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When I passed away the first time, I cashed in my chips of chaos for structure. No room for messes I couldn’t manage, straight lines only. However, one can never shed the roots from which they’ve come to fruition, so the chaos lingers. So I kept my chaos at bay with perpendicular angles and tectonic shifts, mentally and actually.

They say you can read a person by how they keep their room, and it’s true. From a room of acute and oblique, and laundry as carpet, I went to a Swiffered linoleum, and cubic IKEA shelves. Within those shelves, were where my micromanaged chaos lived. Juxtaposed eccentricity and ethereality, I thought it would maintain the structure in my life. But one can never anticipate the unpredictability of others.

The man who took me in and gave me a chance with a job I’ve only dreamed of, allowing me to pursue and collect the wonders of life that waited in single file, took his own life. He did so with taste, a Smith and Wesson Model 29, .44 Magnum. Dirty Harry’s gun. His head, cleanly taken off, and off with him, the stability he gave me. I haven’t had too much experience, with death, or maybe I have and repressed it’s memory. Wait, yeah I did, a close friend had died of hypothermia and blood-loss in New York City two years earlier, but I don’t think that counts. Okay, I’m bad with death.

This man helped mentor me into writing, and gave me a job under him, as his head editor. Now that he selfishly took his own life because of a divorce that robbed him of his children, I’m selfishly wondering about what job I can find next. Only a week has passed since the incident, yet, it is only a matter of time before the skyscraper of stability I’ve gained in my life, comes toppling over, leaving a rubble’d gravesite I can call my own.

It still wasn’t as bad as the first time I died, when my heart was wrung dry and kept in an oblivious girl’s dresser, but now I’ve no body, no heart, and what’s left of my soul isn’t strong enough to power to the flashlight I need to light my way.

I can’t talk to anyone about it either, because I’m too stubborn to listen to their words. I’ve always found my therapy to be writing, especially in the state of despair. Though, lately, I’ve been finding myself writing things that sound like suicide notes. Not because I’ll soon run out of funds, some of the richest people are often the saddest people, but because nothing in this earth feels like it grips me to it anymore. We sometimes forget to show love to the things we love, and thus, are never prepared to show them to the exit.

The things in life we love, help us live; being without those things, help us leave.

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Filed under non-fiction rambling, stories

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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Filed under non-fiction rambling