Monthly Archives: July 2011

52nd Street Theme

 

Sometimes, there's no time to sit and eat. Take the plate and silverware with you.

I live rather comfortably. Perhaps more comfortably than deserved. It’s not a pessimistic observation or view, it just presents itself in a more logical light that life shouldn’t be played on the novice level. Sure they would  lack a bit in the stress department, but when they double-take a look at their lives They’d notice the things the things that surmised their lives were bland and comfortable. Bleakness befalls blatantly, burdened by the general comprehension  over the brevity of life. They “didn’t dance enough when they were young,” but this life isn’t a video game, they only had one life left, and will probably have to start from level 1 (if their faith grants them reincarnation). If you’ve ever beaten a game on easy mode and felt you could’ve done better with a more challenging mode, you can’t. That’s virtually the essence of having it easy. (No pun intended, not too much, anyway.)

Henceforth, uncertainty pervades any ideals I may have had in regards to this post. It isn’t a call-to-arms because that intention would connote a pro-bullshit dogma consequentially instigating mentally adverse (fucked up) people into performing adverse things. Then placing the blame on me, and that’s adverse. That said, leaves a kind of epiphany/philosophy because A.) I’m fortunate enough to unravel this knowledge at a young age enabling the possibility to deter an ensuing fate of regret. Especially in old age; how much more helpless can that feel? Also, B.) My newly discovery of a discipline comprising as its core logic, aesthetics, ethics, metaphysics, and epistemology; the value of stress. Shit. Both A and B sound pretty adverse don’t they? Or do you understand what I mean? Argh!!

Then again, maybe this was what I was talking about? The trials of life; the bonus levels.

How full doth thine chalice looketh?

If it's too easy, try a tougher difficulty.

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Ouroboros

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Among the last two weeks, I’ve been ostentatiously waking up in infrequent places from a face-down drowning position, seldom from my own bed, on a daily basis. I.e. the haggardly genuine bedhead look accompanied with photo-phobic eyes, and a genuine distaste for dialogue spurted from anyone’s word-hole thing on the face (as I referred to on one occasion). Also, packaged with a general reduction in wit or any creative demeanor that allowed me to be noted as a “funny guy.” But the last two days, gave those back. I staved my need for grandpa’s cough elixir, which happened to be mommy’s mouthwash, and slithered back into a skin. It felt new, but it felt like the antecedent and austere skin. I even dreamed.

I usually cycled the same dreams, but I had a new one this time. Whatever my soul was telling me, I couldn’t be sure, but it did tell me there’s something happening, something new, something bigger. It felt like the process of my excessive consumption of make-believe liquid courage and countless nights facing hell when I slept, meant I was really dying. On a metaphoric level, of course, but that led me back into this skin that felt familiar, but new, improved, and I’d have no say in whether or not I had to get used to it. I couldn’t understand this all until I read her recent post, and that kicked my missing mind back into my spinal socket, in which I glued shut with a strawberry shortcake milkshake.

(My replacement for whiskey could be none other than a strawberry shortcake milkshake. I was forced to venture into the discovery of such because my roommate was playing the dreaded beer-pong, in which I abhor my own participation due to the susceptibility of dirty balls. If I wanted to play with dirty balls, I’d simply wait til Friday, when I took a shower.)

Her post seemed to revel in a transformation as well, which deduced her inconsistencies of the same like as mine. (Of all the epochs I’ve known her, this was the first time she’d ever helped me.) That was the string on the kite, cut loose to fly wherever it pleased. My mind flew back to me, with sponged visions of my new world, all the while, my serpent body shed the dead skin revealing a resilient new, asskicking one. As the great philosophers AC/DC said, “forget the hearse, cause I’ll never die, I’ve got nine lives, cat’s eyes, abusing every one of them and running wild.”

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methodical madness

I figured Lou Reed would help me slow things down, no one really gets the best gas mileage if they keep living in the fast lane.

This little lion is normally tamed, but he’ll start clawing like a jackal if agitated. And did he claw. I’ve been to the ends of the world and back lately with complete disregard of the speed limits. If I’m being honest, I don’t fancy it. If it’s so great, then why do I feel self destructive while doing so? They say a good distraction is the best cure for a hangover, and I dwell among the living with an average of 227 hangovers a year. It isn’t fun wanting to die 227 mornings out of the year. But then again, the size of the hangover is usually a sign to the mythical legend that took over last night. One of the few people you will never meet, and they usually come by night.

That person negates all the good I do by day, but I can’t rid him because he’s simultaneously the source of my sanity. You can’t be good all the time. Timshel, dictates our gift of freewill. That’s the good and bad, it perpetuates the world like the wind and the water. Whatever you’ve done, you can never go back to change it. Your sense of atonement dictates your eligibility for the rapture. I’m in flux if I believe the rapture will ever happen, but doesn’t that mean the world would end? Perhaps it’s already happened, and no one got tickets.

By day, I’m the local hero; by night I’m an arrogant criminal, selfishly exercising a childlike sense of adventure. My wind and water. You can’t be taught the method to someone’s madness; madness is instinct.

Mr. Hyde

Dr. Jekyll

 

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come back, babycakes

One to two nights. One to two nights a week is reasonable, but every night for the last two weeks; blacking out face down? There’s a problem there, and obviously it’s a cry for help. My brain cells are finite, and my vocabulary has dwindled. I don’t want two hundred and fifty hangovers a year. I don’t want to live so easily. My stress is being taken from me and I can’t create unless I’m stressed. My vocabulary is regressive. What the heck was it that I was doing before that kept me afloat?! I’ve lost plenty of things since the year began, but the most heart-wrenching thing to lose was my mind.

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Chateau Marmont

A fine line is drawn between non-fiction and fiction, as you know, also pertains to daily life. We justify them with phrases like, utter honesty, or if heaven permitted, white lies. Through the thick haze of semantics, and this could be a purely opinionated observation, what is to be said of the truths that neither parties want to accept? Let alone, justify. Not knowing what I mean is sign alone, but an example would be, “I didn’t want to drink that cup, but the adamantly opinionated fellow, convincingly propagated the pleasure he were to receive if I were to drink it. (nothing specific, but take note that it will involve whiskey over whiskey, the only alcohol that doesn’t influence my urge to hasten physically delegated damage for unexplainable reasons.)

Excuse my malformed analogy, they sound good most of the time, but even I, am confused. In my case, the confusing stipulation was my contentment of being sorrowful. Even the sense of ad hoc justifications does not interrupt when I say that. I am content with it because I know I can not express myself adequately without the sour bits of life, I never had a sweet tooth, and can not translate the sweet things in life. At least, not in a self-actualizing manner, because anyone can conjure a justification, and for almost any reason. I don’t loathe the misery, in fact, I crave it as it is my only means of escape. The most efficient one at least. And it’s because of teeth, the one’s behind most frowns and most smiles, glossy and off-white.

In script, as you’re presented with, I write a certain way, but close friends of mine would never anticipate my particular combination’s of words, scribed in internet splurge format. There’s a good reason for that. Entity. Some of us are truly blessed with the gift of writing the way they speak, and others, speak louder only in one of the two formats. I am not blessed with speaking as well as I scribe; can not enunciated the words of my soul. Perhaps I’ve focused too much on the Arabic structure, but I doubt I’d have been who I am without the comfort I find in transcribing ocular nonsense. *hint*

In person, I’m bright, lively, and optimistic. Hard to believe? I agree entirely and allow an explanation [I’ve discovered moments ago.] In a physically organic fashion, I’ve never preferred to leave without sucking a smile out of a person, even  at my own expense. I’ve always believed being positive or negative around others is contagious, and only one of those options was beneficial. A smile from the most unwilling face shone warmer than any sunny day, and I craved that feeling like a junkie did for his next spell. In a physically organic fashion, of course.

On paper, my mentally organic expression, my art, my translation of the soul within, blah blah, etc; the joy is derived from the malice. It is masochistic, and contrived, though, I feel more can relate to that. A laugh and a smile are a quick and temporary fix, and it goes appreciated, however, the combination of words your eyes follow will map the path of your lament, or willingly, they dark and evil shit you don’t ever want to say out loud. I feel that way too. If there’s a passage I find so ‘everything-below-the-equator’ everything oriented in pessimism, EXCEPT wrong, chances are, I’ve given it my loyalty.

The only problem I have, and can identify with, is that a strong and committed person can easily lose their place when they walk the tightrope. I thought I had it down; love it all in person, hate it all on paper. I don’t. I was never as strong as I thought I was, I’ll find myself in sweaty situations deciding between vanilla and chocolate. I’m terrible with confrontation, but my confrontations occur when I’m certain on how wrong you are. Pretentious. Yes, seemingly, but this post allows no room for petty white lies. It is possible I may be undergoing an influx of  consciences, but if that’s all it took, isn’t it reason enough to take a second look? I want to keep writing as a sad bastard listening to Belle and Sebastian, but I find myself living as every hit song The Strokes have ever had. It’s 6:34 in the morning, maybe I should sleep on it.

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Flowers

I’ll always bring flowers. Even if you snipped the heads off the ones I gave before. I’ll still bring flowers. Even if you snipped the heads off the ones I give someone else. I’ll still bring flowers. Even If you’re to snip the heads off the ones you’ll give me. Even if you hate flowers to begin with. I’ll still bring flowers.

 

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Love tween the sheets

You’re angry now that my words are louder than your excuses. They were better when I was around and now you can’t find new and clever ways to take a walk on the wild side with a paddle board in your hand. Feeling a little lonely? You’re the lover that’s lost its way and found themselves in mediocrity, and its killing you that I don’t haver the drive to care anymore. Maybe its not mediocrity, maybe you feel how empty it is. Living rich and grand don’t matter if you don’t have am emergency contact you’ve earned. Sorry contestant, monty and daddy atte default. I warned you I would stop caring if you continued not to. And its happened, so don’t bother me and cease the meddling you do in my head and heart; it’s giving me hiccups. You’ve too many chances and blown it every time, now jump in someone elses grave. Your name isn’t written here anymore. Your hauntings don’t scare me anymore. The brunette ghost was the one that I would’ve died for, just to haunt with. In death, even she had a soul.

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