similar, at least. I do hope that some minuscule part of who I was as a young man hangs around for all my days. I wouldn’t want to become totally lost.

But what do I know of time and all it’s comings and goings? I couldn’t even tell you everything that happened yesterday, so forget about what will happen tomorrow.

I don’t know man. Happy birthday, or whatever.

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The Truth (hidden in parenthesis)

I suppose that you could say that I’m jealous and that this is a result of jealousy. But saying such things would be redundant, would it not?

My true self, which is very juvenile in truth, is upset that other people have blogs and get an exponential amount more views than mine ever does. It could be said that such pettiness provokes me now. It could be said that my whole existence is very petty but only because it very much is. It’s not that I thrive on such pettiness. It’s just that when it comes down to it, you consume whatever is available to you. This is what I have, so this is what I’ll end up vomiting out.

This may have to do with my slump which was admitted into existence on a post now a few short ages ago. That post doesn’t have a clever name or any clever tags, so you probably haven’t seen it. If there were any cleverness, it has now worn off as it enters its fourth year of being. It’s tough to shake traditions, just as it is tough to shake habit. Yet then again, those could be seen as the same thing. And there goes me and my redundancy.

Yet my madness has quelled to a point that leaves me with a constant feeling of discomfort. I itch and have been ignoring the obvious reason why. The first step to solving a problem is admitting that you have one. Or so the TV has told me all these years. Just the same, here it is.

I am growing up.

There is no sentence that is more heartbreaking that one and trust me, I’ve tried. Not that I’m changing who I am, I’ve just changed occupations. The days of inconsequence that comes with being a full time student are over. They have been over for a very long time now. It just takes time to adjust. It will take a whole lot more than this, as well. The craving for progress is going to be become entirely insatiable, unless of course, I start doing something about it. This is only an attempt and I would be a liar if I told you that everything was going to start picking up miraculously from here. I’m old enough to know there is no such thing as miracles. There are only stalled tragedies.

But what to be mad about?

There was a pop-scientist who had to debate some moronic individual who swears by a book poorly penned by tribal members of some thousand year old cult and edited by medieval control freaks. My rage builds at the very thought of having to put up with such counter progress but my rage will spark no instant change. A fury could be built by a murderer being promoted to a celebratory status and getting a chance to publicly fist fight over racial in equality for the guise of making a few bucks for some people who don’t have much at all. I could get mad about my government watching my every move on the phone and in cyberspace in order to propel an illusion of freedom. I could get mad about that but I dread being held captive to such specifics.

The trouble with these things (blogs) is the idea that I (we) have the belief that my (our) struggles are unique in some way. I (we) believe that sharing my (our) woes will make things better somehow. I (we) believe that I (we) are alone and that trying to share this loneness will bring about some sort of philosophical revolution.

But.

The truth is, that none of this is true. The truth is, that we (I) are all in this together. The truth is that I (we) may have had a few drinks and not eaten for a few hours.

But.

The truth is that there are those (not me and probably not you) who haven’t eaten in days. Their lives are ravaged by true plagues and not just the fat building around their lower abdomen and a mild discomfort due to the weather. These are things that need fixing and yet so few help without their own gain. Not excluding myself, or most of you for that matter.

Westchester Winter

Sunday Morning Thoughts 5.19.13: 16 Years of Schooling While Waiting for the Day Shift

It’s been awhile. There was a problem for about two months and by this point probably more, about how to start such a thing as this. And as time passed is became more and more difficult to figure how to start this thought experiment up again. I pondered with apologies and explanations but that is all a load of s%&t. And if I may be frank, I’m quite tired of all the s%&t.

What we will do tonight (ignore the title of this being in the morning as I am a notorious liar) is explore ideas. At least I’ll explore ideas that live within my head and you will either have the pleasure or displeasure of reading them. That is up to you. This part that is to follow is up to me. If you don’t like it, tell me. If you don’t want to tell me, kiss my ass. If you don’t want to kiss my ass, then f&@k off. If you don’t want to f&@k off, then I don’t know what to do for you.

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But ideas. Yes! What a grand proposition indeed. I suppose we’ll start with my ideas and we will almost definitely end in the same place. So we exist… or rather, I exist. I really can’t confirm that you do but I am nearly half certain that I do. And in this existence of mine, I have sat around and stood up and paced about, thinking all the damn time about whether what I have come up with will be considered to be nothing by those who come after me. And in a way, I suppose that is my gift to them. The wonder of writing something that took thought is that someone someday will try and prove me wrong. I hope they do.

So back to the point of existence and all the quandaries that come with it. Through half witted observation, the narrator of what you now read has come to realize, in a wonderfully naive way, that this life is clay meant for sculpting. You may not believe it and I may not even believe it myself, but as far as I’ve seen, this world is moldable. At least for some of us. And within this mold we can perceive and shape what we would like our destines to be. This may only be an illusion or it may only be something that a small portion of the species may come to know, but I will argue it as though it were a truth. If it helps you to understand better, make me into a religious leader in your mind. It works because as with most religious leaders, I see the whole thing as a hogwash scam.

The problem may have been that I have thought, all this time, that I am much wiser than I actually am. But to make that a bad thing would imply that wisdom is a good thing. So allow me to refute that idea right now. Wisdom is a point of view forged over layers of patterned experience. Wisdom is really much more like a heavily reinforced ignorance. Those who would be deemed wise often can’t see beyond their own wisdom. As I cannot see beyond my own, or if I do, I’m most certainly missing many of the important bits. So for the purpose of this exercise, let’s toss the idea of wisdom out of the window. Not before I snatch out the important parts that are associated with the idea of wisdom.

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A truly wise man will always tell you that he knows nothing, just the same as a wise woman telling you she knows just as little. And through all of these 16 years of schooling, I have come to believe that I may hold at least the potential for wisdom. The truth, if there is such a horrible thing as the truth, is that we are at our most wise when we first fall from our mother’s twat, screaming and scavenging the world for understanding. When know nothing but the constant search for the feeling of warmth, is when we understand our existence the best. You see, despite all that we (or at least I) like to believe that we know, we really know nothing outside our own existence. We are just barely as a species coming to realize that maybe we are not the greatest creation of the universe. We in very small numbers are starting to see that our god is a c&*t because we created him. In the Christian faith, we are made in the image of god. When really, god is only in our image because it is personification of nature and in order to personify someone, you have to make them a person.

But I grow weary on such discussion, and as narrator, I have the power to change it. And as a selfish being, I will turn the topic over to myself. I’ll keep it vague though, so you can apply any of this that you’d like to yourself.

I still, and perhaps quite foolishly, believe that I am meant to do something in this world that I live that will take it from the horrendous condition it’s in and bring it to at least a slightly better standing. It may just be that the belief of being able to do something is enough to be able to do it. Or maybe, because I am still quite young, that I have been lucky and sooner or later life (as the kids call it) will beat me to pulp. Afterwards, I will be left blank and battered, staring out towards stars that may not even be anymore and find that none of the questions I have brewed have any kind of  answer, nor will they ever. Maybe the questions themselves are the fabrication. Maybe we are the fabrication. Perhaps I myself may be a total figment of the imagination of some other being that goes by some other name just waiting to wake and join the world that is consistent enough to be deemed real.

I suppose that when I break it all down, that if this is a fantasy, it is mine. And I shall do with it what I want. I will also, if the power exists inside me, strive to let others be as free as I hope someday to be. Either way, I know nothing and if there will ever be a point that I know anything, it will be the last thought that I ever have. I don’t know when that will be and hopefully you don’t either but more than anything else, you can trust that this ride will come to an end. It could be violent, or it could be peaceful. It could be smooth and effortless, or it could be painful and heartbreaking.

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Regardless, this won’t be the last that you hear from me. The very least I could do, is to give you something to refuse to protect yourself. So if you see the need, refuse both my word and I. If you’d like to hold on to them, give them whatever value you see as fit. Either way, I’ll never know.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 3.17.13: A Breath, A Blink, Then A Jump

As time is relative and quite certainly bendable, allow me to limber up my existence. I have been slipping into a state of stagnation that I have no business mucking around in. I’ve had enough and will not tolerate this for a single instant further. I march towards either enlightenment or oblivion with gusto rivaling those warriors of ancient worlds, immortalized in brilliantly durable tales.

You see, I’ve come to realize that I don’t want to deal with nonsensical behavior. This is quite peculiar as I have brought myself to the places where such things occur, in attempts to reach some other landing. I choose to partake in one craft, yet have to fight to feed on the smallest fruits of such a world. I have, essentially, decided that this cannot be anymore.

Now I’m not fool enough to believe that simply not wanting something makes it go away when so many, nearly all, of those around me are convinced that this is how it be, indefinitely. Many of my fellow humans at the very least believe that they survive on some of these behaviors I’ve come out against, so I am left vastly outnumbered. Of course, all this opposition is nonexistent! But you go ahead and try to tell of them that.

I am fool enough to believe that something can be done about it. It is a feeling of obligation, or perhaps vanity. It is certainly selfish. My own preference of circumstance is the driving force behind my intention, though those ideas themselves are borrowed, just as they were borrowed from those before I. These idols of my mentality found the words left for them from human history as it bounced in the wind towards legend. I expect to do the same and hopefully earn the right for my dust to someday make stars.

Yet, this is not now. I have spent more time idling about this idea of now, after spending much too long in the past. It could be argued that being focused on the present leaves you just as far behind the curve as looking behind you. Or I would argue that, at least. The future requires attention and I have placed my hands in the first grooves of that vast stone wall of coming events. This universe roars so loud in my face that I have hid behind atmosphere and synthetic formations, feigning belief that this would keep me safe. I’ve known it hasn’t and wouldn’t and never will.

I’ve been writing poetry again. In fact, I’ve written more poetry this month then I have in all of high school. Certainly stuff of much better quality. Such inspiration should not, and is not taken lightly.

It pains me to know, as knowing often does, that this life of lying about and dreaming is not guaranteed. It is threatened as much as all things are. Though my desire is to stay in this paradise and though I have no intention of abandoning it, I must rise to defend it.

How, is no longer a question. It is quite possible it might never have been one. In fact, I know it never was. It could be supposed that one must look outside believed beliefs to find their own truth but who has time for all that? I did but don’t anymore and despite the grand pursuit of it all, phases fade and pass and I have arrived at such a place.

I should not fret though, only step with patience and grace. I have been practiced in the comfort of my bubble of education and can only grow to pop it from here. As it should be done. I have developed all these talents into skills and tools and weapons of defense for this identity I have sculpted from a pile of cells. Those same cells were once a young boy and will someday be an old man, if I managed to make it that far. But for now, they constitute this young man about to enter what will be the most defining years of his existence. These will be the years my message will get its chance, if it ever will. This now and this coming future will hold my greatest works and my grandest journeys. If I find my immortality, the elixir will be drank in this decade.

I have no use for utopia, only a desire for less dire stances. I have no use for any gods or the promises they make. I have no use for politics or those who politicking. I have no use for false idols, idle speakers or speaking fallacies. I have no use for systematic obedience and ignorance.

Some may hate me and so be it. I’ve heard it all before. I care not for the opinions of masses as they stand.

What shall be done, is production, crafting and creation. The depths of quandary shall be dived into with regard of dangers but certainly no fear. I know, nearly for certain, that all this will be tested. Not slightly, but absolutely placed before destructive fate that will burn the hairs that stand on end. We all will. I hope we can step up and deliver. I hope that I can.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 1.27.13 – 2.3.13: Post Apocalyptic Groundhog’s Day Eve Celebration

Such peculiarities plague me and yet I thrive on their sweetness as it drips from my delusion. I have a kind of power that can only exist to a narcissist. I am almighty, therefore everything is my fault.

You have to understand though. It is a terribly delicate skill, being able to kill off characters. Well actually, allow me to rephrase that. It is difficult to properly kill off a character. Any numbskull with a pen and too much leftover angst could commit literary murder, but to glorify the particular victim’s demise in a painfully elegant scream of desperation, followed by the resounding yalp of purpose, well that is something all to itself.

I’ve run it through in my head so many times, yet I hesitate to further dive in that direction. I may have made a terrible mistake. I may be making the most wonderful mistakes that lead to nirvana, or at least a girlfriend. I may be just so petrified of all these lies I’ve made myself to be, that the very thought of marching forward into my own existence seems a dark and dangerous proposition. Maybe I’m not as brave as I once thought myself to be. Maybe I was born on a different planet where these sort of problems don’t even exist. Maybe my species only focuses on playing funk music and places every other matter as insignificant.

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I don’t imagine that I will ever know the answer. As I look out on my tiny metropolis that is now lightly covered in melting snow and salt stained streets, I find that I have nearly no time left. Geologically of course, but time is still pressing on biological matters. The main difference seems to be that a rock doesn’t need to eat but if I don’t have caffeine to replace all that nicotine, my whining will only grow less carefully crafted in an attempt to remove all veils holding up the disguise. In reality, I just want things to seem bad. Maybe looking for pity from others, or perhaps just in myself. Maybe because I want the story of this self made hero of mine to seem even more grand once you know from where he came.

Is any of this important? I imagine not. I just can’t quite understand being an adult yet, despite all my talk in the other direction. Talks of academies and demo reels are what stand before me now. The only crave I have is for things beyond that but I have to earn such standing. The terrible job I’ve been doing since then is only a reflection on the few child like behaviors that I have yet shed, although it would be very important that I do so. This should not suggest I don’t plan on holding on to boyhood values, just not the ones that do little to nothing towards progress.

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It’s important to remember that children are much more progressive than any adult could ever be. They live in a world of learning. The younger they are, the more they will crave knowledge that catches their fancy. We all had something that vastly interested our budding young mind but this does not have do with schooling at all. The school system in the civilized western empire is rotting and as the maggots feed on the last remains, another generation has no choice but to be accused of stupidity. Each passing generation seems to have less and less of a chance, and somehow it is their fault. It was and is our fault somehow.

I must say, no generation has been able to craft lies quite like the Boomers. Sucking the teat of the Greatest Generation, they have quite possibly squandered the entire planet away, let alone economies and debt and starvation and that lot of issues. But blaming others will get me nowhere. Or rather, not where I would like to go.

Then again, I’m not really sure where I’d like to go. I have thought about things and have only been able to decide on about a half dozen, all of which seem too grand and too extraordinary for a person to seriously consider themselves doing as we inch away from the dawn of the 21st century. We have hardly even begun this here millennium.

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Strange how we are able to measure time, isn’t it? It doesn’t exist like this everywhere and yet here we are, defining our entire existence around this benchmark. Four years have come and gone and I’d spent a solid three of them chasing ghosts. I’m looking to get out and away and above all of this, but that will seem much like a lie when I talk about how much I will miss it. I have spent my time and gotten something from it. I can only see what it is after it has gone though.

Phil didn’t see his shadow, which means an early spring. Symbolically, that has to be one of them most idiotic human practices. Symbolically, spring means it’s time for bold action as cool, crisp air fills my lungs and brew in my belly. Symbolically, all of this means nothing, as I warned it would. My flesh grows weary but any mind that at least find humor in all of this, can reach me at communicate such grievances. Until then, I bid you sweet dream and fare the well.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 8.19.12- 9.2.12

Let us start by saying this. I’m not a hipster. I’m just hip and there is as much difference between the two as you are willing to see. I’ve got the audacity to see much and many sorts of things separating myself from any sort of classification, as all of you should. A hipster can only survive in a weak social structure that has been given up on, as far as the chances of revitalization go. They are the only ones who know much of anything, but they wish to stay as the only ones. Dig?

Now that the waste has been removed, we should carry on to larger business. There seems to be a whole array of things going on but as per usual, I can only feel so much. My success is becoming so noticeable that fantasy is drowning in vanity and I feel sick. I haven’t been sleeping all that much, which I firmly believe is exactly what needs to start happening at this point in the production. There is really no time to waste lying about.

A glacier in the Northern part of Italy is melting, as glaciers tend to do when they’re not growing. There was 100mm caliber ammunition scattered beneath the ice when it was frozen. They were used in WWI to kill Hungarians and Austrians and Italians. Someone cleaned them up, without having to blow it up like they did in Munich. I wonder if anyone has learned anything from all of this. Who knows?

So about the water crisis, and how there is not enough of it. Or at least this is what I’m told, I’ve always had water at my disposal. It comes out of the faucet, but you would want to clean it first. It tastes icky if you don’t.

One fourth, or 25%, of the water we use in total goes to the agricultural process and grows food that no one ends up eating. It ends up being something like 100 billion tons, or something like that. Isn’t that a shame?

Dismal? I’d apologize if I meant to, but I don’t. Why apologize for something that I would have never chose to have had happen, if I had ever had the choice. I suppose it comes down to not knowing what to say, or what I should say, if there was even such a thing to say. It’s been quite some time now. Time is valid and valuable and stable, right?

Your silence is enormously comforting. I’m very appreciative.

It takes a good bit of time to kill an ego that has managed to get this big. Whoever let such a travesty occur is quite the buffoon but there seems to be no shortage of those around, inside or out.

Oh, how I would love to run through sprinklers and hide under trees in parks whilst dreaming of some bright future ahead. How sweet and sound would be such days, and I assure you that they most certainly were. But they have died and so with it goes, at least in part, the foolish belief in grand things.

Not to say that I have in anyway given up on grand things, I just know how foolish they can be. I don’t, at all, actually know how foolish I am or will ever be. I can only imagine that these symptoms will develop further along the path that has been constructed, for this to be its sole and soul purpose.

Foolishness aside, there would most likely be nothing left here to say. Only a fool would sit before a screen searching for anything while all around him is chaos and revolution and tragic comedy brewing in real, physical dimensions.

And here sits the fool, for the first time in a long time (if you can count three weeks as a long time) and without anything profound. Not that it’s not there, because it most certainly is. It’s just unable to make a large enough move to violently and drastically adjust all that there is to be adjusted.

If these memories be worth anything, I’d like to sell them in exchange for my freedom. I have no use for them much anymore and I could only benefit from having them gone.

So I figured, why not make some cash along the way. I suppose this is the modern way to offer your soul up to the devil for sale. Robert Johnson is now in the bathroom, hurling his brains out. It was that last one that made him just too sick to further continue being any sort of inspiration. I only hope I am able to exhaust all of my idols in such a way.

But I digress, yet again, from nothing. I would like something but my specifications just make it all too tiring. Sell my soul and settle me down.

“But that was never something that you wanted.”

“Oh fucking great, it’s you again.”

“Hey man, I’m just here to help.”

“Is that what this is? Help?”

“Don’t get so sassy with me now, Nancy. I’m just trying to create this large and expansive personality to unconsciously pursue the weakness that is deep inside of your being.”

“I don’t understand why you continue to go on like this.”

“Because what is life besides the pursuit of these massive bounties that may or may not ever be collected?”

“Nothing, I suppose.”

“Everything is nothing, even this dream is nothing.”

I don’t want to agree but I have no choice. I make a good point, or at least I think I do. Or I thought I did. This just had to be done or I think that my soul would have begun to manifest into some sort of beast outside my body and ripped my face from my skull. Something like that at least.

And so I shall carry on without as much as an utterance of what should be. There is only what is and anything else is far beyond what I could even begin to imagine seeing. This illusion may get the best of me, but I can be better. At least, I think I can.