What do I make of this blog? When I started it, I used it as a form of expression, as if I were testing prose and seeing what worked. Well, I was testing my prose to see what worked. Then it turned into a place for me to vent about my love life. Then it turned into a place for me to communicate my feelings through junk poetry. I was bad at all of that. I had the right ideas and intentions, but I just didn’t know how to convey them in a linear sentence. It was like filling up a bottle of water under a waterfall without a funnel. A whole post to express what could’ve been in a paragraph. A paragraph for a sentence. A sentence for a word. And since it was personal and, let’s face it, selfish expression, it often made little to no sense.
Nowadays, I don’t really feel a need to write here anymore. I do feel a need to write, just not here. That urge we all have for validation is an illusion. Or delusion. Especially the validation you yearn from family and friends. Nothing has to be proven, and from what I’ve noticed about science recently, everything is rarely proven at all. All is speculation and hypothesis. History is written and exaggerated by the victors, and science is statistically more unsure than it is sure. So what is there? Really. What is there?
It’s not as though I’m trying to be cold or that I don’t give a shit about it all. I do. Sometimes, I even cry when I think about how many of you don’t know what I’m talking about because of an inherent stubbornness to adhere to a more sensible argument merely for the sake of the familiarity of stubbornness. Well, I used to cry about it. It was like a feeling of helplessness followed by involuntary coldness. I cried less and less after a while. You know the feeling of that cold tear that goes sideways over your cheekbones when you’re on your back at night? I don’t like that one. It was like a knew all these secrets and no one wanted to listen. Friends, family, everyone I cared about -just couldn’t hear me. So I stopped crying. I stopped giving a shit. I even came off as cold when they would vent to me again. As the old patterns would have suggested there was something wrong with me, I now, would be to differ. I had happened upon the optimum balance of knowledge and maturity, and in turn, they regurgitated themselves as my calmness. Or tranquility.
I’d like to say zen but it’s associated with hippies and I don’t trust those fuckers. …Now, I have everything.
And it only took me two years in hell to get this. Not Hell, hell, but two years of letting your old life and world fall apart into the depths of the night, to discover a lamp buried with some oil still in it, then walking your ass out to the light. There’s no rush. You ain’t got no worries if you ain’t in a hurry. Time is only a courtesy paid to other people, really. I dunno, you could always stick with the irrationally bad attitude, asshole. I don’t mean you’re an asshole. That’s probably just what other people know you by. Either that or, Fucker. whaaaat?