Tag Archives: old

if only Diderot

I walk down a busy metropolitan street
it’s night and the lights from the shops
are burning on
the night
showing the people the
bars
clubs
restaurants
clothing stores
closed stores
the lights show everyone’s faces
not their real faces but
the faces they want us
to see
to believe

the light lights the night but not as bright
as the sun would
You can’t tell if that man’s suit
is black
or
dark blue
You can’t tell if the woman walking
toward you from 15 feet is
22 or
32 or
42 etc.
the faded women hide their
years
under the part-time bulbs
because they feel
rushed
in
life
and the men realize they are not
ten years younger
twenty years too
late

I see it all the time and say to myself
I
will
soon
be
joining their ranks

why do they do this?
for friends?
for fun?
for love?

if love can be everlasting
hypothetically
can you find it in those
already in
disguise?

the women I’ve gone with
were terrible lovers
terrible companions
terrible fucks
but I don’t go with women
as often as
you
but
I’ve gone with all the women you’ve gone with
I did that as soon as
you
started
bitching
about her
women, this concerns you and your
men too

I
hear it all
see it all
feel it all
all the time

I don’t have to complain about all the
bad dates I’ve gone
on
simply because
you’ve gone
on
all the bad dates
for me

those who believe they’ve found
their soulmate
just haven’t lived long enough to
find a better one

Diderot says,

“oh snap!”

and gives me a
high-five

Of course I believe true love is
possible
but that is a belief that is always
under
fire
but if history has taught us one thing
which
has
never
not applied
it was this,

“if only…”

I continue walking down the half-heartedly lit
street
past all the
bars
clubs
restaurants
clothing stores
closed stores
the lights on everyone’s faces
the faces they want us
to see
to believe

and sullenly wish upon a lightbulb

that all of it could
fool me.

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Protons and Anti-Protons

I certainly cannot find a reason to dislike preservatives or additives. They make things taste better, and last longer. I don’t dislike them to the point of blaming milk and cookies for my impending death. I’ll gladly take my turkish Camel Filters over your American Spirits because if I’d any sense, I wouldn’t smoke. The filters themselves are a healthier step, and your delusions of a healthier cigarette is synonymous with a punchline.

Healthier eating habits seem propagandic, even to the point of fascism. The end result, a year more of life? In this world, does old age really seem all that advantageous? We’re always going to want a little more time, don’t get me wrong, but the speed in which we’re progressing our galactic demise is only ever-increasing. The chances of the fabled, “death by old-age” in contrast to “death by stupidity” aren’t even in the same ball-park. The chances I’ll die because of an imbecile seem more likely, and would probably prompt that imbecile to never repeat himself. Then again, imbeciles are imbeciles and their stupidity is like an earthquake. It cannot be predicted. Notions of longevity through eating habits seem futile. Look at vegans, they look more brittle than my decomposing grandmother, and without supplements, (which are unnatural on principle alone) they’d crumble.

What is your longevity worth if you’ve lived it with restrictions and fear?

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Filed under non-fiction rambling

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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Cannonading pace of His Choo Choos.

The young never look past the beginning, that’s why they’re so eager for sex, drugs, and money. The old are closer to the end, and procrastinate the truths they really want to finish with. This is the age of the cannon that inevitably fires at the next. A dust cloud of mangled lost souls, hopes and dreams in smithereens. We beg, moan, cry and groan about it, but we can all feel it coming, that’s the only thing we’ve all had in common, like rats scurrying towards the end of a flooding sewer.

Unassailable demise on train tracks into a mountain and we’re aboard with one-way tickets. …The irony of it all is longing for death when the right person wrongfully breaks our hearts. Lonesome, crushed hearts shoveled into the furnace, for a train race of a humane pace. Young and old alike; convalescent daycare taught lust before love; as always, the young never got it right because the former promised excitement before the value of their hearts’ contentments are unfurled. In hindsight, the old seldomly paid attention in class as well. Swell.

We all want a form of it, a piece and proof of it, and willing to die if it fails; what do you want, quick, we’re not getting off of these rails.

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Filed under non-fiction metaphor