Handful of Dust: The fear of winning.

There is a certain peace in sitting in the dark that I've come to appreciate as an adult that would have terrified me as a child. Perhaps not a child, but perhaps in my early teens. I've come to realize now that I've always been afraid most of my life. Terrified really. A fear that seems to bind to the bone and refuses to let lose even onto death. the kind of terror that is given to a child when their minds are yet too mailable to hold to any thought at all. A primitive dread that is given to mother to child as I've come to discover. A dread that has in every way pulled me deep within the walls of my mind and kept me locked in for years.

The kind of dread that wakes you up at night and if there happens to be someone sharing you bed you burrow into them deep and hope that whatever holds you will let you go. Or if alone, you only pray that it never gets you alone. Then you count blessings or what small ritual that you have saved as a small child to protect you from the terrors.

I'm trying to prove a point with myself. Some would call it pulling the tiger's tail or even challenging God's wrath. I'm actually, as Salvador Dalli would hint to, attempting to submerge into my psyche as deep as possible in order to find what refuses to come to light. I'm feeling quite suicidal in fact. Not in the way youth would listen to an angst filled song and play with knives, but in a diving head first into an empty pool. By the end of this I plan on either understanding what still drags me back into the worst of myself or not see the morning.

I'm that determined.

I've always was fond of what Niche have said about staring into the abyss. How the greatest potential of evil always lies dormant within. The Jungian view would say that we gravitate to our symbols, choosing what we find as either talismans or even siguls that lay as warnings of greater things. We seem to find something to embody our terrors. My daughter has a terror of octopi. It comes to mind now since I would and have envied the concept of having something tangible to dread. Something to either physically run from or throw stones at. My terror is not as simple and yet it still grips me now as I try to meet what ever eyes it may have and force it to come to surface.

I'm having doubts even now as I wonder how I'm going to write this. Trying to find every corner in my mind where a thought may hide to may be hidden, I feel a bit of an arousal. The kind you get for walking into a pith dark room trying to remain calm and not run out screaming. I think this is why I love Lovecraft's work so much. The thought of some great overwhelming terror so huge that it renders the witness mute and limp as their mind enters some sort of insanity that arrives at the point where reality has fallen from it's hinges and the face of the terror that we all assumed we lies comes to be. It smiles into us, or so we think it does as we attempt to find some sort of handle that we can grasp and humanize it. The Olde Gods, the terrors that lies unseen in a flimsy vale that only offers holes into what we are almost able to bare. I adore those stories since in truth they do not frighten me in the least bit. The promise of Olde Gods tearing apart our world and making us feel once again that we are nothing but food to some, insignificant to the rest.

And yet, I've known horror. Not the kind with a monster or creature with some sort of mimicry of humanity, but from people itself. I've seen in my time on this world acts of horror that have cause me to bawl as a babe with no shame and cause me to pull hair out. I've seen individuals shamble about as one would turn in wretched fright someone who was torn asunder and attempt to pick up parts of themselves from the ground in an act of returning to a normal that is forever away from their grasp. Their, our, lives were never the same and we still stay up in the darkness of night wondering how a loving God could allow such horror to come true. How could civilized intellectuals simply allow in any part of their world. How such scars heal and leave so little unmarked flesh left of those who survived the ordeal. Some call us stronger or even survivors over those who were mangled in accidents and deserve pity. How our limbs still remain attached and how lucky we were to walk "unmarked", not "unharmed".

That horror.

And so, I look into myself and in my past and try to grasp that moment that I've became tainted with fear. I've always feared being weak or failing to do what is needed due to fear. Especially with so many depending on me. So many needing me to be whole and to carry on as if nothing has happened. I still walk hollowed time to time knowing that no one, but T.S. Eliot could understand such desolence. I understand now that most of my fear is given by those who meant well. Fear protects us and keeps us from doing foolish acts of stupidity in hopes of passing on our material to those who we will fill with fear also.

And yet, there is something within us all that yearns for rebellion against any tyrannical force that attempts to hold us down. I can feel it now deep within my loins how it plays with my fear. How it alters my self doubt and manipulate me with what I fear the most and what others may see. It drives me to stop writing and drink. It screams at me to get up and force my fist through the screen. It makes me run into the night and find any diversion to what I'm so close to unearthing. These are the moments are the point of time where we always turn away and cower in our skin or where we reach to hands onto the blade that menace us and grab hold. It will cut and tear us and the pain of it makes any of us cringe at the thought and yet U have to reach out and grab. Damned be my hands, I'm going to grab hold of it and shake it loose. I'm going to put fear of me into it.

I'm going to fight it on it's own terms: Dirty.

It does not care how long it has kept us frightened or terrified of what can be or will if we don't do this or that. Cross ourselves or say please or thank you. It tower over us and holds us down until it chooses when to let go and on what terms it will. Perhaps it's because of Avey or maybe I've simply lived enough hell to know that it can not be worse than this. Or maybe I've just realized I have nothing to lose if it bests me. Maybe I've come to realize that those who have "went down the street" have chosen to pull their trump card and meet the only terms of victory they have in the form of a stalemate only they can justify.

Damn it, I've done so much with my life and I've committed so much good and erred so severely in my youth.

I'm not a bad person. I'm never was a bad person. And yet, I can not let go of guilt of any errors. Guilt, the only thing I've gotten from Catholicism and I'm not catholic. My sense of shame from someone else and never mine at all. I'm amazed on how many battles I've fought and come to terms that it was never my battle in the first place. The costly sacrifices that I've paid only to realize that the battles won were of someone who never will fight them.

We are Hollowed.

And so I stare into the abyss and it stares back and it is me.

............

I once has an intervention. Seems that someone caught wind of what I wrote and tried to reach/understand/save me. I ended up laughing admitting that my face was sore since I do not laugh enough to have my face accustomed to it. they've asked why do I write it if not to ask for help. I told them that I write in hopes on not "going down the street". So that I don't feel suicidal and do something that I or more like others will regret. I stare over the edge not to plunge over, but to make sense of it. To understand what scares me I have to scare it back. If I do not keep it at bay it will come for me and drag me in. I've already had years lost to it as I somehow got turned loose and know that vigilance and quick and cruel action keeps it not only back, but may even give up some ground.

In truth, I write this because it seems as if I'm winning and it frightens me. I'm a creature of habit and I'm used to a struggle to the last second. I've never won anything by showing up and I do not expect to. And yet, I know that there may come a time soon that I can be at peace without worrying of what I say, how I act and what thoughts I entertain. There may come a time that I can live open and free from any fears that I've come to carry as a child or develop now. And to do so I have to challenge what ever lies silent and root it out.

.........and then again, I may not see the morning.

We will see.

I think I'm winning.

And that now scares me.

15 things you need to know about me if we are going to be friends

1. I do not suffer fools, the arrogant, the cruel, or liars. In fact, I'm consider it a duty that I hunt them down and shame them for what they are.

2. I never let people say to me two statements: "I'm sorry" and "thank you". They don't need to be said. If I've done something you are thankful for I've done it out of compassion and kindness. If you done me wrong and I'm still around you, you are already forgiven.

3. I try to enjoy the small joys of life. Those can never be taken away from you. A cool breeze, a silent moment, a child's laughter. Those can never be taken away from you nor would I allow it to be taken.

4. People are categorized automatically in one of three categories in which they usually are able to move from one to another: Adult, child and dog. If you are an adult we can exchange ideas and challenge each other's mind in common and mutual respect and love. If you are a child, then you are missing certain abilities to have a simple conversation, but I know that your potential will be reach in time. Less responsibilities are placed on you by me. Dogs are what they are. They have no true potential as human and it's not worth any trouble attempting to believe that they can raise above any lower brain activities besides eat, sleep, fight, and fuck. Still enjoyable, but not worth discussing Kant with.

5. I realized that I'm very effective if no one know what I'm doing. As far as I've learned the moment that people know what I'm up to that's when others begin to shed light on things and begin to stop me. If I'm lucky, I'm able to show others how to continue what I've started. By then it doesn't matter who know. I don't ask for credit and I don't need any lime light.

6. I'm not allowed to show any weakness the majority of the time. It's one of the reasons why I disappear time to time. Not only am I used to opportunists taking advantage of this moment, but I'd rather not be seen in pain, suffering, hurt or weak. I've also know that others have come to see me as stone and sadly if I show that I'm stoppable then they will lose their momentum also.

7. I have a tendency of "using my illusion". I already know that people see me in one light and never in another. I welcome it since it also helps me hide what my intentions are and allow me an opening to disprove a point or make another one. Never assume I'm one way or another.

8. I'm incredibly antisocial and can not be placed into a crowd for too long. I've learned from experience that being in crowds is a bad thing. I honestly have to prepare myself to go out in public and to deal with people. There usually comes a time that I disappear and go away. This is usually when I'm overwhelmed with people. Despite this I have a close Inner circle of friends who tolerate me, even when I'm a complete ass.

9. If there is anything I love more is to learn something new. People who teach me something new have a special place in my heart. I'm more than willing to do what I can to help them in what they need simply because they pull people out of ignorance and make their lives better. I do not care who they are or how the world sees them. I am more than willing to learn from who ever is willing to teach me.

10. I don't like to be touched. I've come to grasp with this a few years ago. To me touch is a more than personal. It's one of the last sanctities that I have in this life. It a great show of trust to allow someone to touch me. I don't show affection that easily unless it's needed at that moment (kissing someone's head after I hit them by accident) or it's well deserved (someone I trust to a certain extent). I know I should trust others, but growing up with an optimist view on how everyone is a good person has caused me to become pessimist if not for survival then for protection. Also just because I'm a pessimist doesn't mean I want to make others pessimists. People need to believe in humanity and the kindness of others.


11. I'm not a smart person. Just stubborn. I'm dumber than most people think in truth. Yet if you allow me enough time I'll figure it out and pass it on to someone else.

12. I have a complete fear of roaches and a rabid hatred orangutans. For the first, I run away then come back throwing things. For the second, I'm not allowed in the primate section of any zoo. I know they're distant cousin of our evolutionarily, but fuck them, I don't like my human cousin.


13. When no one is around and I have a cookie, I do the cookie dance. No one knows what the cookie dance looks like since I do not do the cookie dance in public.

14. If asked, I'd give you anything I have. I don't have a real issue with possessions or in that respect, money. Things can be destroyed or taken away. Money can be lost or spent foolishly. I value the moment. I value an opportunity to see something that will awe me. Small things make me happy.

15. I'm a horrible liar so I don't do it. That does not mean I do not withhold information from others. Some things are meant to be shared and some things are not meant to be.

Almost that time of year.

It's been I while I know.

I want to apologize for not keeping up with my writing. I promise I'll get to it as soon as I finish mulling over what I'm thinking about. I have to Grok deeply.

But it's almost that time. I'm not a B-day person since I see this time of year more as contemplation of what I've done rather than how great it is. I think it comes from losing so many people in my life. People who in truth were better than me in every way and makes me want to apologize to so many of you out there knowing that I'm a poor representative of those who I look up to and lost. People who pulled this foolish, arrogant and selfish boy into a human being. I thank them every day for giving me the opportunity to make some difference in my life and hopefully in the lives of others. All the while holding a great guilt on how other were greater than me and I'm never going to live up to their standard.

And yet, I have to try.

And every year I sit in silent contemplation near the time when I reached another rotation around the sun knowing that I've lived this long only being too stupid and stubborn to die. There have been days where I contemplated stopping. Thinking that I've either done enough, it does not matter or that I'm too old and sore to go on. A broken man in many respects shambling on towards the next bend wondering if there is another windmill over the hill or if there is any use for my tired bones. There are days where the age is prominent and I have to sit and rest. Others where I have to take a handful of helpers to ensure my progress and other days where I written off the day completely and hope that someone else will do what needs to be done. Those quiet moments I contemplate stopping, moving to the outskirts to take part in nature and let the world move on without me.

It's a tempting thought and it still tempts me.

And then, I come to realize that there are so few who attempts to raise the bar. That while I've always pushed myself to the limit that I can handle and then some that others simply skirt along and simply get by while announcing the world that they have arrived and they're are welcomed. It's quite disheartening that those who have a few decades on me are not willing to push on ahead and see what the limit of pain and accomplishment resides. That no one else hunts the windmills I always scout for. To fight those bigger than you rather than pick on smaller challenges. To leave great deep tracks for the new generation to realize that Life is a challenge to be met and not an excuse to be sought. That Men and Women of steel are made from enduring punishment, heat, and opposition clambering that it can't be done. That one more step must be take.

And so, I look at what I've accomplished the past year and I wonder if I could have done more. If I could have helped, cared for, inspired, challenged and motivated more. That if there is no other windmills to face and behemoths to bring down. To seek a reason to have other to remember my name rather than to promote myself as anything other than what I am.

Life is hard. It will never be easy. It will take from you everything it can and demand more from you afterwards. It will challenge you and shove you when you are at your weakest. It pushes you and makes you want to cry uncle and in the end everything you have worked so hard to attain will be taken away from you without your consent, never heading your protests.

Life is a bastard.

And life if beautiful.

If you do not have an appreciation for the moment you will never find beauty. If you can not enjoy the passing of a special moment and know that it will not last long you will never find peace. If you do not contemplate the End and that one day people around you will gather without you for their own benefit and regale of your life in attempts to console their loss, what do you have given them to say on that day? Will they weep for your loss, say polite words holding ceremony that is in truth a mockery of what the truth is? Or will the stories come out and laughter intermixed with tears of joy flow from their faces in glee and celebration of your time here. Or will you leave possessions that others will carve up that represented your entire time on this spinning stone?

You had no control over your entrance, why not make a beautiful exit?

Why not have a beautiful death?

How?

Live every moment like your last and do not listen to your detractors or your body. Live every moment with purpose. Live well and inspire others to better. Honor those who have left us not with sorrow but with a life worthy of their influence.

Live.

So, I've take a handful of pills and I'm going back out to endure what physical punishment my aging cask will allow me to put it through until I am tapped out on the shoulder and told that I have to leave this magnificent party while it goes on.

Excuse me, I have a few things to continue.

Will write soon.

Much love.

Cecilia

With numerous tombs scattered around in a maniac's attempt to absorb as much anatomy as humanly possible, Cecelia's red tipped fingernails gently tease my neatly braided hair. She gently massages her fingers into the back of my neck, playfully tracing the what I'm learning is the C1 or is it the C2 bone of the spine, oh I'm so going to flunk this test. I'm studying now since I know that I'm a slow person and my time with is best spent reviewing each and every contour and curve of anatomy the shiny pages have to offer rather than pay attention to her increasingly tempting advances. She's enjoying it, as always as she runs her fingers into my tight braid making it all the tighter and uncomfortable. Making me want to reach out to the braid and undo my meticulous attempt at having an ordered head in appearance at least, knowing that as soon as I do Cecilia will simply take the advance and work her hand deeper into my scalp and the gentle tug at my hair will end with my studies abandoned along with my discipline.

And yet she continues to bait me, wearing down my resistance.

I make attempt to mumble under my breath, struggling to recollect my focus as a child would make their stand again the rushing waves to defend the sandcastle built with pride and love. I can feel her smile as she lays on the couch to add the advantage of her position and to place her warm breath in support of her manual assault. Individuals who have certain keys are usually not allowed near me once their choice to end our relationship is certain. It is all to tempting to have them open those locks and watch me rendered in emotional shambles as a flick of a hand can wake such primal emotion from me. I've always made certain to simply remove myself from them to prevent any languishing returns. Women who know how to reach those special buttons that knock out my rational mind have always lead me astray and have left me to shamefully return, usually cursing at my easily manipulated frame, back to any salvageable progress.

Cecilia not only have the majority of keys, but she has a certain knack at knowing what I really want and what I'm willing to do for it. She loves to laugh at me in that rich, molasses giggle that usually lead me into those moments where I beg for the last 10 minutes back to remake my choice. She has been the driving force behind every bad choice I've made and the majority of scars that have a story behind them. Not to say she's without her qualities. She has always inspired me to greatness in those mediocre moments when life has become all to oatmeal to endure. She marvels how long I'm able to thrive in the mush of it all, knowing that I'm attempting to build some sort of reasoning mind that will prevent me from gambling away my future in the toss of the dice. And even though She's been there kissing those dice to see what may come up, she has been the driving force in those amazing gambles that have made me a legend in certain circles.

How can I resist her, when she knows all too well that it's not oatmeal I want, but the sweetness of raw honey on my tongue?

"Hi, I'm what Oscar called Temptation."

She has inspired me to some of my greatest writings as well to the point that I've always felt dishonest in claiming themas my own works. Every step of the way, her moist whispers in my ear have forced me to out of sound slumber only to meet the rays of dawn with heavy lids and a work of magnificence lain out. I've filled notebooks and blank paper with poems, stories, insight and verse to persuade, invoke and amuse. There have been moments where such inspirations have crushed others in mid thought only to imply that only the worthy thought may survive to be written down and remembered for what greatness it may bring. In those magnificent highs I've always had her by my side cheering me on the loudest.

And so, I can feel her warm breath and enticing fingers work my hair loose, whispering what I want to hear and what I need to be said. She continues to question me on why didn't I continue to pursue my original desires and needs. She knows all to well that it's always a woman that seem to get between us the longest. The first, have thought me never to kneel or grovel to another ever again as she soon earned her key and made great use of it. In the end of five years I was left with a bum knee and a starved mind. It would not be long when Cecilia would arrive soon.

I can still remember the first time we've met as vividly as the shade of her crimson lips on the white ceramic cup. She seem to have awaken my creativity that I've abandoned in the conversations had. Nothing was considered taboo and everything had a hint of shame and exhilaration to it. To consider it my Renascence or at least my Restoration that would make Charles II envious. It was more than any excuse to delve into my more primal mind. Our motto became to warn other to never do once what we'd never do twice. Our escapades rivaled only by The Romantics, we sought to understand the limitation of the flesh and mind.

 As of now, Cecilia has undone my braid and have placed her legs resting on my chest as she runs her ringers through my hair. Of course, her attempt to distract me is more than blatant as she gently kisses my head. I've already asked her a few times before to understand that I need to understand my studies and that I would normally would not ignore her. She giggled richly once more and said that she knows and yet the temptation is all to delicious to ignore, adding that breaking my concentration is oh so much fun. It wouldn't take long before I abandoned my struggle and feasted upon her. After all not even a philosopher can endure the pain of a tooth ache and I'm not made of stone. 

We would see each other when possible, each time more memorable than then the next. And yet there will be a time when she would drop completely off my radar only to find herself at my door with a wicked smile and an invite to raise hell. Something about the way she drove. That abandonment that would remind me that I was no longer a corner stone, but carefree. That my every action was a cascade of potential and adventure was only a fingertip away. She fed that ignore side of me that craved diversion and fostered a love for the moment that still lingers with me today.

As all great love affairs she has left me with no end. As a cat would journey away from home to die, Cecilia would not be seen again. There would be signs and a few markers to show me that she was always near and even now my muse shares her image always beguiling me to venture out of the safety of my comfort zone and to stand out brave against the World. "Let Byron envy our love fore we shall not take to sick bed, but plunder the day regardless of what may come." Her words of always pushing me onwards.

Seize the day.

Hmmmm.....hard to settle knowing that the day was once seized, no?

And yet, we move on.

Ah....my world for her once more. If only to stand against it once again.

"Come on home"

Love's Naloxone Or Taking the Anti-love pill. Part Five - A Life Of Illusion: Prologue

Prologue

There is a cultural divide that places American cinema in a campy genre that seem to stagnate with hero worship, phallic challenges of manhood, and at least ten explosions for every exposed pair of breasts. In contrast, I tend to lean towards Japanese Samurai movies which instead of concentrating on the awesomeness of the lead role it tend to expose humanity in greatness and then to bring an end to the such, ensuring it immortality rather than fan boys arguing if their octogenarian is great or super great. Leaning towards immortality rather than the use of well worn masks that make grown men the target of pity, I'd rather face the end leaving some question to the imagination rather than destroy the mystery of the moment.

Understanding that I usually favor a third person view rather than anything personal in exhibiting my personal experiences, I'm going to attempt to keep this exchange palpable and tangible. I will restrain from hiding behind the comfort of language and the assumption that many refuse to look up the meaning of a multi-syllable word or the hidden meaning behind a simplistic thought. They are my defense mechanism as well as my means to paint an image that some moments seem to be beyond my regular grasp. So in the spirit of Glasnost as a true child of the 80's would know, I will attempt to sit still and find comfort in not using the amazing skill of hiding.

In attempting to end this, I wanted to find the correct ending theme since I've so confidently strode forward into a simple plot use that offered an anchor for some to follow. Using lyrics to convey deeper meaning seems to have replaced the eternal words of great poets and playwrights. I weep for the new generation who modern bards simply repeat the same lyric or group efforts where noise and doctored sound to mask guttural grunts. And yet, using this method of conveyance I could not find the ending that I sought so much while writing the others. How can I simply end an ongoing process that may bring change a week later? To bring solitude to an ensuing journey would only expose myself to the arrogance of such a thought.

And so, I decided to use the play of role in which the world's stage was built on. Perhaps the rising of another life, I can not help to borrow on the use of illusions to masquerade our true motives. I know, I ramble on. And letting go always seems the hardest near the end. And with this, onwards to my story.

Love's Naloxone Or Taking the Anti-love pill. Part Four - Running To The Edge Of The World

Walking in past the door the bag dropped with a rude sound as he quickly stripped down to his running shorts he wore under his pants. The house was dark and dead to the world as he like it and would only last a few hours, so time was short. He stumbled into the darkness as he found a warm, torn shirt, the one that he wore on day when the world seem it's heaviest. He made one more trip into the kitchen and filled a tall glass with ice until he lost a few pieces. They were not important now or ever. They will melt and evaporate before he would get up again.

Once at his desk he pulled at the latch in his drawer and pulled a small bottle he kept for these moments. He poured out the contents and choose one of each color, making note that he had to refill it soon when he head West. He placed them aside and pulled the bottle from the the desk and sealed up any evidence. He check the messages to be certain that the world had no use of him. Once satisfied, he took a long swallow from the clear liquid and popped both pills into his mouth. He had a few minutes and with an empty stomach he would be numb soon. Sitting in the dark, he stopped using the skill as a wave of pain overtook him and dropped him to his knees.

His eyes teared up as a wounded sound escaped his mouth. The sharpness of the sting radiated in his side as it burned deep within and exploded with each movement. He kept is mind open to it, chasing it trying to gauge it as it moved inside him as a serpent would suffocate it's meal. He counted slowly as it would rock him from his thoughts. He understood why a philosopher would never endure with any patience if they attempted to pull reason from life when the wound was too fresh. He knelt praying to no one as he wanted to prove to himself that he could. If he could endure it the day without relenting he could endure it now in the safety of no one. The warm tears lead to broken sobbing as each gasp of air inflicted it's lesson learned so early in his life. It was his best teacher. It's lesson never failed him.

The best lessons was earned with blood and pain.

Break all of their wings and make sure that it crashes

It was the greatest lesson he learned and mastered young in his life. It embodied Life and Death, Love and Hate, Reason and Chaos. A lesson that the young learned early or end up the meal of another. A lesson that endured the passing of time and would drive diversion and move the slow to adapt or die where they stood. He didn't want to believe in the lesson citing the protections of a cruel world as talismans and with some choice words would protect his with the support of arrogance and self importance. He was bold once and the bold often met the crashing wave that either humbled or killed us all. He refuted it. Nature had it's purpose and his destiny would not end oh so abruptly in any whimper least his story would remain untold. And yet, faith is a often a luxury that the well protected enjoyed without any reprimand and the broken often reached for to dull the reality of being crushed by the weight of the world.

God had nothing to do with it as much as the conversation had between himself and a few who were close enough to bleed him well enough.

If God crossed us we'd take all his drugs
Burn his money and his house down and wait for the fire to spread

The pain began to numb as he slowly return to his seat and honestly looked at the damage done. He was used to his injuries received. They were fewer now then they were in his youth. He knew that the odds were always against him and he would always be injured in one form or another. Pain was in no way a stranger to him in his youth he noted as he slowly traced scars too faded to tell their story. Something about his flaws or shortcomings that sought him in those moments that he would later beg for time to be taken back. He would rue many things then and would often cry silently into the night wondering where his path had lead him. To live an existence filled with it removed any stigma from it. As all nightmares are chased with the light, pain had a way to warp the mind and thicken the skin until the spirit gave up or the body understood it's workings. Earlier lessons made sense when life did not and pain can be controlled and adapted. A hand can caress or it can inflict pain.

After some time it didn't matter which it was. The schizophrenic's hold loosened enough to realize that a suicidal act would prove the coward. After a point a threat becomes nothing and the fearful finds solace in knowing nothing left to lose has been the driving force of every great movement. Cowards are disrobed and pushed into the fire and retribution given to an unsatisfactory wince as nothing is resolved from vengeance. Hatred only breeds abuse in one form or another. It always has.

Sometimes hate is not enough to turn this all to ashes

A curse can be made into blessing with enough resolve. With the price already paid and a skill learned in the moment of great need the weak learns to stand against whatever it may face. To remove pain is to remove fear. Without fear reckless abandon is as simple as batting an eye. Such a skill would change the meek to the vicious easily. Pipes are picked up and blood shed on dark streets. A nightly ritual that was engaged by him, he leaned how soon hypocrites are to be found when they promise unleashed hell. Fearless feel no pain. Painless lead from the point with bloodied fists and undaunted fury. And yet with each fallen on the ground it did not save him from the hell felt. Abuse spawn abuse.

Everyone turned their backs 'cause they knew
When we held on tight to each other
We were something fatal that fell into the wrong hands

His talent was backed by simple understanding that weakness was sought only to take advantage of. So many attempted to hide it in various manners as the lesson is expanded to understand that the weak is preyed and prayed upon. Weakness is shunned and is a means to bring another form of pain to another. As primitive as any drive, weakness in one allowed another to take any advantage a parasite may find. In understanding human relation, he soon leaned that everyone sough something from another in the principle gained. Love always seemed to be masked in some sort of mistrust and deception that masqueraded pain and weakness. Many clung to those who would hurt them only of some weak relation between power and abuse.

It was his time here he learned that if he could suffice in his self he would not play into such a hateful cycle. He did not want to another task master or to rule over anyone else. He could not understand if the system poisoned the mind or the mind corrupted the system, yet he knew that in various interactions that a romantic ideal as compassion was not only rare, but used as bait for a quick and ruthless hand. Principles of Love written in the suffering of the Hopeful for a moment of a future out of their grasp. As O'Brian remarked to a breaking Wilson, the Boot would continue to stomp forever. A parasitic relationship that was desired by both ends of the boot. A game of Master and Servant rather a coalition of Equals that still haunts his thoughts with those who refused to remove an abusive yolk for a unknown tomorrow for an existence of known suffering.

It still haunts him, those he had to let go. He could not save those who enslave themselves. What else can he do? A drowning man clings to his savior drowning them both unless the Boot is used once more. Voltaire and Rousseau understood that stars only shine in distances that will never be reached. It is best to mind one's own garden and to abandon all hope in freedom.

Sartre proved that "L'enfer, c'est les autres,"so could Peace be in one's own mind? Either way he would isolate himself and prevent hell from spreading.

We don't seek death, we seek destruction
Death, we seek destruction

Many years has past and the Lesson echos deeply within. After some sacrifice peace has been found and yet it is not promised as death is. It is fought for daily, with some days fill with anguish and shame and others with reckless abandon seeking old habits of self destruction. Some days are filled with others with his skill up and a mental barriers always up and protecting, seeking innuendo and a cruel spirit. Fewer days his defenses are not used in a small handful of companions with a secret security of knowing that they can always be replaced as he has been. The majority of days he attempts to find some good in his says, attempt kindness without anyone knowing his hand in play, and taking selfless action without remaining for an act of gratitude. Meaning less rules from worthless books have no purpose in bookshelves without some action behind. If the dream has ended for those awaken, must it be for those who remain asleep?

I had no choice to erase the debt of our families
Let you say goodbye with lips like dynamite

Hope must be fostered by those who have already paid the dreadful price.

His nature is to pull those close to him that he can reach. Guide others to what can be and to let them dream a little longer. Some find happiness in others while others find joy in shared experiences. They always make him wistfully miss what he may have had or what he could never. Isolation works best with a simplistic excuse to bow out in certain function. There are few moments where he craves the surroundings of others only to have them ripped apart by his own hands. He stopped attempting to find any resolution to his behavior. Solitude will always remain the safest of protection. He has already left many and many have left him. Sometimes a memory resurfaces bringing a pained smile with a quick remembrance of what ended it all.

Still for the best.

Remember when I took you up to the top of the hill
We had our knives drawn, they were as sharp as we were in love

He would sit in stupor until someone will arrive and question his injury. A shrug, abstract explanation and admittance of foolishness would end all insight as the subject is changed to something in greater need and the skill would be back up in use eliminating the pain better than any depressant could.

It's for the best, of course. It always will be best.

See a new beginning rise behind the sun
We could never catch up to them as fast as we run

His eyes closed again, recalling what he said.

"We have too much boy scout in us. That's the problem."

Love's Naloxone Or Taking the Anti-love pill. Part three - She's a mystery to me

The night was blurred in the way a fever makes everything hazy and seems to distort time and space. What he remembered was the laughing, a bottle shared of the most wretched liquid imaginable. Fingers found their way to phones as they called others to share our newly gained frivolity as sent terms of endearing love and joy to others were shared while the other giggled and laughed. It almost felt as if they lost their defenses in a manner that would not take a turn. 

The television hummed in the background of their minds as they struggled to speak between laughs. It was a moment not different from any other, they enjoyed their moments together without any reserve or apprehension. They continued to fall among stationary objects wondering what had cause them to trip upon the floor as they laughed their cares away as children often do at the mere mention of simple humor. As Jack and Jill before them, as they taken their falls with nothing to hold fast but each other and the immortality of laughter. 

  Darkness falls and she will take me by the hand
Take me to some twilight land

Where all but love is grey
Where I can't find my way
Without her as my guide

They lay besides each other as they giggled between words. And as all fairy tales there must always be an element of dread that must take hold of our cast least they should lose favor and the tale remain untold as so many times before. Conversation turns and a leap of faith turns into a drunkard's stumble with all the dexterity of one. All to honest words are shared as smiles turn still. They sit in the awkwardness and he realized that he said what he never said he would say again. The moment was too perfect and he'd fallen into a stupor that he swore off at 22 as he would swear off once more a few years pass. 

He stumbled back, not in command of his own sense but as a spectator of his own foolishness. Words may never be taken back, only owned without despair and he had no bravado left. He fell back in an anguished humiliation as he realized that his hands could not hide his error as it hid his face. She leaned in, heavy in breath as her hands found his ordered hair. Her words were soft with understanding and forgiveness as he only wish to be swallowed by the world. She spoke of his great aspects and he shook his head in denial. Treacherous tears flowed freely at her words, burning his cheeks with greater shame as he wished he was not there. He'd worked so hard to keep his wits and defenses up. Spent so much time studying the weight of his words only to have them betray his meaning with simply one glass of strong drink. What was it called again? Why was it so unbearable?

A love so sharp it cut
Like a switchblade to my heart
Words tearing me apart

He remembered shaking his head admitting that he could not recognize honesty and truth in these moments and that no one wanted what had no value. That his kind were only used in moments where it never meant well and they were tossed about as one would dispose of refuse. He could not understand the warmth of his neck nor the weight upon him, he was too involved in begging the forces that were to offer a hasten respite that almost none among Olympus would hear. The warmth of fingers were not felt loosening his restraints. Her words were not heard. Only his own attempts to silence her and or to drown out all sense. How could his tongue be so loose he pondered as she drove his mouth silent with her kiss.

 In the night of love words tangled in her hair
Words soon to disappear

His nature was torn asunder as Triune mind fought for control over a defeated id. The honesty of nimble fingers pull them closer. Breathy whispers escape as eager lips crave flesh and warmth. Skin yearns to be touched with fever rekindled and lust awakened. Physical acts emerge where no words could begin to derive meaning. And yet, a protest emerges. He tears away with inflamed protest and begins to speak. With clothing half removed and eagerness in eyes, he confesses that perhaps this is not best. His lips speak words that his hands call hypocritical as they caress warm, sweet smelling skin. He recants his quick hands and yearning loins admitting that drink may have taken the best of his actions.  Regardless of mutual lust and desire for the other he says that he can not with knowing mind allow himself to do this. He confesses his love to her and all that she means to him, yet he can not ravage her despite how he feels and how his hands still do not give way to his protest. 

He tells her that his actions must not be motivated by drink and that if he is to have her it must be a well thought out action instead. Perhaps ghosts of love past refrained him from moving on. He wanted her all, not partially. He wanted her until he took his last breath and wanted to know that she did also willingly. Small talk is had between stolen kisses and promises as they attempt to return their countenance. They smile, stealing glances at what the other carnally offers. And in a memory that will haunt him for cold nights when the blind blows her name across his face, he hands her laced bra and remarks how awe-inspiring her nipples are. A redden face with sly retort asks him if he is certain as he says watches their covering with only a sadden no to. They continue to speak until unconsciousness take him away. The moment will be robbed of him until time has pass and nothing can be done.

Night falls I'm cast beneath her spell
Daylight comes our heaven turned to hell
Am I left to burn and burn eternally

She will retain the memory even though he would simply forget what came to pass. There will be more moments when an innuendo is hinted and that moles "remain where memory is kept". He would remain puzzled and only wonder what she means. Time will pass as time takes them away from each other only to return them once more. Time has dulled is heart to an extent and she would recover from the loss of another suitor. Only death can bring them together. And only time will pull them apart.

Dormant hearts would only awaken once more creating evasion once more. There will be late hours together on achromatic couches while each craves a moment lost. He would reach out to her only to meet coldness of the moment. And yet, there is always an ache held by one or the other.  There would be hugs held longer than needed, stolen looks and secrets kept by the defensive and the forgetful. In the end, walls that hold them apart will fall and lines will be hazed. They will share abandoned moments of thought and mild drunken moments. He would always feel a piece of himself lost in those moments as he fought stupid actions not remembered and wonder why his heart aches for her in the dead silent of nights. He would write his soul to her and she would only toss him aside. He would resort to methods not his own, but offered by others who remark that there is nothing to be lost. And yes he knows that somehow he has lost enough. Her coldness in these moments hurts him deep and yet he knows not why he remains so close to her.

A fool, a motley fool at that.

She tears again my bleeding heart

I want to run she's pulling me apart
Fallen angel cry then I just melt away

He would abandon all and simply say what his heart could not contain. He would declare his love for her any moment he could, cursing the heavens for why words lacks what he so desperately needed to convey what burns him alive. He know his time is coming to an end and simply watches it slip pass fingers that can not grasp the moment. It is not to be said that they do not find moments of closeness. Teasing fingers and moist lips carve memories not to be forgotten and yet there is a restricted hold on him. She would only tease him in the end and knowing full well that the moment must end, he prepares his heart for the end it will meet.

He must not be allowed to be crushed again.

Not once more.

Distance is placed between them as he know their time is not ending. She distance herself from him, promising to visit and to be close again, yet he know there is another and vocal ques let him know she only distance herself to cut all ties. He hardens his heart once more and is not hurt at the goodbye he receives. Not the sound of voice but a cold social faux pas of a modern manifestation asking him to leave her be and to allow her to learn to love. He lets go without and moves on. It will be months before he would begin to piece together that lost moment.

He would move among the living once more as he was once before, carrying a sense of loss that he could not comprehend. He simply lost a damaged relationship and a girl that may have been something more. He lost her and he simply walked away covering all track behind him, hoping that she would not find him again. Well learned habits would kick in ensuring that he remained hidden as he faced greater challenges at the moment. He would attempt to reclaim his body, struggle to finish his studies and come to the aid of a friend who heart was left broken. He would gather the broken hearts of many once more and inspire love that he never has had nor could inspire in himself. There will be questions asked at which his shoulders would only give a slight rise and quick thought would only change the moment. He could not understand why she remains in his mind for so long until he heard the echos of words said to him repeated to his brother.

"We have too much boy scout in us. That's the problem."

Haunted by her side
It's the darkness in her eyes
That so intrigues me
But if my love is blind
Then I don't want to see
She's a mystery to me

Love's Naloxone Or Taking the Anti-love pill. Part two - Hurt

Trying to begin this entry is as hard as swallowing the desert a spoonful at a time.You never know how to start, the task will be long and painful and you know you can never put a dent in it regardless of how hard you have tried. Trying to cut to the bone would only condemn me rather than to offer insight or any compassion. Even Milton offered Satan a soliloquy and chance of compassion before committing any atrocities.

Funny, I'd never thought I'd associate myself with him early in life. And yet, Milton offers him not as an elemental force of evil and corruption, but as the example of true humanity and the pitfalls that lays wait for someone who attempts to attain a sense of humility and servitude to an unaccountable deity that offers no explanation or comfort, but a cold resolute of insignificance that offers only horror in ones core.

They call me rebellious and yet what other means did I have?

I still hold those moments close. I often recollect them in a mixture of calm abhorrence and remorse for actions I've committed that still haunt me. Reflecting on them with a sage's understanding, well earned patience and scarred understanding of what is right and wrong. Always questioning my methods and practices asking the hard question, hoping for some forgiveness that time has promise, finding none.

How will I find the redemption if I can not offer myself absolution?

Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair 

There are moment when I can't help to abandon any hope, not in romantic intentions held by Byron or Shelly, but out of near necessity. I honestly, don't have the time to doubt my actions as of now or to question my reason at this point. And yet with my mind I can't help to analyze my motives with every move. Thoughts scoured multiple times before uttering as Avey once showed me, in hopes of gaining greater understanding of the weight of my words and the meanings they offer to others. Perhaps my monkish behavior is my way of paying penance for an action taken or for behavior not corrected until now. In understanding, pain is the vessel that bring meaning into being. It offers us the the true value of the cost of our action and inaction.

I dare not offer excuse. It would only give insult to injury. In the grand scale of it all it doesn't matter. The creative use of insight and facts doesn't correct what was committed or clean off any slate stained. It only removed responsibility from the hands of those who took part regardless of why. Blood stained hands offer no resolution to our infractions nor does it paint us as heroes or saints. Washing ones sin only removes the marker from present view rather than from out conscious. Our minds hold fast on these images not to offer insight or thought, but to remind us with relentless alarm that something went wrong. It doesn't matter if we utter some guttural mumbling on how we were not to be blamed or that we simply followed rather than question. I ask not for the marker of my trespasses to be cleansed. I'd rather hold them as reminder that we are not noble among beasts or pious outside of our own imagination

I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real 

Perhaps it's why I question everything now. Mayhaps it why I'm am most zealous in having everyone to ask the hard questions and to stare down the elephant in the room instead of ignoring it for some social canon. To err is human and even with that we can not help to cause suffering in our actions unless we take in all that we affect in order to bring hold a greater understanding of our motives and causes. I do not ask for devotion, but understanding. I do not require perfeckion, but patience. I do not ask for praise, but for compassion. I know my limitations and know with every reflection that I can be the worse of humanity. I can corrupt, destroy, distort, and lay waste behind me without any remorse.

Seeing yourself in the worse light possible gives a well pain understanding. It lets us know we can inspire hatred and fear in the eyes that fall upon us. It causes us remain in shadow for relief rather than need. It taints us and makes us nothing greater than vicious and nothing nobler than savages. I do not need forgiveness of those ordained. I need this weight upon my shoulders to know when the next preventable atrocity will be committed. If I can prevent another act of violence upon another then my price paid will cover them also. In a world filled with so much pain and violence, how could we not save others from our own living nightmares?

That is what makes me a survivor. I'm decreed with not a title, but a responsibility to never forget and to never let the same evil come to pass. There is nothing greater than this.

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

And with every price paid it offers both positive and negative results. It gives us both sight, but it often takes more than what we are willing to give. In this, I understand my shortcoming. I know when I'm limited. And yet, I can't see where the veins of this has reached until I find the manifestation of this.

What am I trying to say?

With all of this, I can't help to feel I'm not a complete human being. I can't help to feel that I carry a stain on my that will harm others I come in contact with. I can not help to feel that I can not be around people for too long without causing some sort of outbreak that will only bring others down.

There are moments when I feel nothing but hatred and anger. As much as I attempt to separate these feelings from those closest to me, I know that I sometimes carry an aura of suffering, anger, destruction, mayhem, a a desire to see all around me burn. And anger that have cost me more after the fact than at the moment it had happen. It causes me to lose restraint and collection. Hold these moments force me to ostracism and isolation. It prevents me to remain close to those I already have near. It reminds me that I will lay waste all around me sooner or later. I'm slow to anger, but my fury is relentless. I will draw blood. I will hurt. I will cause suffering on a level that will scar the mind and offer not resolve. I can terrorize and beguile and commit the unimaginable without a second of defense.

Those sparse moments usually have me in tears soon after. A moment of lapse judgement and an eternity of anguish afterwards. Heavy guilt and pain sets in. For an action that took place in a blink of an eye I will bury myself in greater shame.

Everyone I know
goes away
In the end  

Everyone does. Sadly, it's usually by my own hand.The fear to interact with another life and bring a chance of suffering to another holds my head heavy. I push those near me farther away in hopes of saving them from what I can do. Limit myself with only so much contact and going over brings me anxiety. Having people around me for too long brings a feeling of fear that I may be found out that I am not who they think I am. That my past will catch up me and condemn me to days of future past. A facade humanity and compassion. Someone who should have been driven away or burned. to be hunted down and strung up for all to see how low Man does fall. To be made into example and told in stories to frighten children from thinking twice and to accept what the authority demands without query.

I've broken a few mirror in my time. A scarred hand is an easy enough exchange than having to stare into my own eyes. If I look too closely I don't see hatred.

I see sorrow.

The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here  

In truth, the topic is love that I write. It's what drives us to take embrace with those closest to us and to desire only the best for them. It forces us to protect and nurture. It forces us to defend and makes us invested. It can make use greater than who we are now. It can also make us lesser than who we are. It's a primal feeling that intermingles with jealousy and lust. It can not be explained on an evolutionary level until we are able to form words and figures to attempt to express to others the elemental drive that causes us to abandon all hope and thought. It causes us to mutilate ourselves figurative, mentally and physically to appease another. It pulls us in a warm embrace that can be followed by a choice that many of us face. Meatloaf declared it simply and is still used to question. It forces us to honestly as what we are able to commit in order to continue the release of chemicals that keep us in an induced stupor.

To say that I committed everything out of love offers no reprieve. It does not pardon us or make us less to blame. It doesn't make the situation easier, but makes us selfish. We mock those whose are addicted to a substance, but what is it to be said that love cannot be used in the same manner. How can it not be a weapon in the hands of others? How can it not be used to cause pain and suffering? Does it simply become ignored because it's euphoria advances life? So does war. So does any form of conflict.

In my experienced life, I can honestly say that love can kill. It can kill who we were and make us less than we were. It can make us into the worst we can be.

It's that powerful. It has that kind of hold that one can create or they can destroy. The only difference is the direction. It's elemental and primal and to understand the weight of it will cost you as it cost me.

Heart break? No. No. It was not a heart break. It was worse. I'm still cleaning up that mess. I'm still trying to make things right.

What have I become
My sweetest friend

It's perhaps this that keeps me studying my thoughts, language, and motives. It's perhaps this that has me attempting to understand the meaning of something that poets will can not agree on. It has me understanding how people are always willing to give into the those actions in order to feel special. I have to admit, my happiness is usually derived from other sources and yet it can not help to intermingle with love. I can't help to wonder if the person across the room would be my solution. My sanctuary from it all. I'm not made of stone regardless of how others and myself may see it. And yet, I'm very cautious on how I interact with others and what level of endearment I should allow myself to approach. In truth, I always reach the end that allows me to walk away. I love them enough or more to never interact with them.

Perhaps I do love you all?

And yet, I can not help moments like these when I know how it will end. How I continue to ponder the right way of accomplishing it with the least amount of backlash to others. I know time is a factor and when things are right I will go the way so many of my kind have gone. I've lived multiple lives and rose from different ashes as different people. Yet at my core is this weight that year after year only remind me of what a foolish act can wroth. I continue to smile and laugh. I continue to pull those on the way side and pull their weight until they can stand once more. I fight for what is right and will stand against what isn't. My life is not my own as yours has never been. We are all in this together and the more we cut the other the more we bleed ourselves.

I make no excuses and advertise myself as anything other. I offer caution to not get too comfortable. I will leave you in one way or another. I will pass the time, but my time is limited if not by my own hand than by means that I've come to accept so long ago. I will always love you as you deserved to be loved, but not in the way you want it to be.

And yet, I still catch myself looking over and returning a smile. Somethings can not be helped. And still, I know where I will be in the end. 

If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way

Love's Naloxone Or Taking the Anti-love pill. Part one-Somebody's crying

Some songs come to mind when walking in the rain easier than others. You usually catch yourself humming or singing them under your voice not realizing what you are doing until some outside attention is placed on them. They flow just under the radar as small messages from your subconscious in hopes of including you in the thoughts you either avoid or as not too well aware of. For me at this moment it was Chris Isaak's Somebody's crying. The song has a good amount of history with me, but the lyrics that finally woke me up were..

But if you cry at night the way I do I'll know that somebody's lying. 

It's odd how certain songs carry us into thoughts past and give us a deeper insight to a flashing moment that remained in our minds. These moments usually are replayed in my mind in order to understand human interaction, body language and the art of saying what is not said while making what is being intended. As Sun Tzu declared over the use of spys, that the real battles were determined on paper with ideas before the first sword was drawn. Understanding what lies in the eyes of another in many cases allows us to get that edge that allows us to change a moment, win a conflict or to remain hidden a while longer. Deception, innuendo, and masquerade all allow us to move pieces on the board always searching for the advantage. 

Forgive me if I seem to dig deeper into what may seem. I only get like this when I'm dealing with the matters of the heart or in this case the love. I seem to agree with Shakespear's Henry V when matters of love come up an tactical and analytical mind rises up rather than an open and honest heart. Or to quote King Henry directly,

yet my blood begins to
flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor
and untempering effect of my visage. Now, beshrew
my father's ambition! he was thinking of civil wars
when he got me: therefore was I created with a
stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when
I come to woo ladies, I fright them. 

And yet, I can say that my aspect of Iron was earned not though birth, but the need for a thicker skin and the ability to be treacherous in the absence of the ability of lying. And yet surrounded with the plight of the heart of those around me I can't help to feel a bit relieved to be in a protected position. It's not that I don't have an admiration for the feeling or that I would not mind having someone near me to share my life. And yet, I seen it in so many people. People who you would depend on a correct answer that would matter in a pinch with some stability and truth become the worst of their nature rather than the best. Women who I'd be honored to hold palaver with reduced to repetitive sniveling girls with no regards to the moment intrigued in only their aspect of importance ignoring all. Men who would face difficulty in wide strides without an utterance of wavering doubt now weak kneed and unworthy of being called men by the ones who left their deep tracks before us. 

There has to be something in this chemically or genetically that has such a hold on us all. I understand that evolution is dictated not by the ability to be strong, swift or cunning, but by the libido of the female. Who they choose to mate increases our path into existence and yet, there is some moments that have me wonder why. Men can not remain unmoved at the feet of a crying woman unless he knows that tears may be used for an angle. Men are attracted to the physical shape of a woman, specifically the thighs and breasts not just because they are very enjoyable places to wander with a lingering touch, but because evolution drives us to choose a mate with the best breeding stock to perpetrate the species. Pheromones, body language, posturing and acts of pea cocking all move us into survival.

And yet, we are so stupid when it comes to simple human interaction. Mayhaps, love is an evolutionary derivative that we developed in response to greater mind potential and upright posture. Or even it's a mistake we have committed so long that we are able advance with even though committing the act cause us difficulty. I know reading goes against how our minds operate and yet, Barbra Bush pushed on with her cause. And yet, days ago I see boys holding handful of red balloons and flower and other costly tokens of courting to giggling girls who actions betray their true age. Even those who make much ado about the nothingness of a capitalistic and empty ceremony are secretly looking from the other side with a doubt of apprehension to their resolve if cookies were left on their door knob or a note left under the door. We are shallow as this and I have to lump myself into the group on the grounds of potential if not action. 

I've take a few paths down life and I've always been allowed to question what I see if not to discredit what is but to understand what it isn't. I know that I've been in those shoes in many forms and have committed metal atrocities worse than what I bring complaint on, so if it's anyone who can say that we act irrational it would have to be me. I've been characterized as romantic in nature and purpose. Someone who would chase the girl down and plunge in for that kiss. Someone who carries the scars of not of error, but of blind devotion on my person. Someone who has done what Leonardo have committed outside of dying for a woman in which would be the prize of all and the woman in question would win at the game of love as a matador would take his two ears and a tail. 

If there is anyone who has had more regrets, heart breaks, and "what the fuck am I doing" moments, it would have to be me. I'm shocked that my blood work is as clean as it is and that I'm able to give blood at all. So to declare that if asked on my feelings of love in my personal view and not in the way the world works or the greater picture of how things should be, I have to say that falling in love is the emotional equivalent of stepping in shit. 

No seriously. Take a moment. Think about it. You are not initially happy, but surprised, perhaps exasperated at the realization. You discover that your grasp on logic and being has become skewed and in many ways your analytical train of thought has gathered a good amount of error that makes you doubt everything. People around you become baffled and question your behavior and resolve as they learn very quickly that they have to now deal with the loss of a reasonable human being (Some of you are not and I'm not going to call out names least you think that this is about you exclusively, you vain dolt. Snap out of it there is a world outside of you) and now deal with someone who now walk in an intoxicated state that can only lead to trouble. If I moved about drunk as some would move about in love I'd would have less teeth in my head and morn the loss of intellect due to the death of active brain matter from blunt force trauma. 

It's like being the designated drive in a car full of happy drunks. You don't get the funny and they're just annoying the shit out of you.

*To be Continued*

Missing the ocean for the journey

“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

It's kind of awkward looking at the screen. It reminds me of those chanced moments when you run into the last person you expect to see at the time you would never want to be found. Those individuals that know you coming and going so that words become a useless medium of communication. In a glance, more can be told and revealed than any attempt to speak.

Mayhaps it's why I refuse to keep people after a while since I feel they already know me more than I ever would. Those people repulse me more than the plague, knowing full well that I already find myself dull in most of my breathing moments and I'd rather not hear any amens. 

And yet, there is an unresolved drive that I would describe closely to breathing or getting off that drives me to endure the blankness of the screen in hopes of prying some coherent thought that somehow equate to my purpose on this spinning stone set in the vastness of dead space. Purpose and meaning. A need and desire to know that I am not hear to take up meaningless visage, but to inspire hope, provoke thought and to offer another train of thought where someone bold may just follow as a child chases a stream until they realized they are lost deep in their own thought and have to rediscover their path homewards.

I can not grasp the meaning of my being at times and I often fall into chains of thought that pull me deeper inside the ramblings of free and evasive thought that seem to slip away from ones fingers as fish often do in small spaces or dreams seem to linger as sweet kisses that fade into nothingness leaving only that feeling of warmth with no flame. I can sense these days simply waking and knowing that my day will not end until I've somehow calmed an eagerness without cause and knowing that I rather remain in shadows than to convince others of my self inflicted madness as one would avoid a great horror by committing great harm without lingering memory.

In these moments detachment is easy. I've spent days such as these sitting too long in a position only to have primal calls awaken me with such fervor and reminding me of my mortal responsibilities and that man must live at least on bread when thought yield empty calories. At the moment I realize that I'm much too wordy as an ironic casting to Wordsworth meaningless banter and child like zeal to fill pages with flowery and useless language with the intention of declaring that grass is green. I'd rather be more romantic and simply sighing more knowing that the words of the Bard ripped apart in some meaningless mulch the Mumfords seem to bastardize in some action of being different in a room of mindless copycats.

I can see easily that this post is meaningless and has as much importance as a limerick to loosen a tied tongue or a drink to instill bravery in cowardly kissers. I simply empty my mind as feminine fowl would spew nourishment to begging beaks. My meaning is lost in language not found to myself or to a lover who begs to be spanked only to reveal a crying moment rather any eroticism. All moments that pass and not worthy of a second glance. Purpose lost and meaning just far enough from paradise that miles and inches have no defining difference.

And in an empty action I remain unfulfilled and confidence loosened by the unmet purpose. Was there any reason to write or did I simply need to shake off stiff limbs to continue on to some other action?

Then again, it's not you sitting in the dark wondering if I served a purpose today when I know that there is so much more to be done at this moment that time lost is not a luxury that I can afford. Mental stretches has been had and I don't see any other use than to say nothing for this long.

Unless I've said it all without us noticing.

"Have you ever watched a crab on the shore crawling backward in search of the Atlantic Ocean, and missing? That's the way the mind of man operates." H. L. Mencken

Redemption Songs *working title*

I was going to write this one by December, yet certain events have come about and prevented me from writing this. Perhaps it's the curse of staring into a blank screen and knowing that words fail you. Mayhaps its due to understanding  how defensive I am with my thoughts and knowing that in certain cases I must be able to articulate what is meant without fallacy if I am to reach what is meant without people with nets knocking on my door. Thinking each thought at least 7 times searching for unintentional innuendo and shallow meaning, I can not bear to simply state what is without giving the depth of meaning that so many close to me have actually come to expect from me. And so, I will attempt to make my case to you in hope of simultaneously arriving to my chain of thought on why instead having you have me committed in an hour.

I think it was watching this film that has removed any knot from my mental being and lessened my symbolic tongue to express myself with a sense of meaning and purpose. You may want to take a moment to take a look before you begin to read any further. Do not worry. I will not be leaving any time soon.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZU6-9pxYTmM&feature=share

Heavy, no?

I think it hit me a year or two ago when I was studying anatomy. That moment of clarity that comes from 10 to 12 hours of studying a day in order to know the names of muscles and bones as well as the anatomical meaning. I've never been good at memorizing without meaning and can attribute my lack of exemplary proof in my transcript. And yet, the meaning of it all hit me hard and with a shudder. It tabulated everything at that moment and I was able to see the magnificence of the realization. Studying the diagram of severed muscles pinned askew exposing others with small flags diagramming them all. The delicate severance of sinew  and tendon. the nakedness of bone. The arm stopped being an organism, a conjunction of balanced actions and counter movements.

It became me. It was you. It was everyone. It was all of us. It was the majority of life on this small orb. It showed the difference of what is and what was. It split time and space. It held mystery and potential. It had hidden meaning and purpose. It represented love and compassion. Evil and cold emotionless cruelty. It had lived to caress, strike, hold and motion. It had ended in silence and lost function and yet it still held on to the meaning it had once held. Everything and nothing.

The arm was once alive.

If I held an ounce of religious thought within my being at this moment I'd would have thanked God. And yet, here it was and here we were in a time of war, anguish, cruel and cold manipulation of the the mind of man in order to improve the lives of few rather than the many. I could not help myself to honestly question. It was then once more that I picked up my tattered book by a man who died not too long ago. Having read it at first I thought that the limitation of divinity simply expressed the corruptions of man and the perversions of mankind. Reading it once more it yielded thoughts that I could not simply answer as quick and simple. It allowed me to think back at my own thoughts and actions of a future past and a resent memory. It forced me to question my purpose, meaning, and action. It caused me to entertain thoughts and ideas that I feared and hoped I'd never had to deal with.

In truth, it killed a certain part of me. Freedom is not always best in some ways. It represent so much potential, yet without guidance or a method of questioning it simply opens up a world that we were not ready to comprehend. Freedom is slavery after all. Simply giving someone freedom is not enough. Freedom has to have some meaning. It has to be tangible and have some measure amount of energy and mass least it become empty and intangible. Simply saying that I free you means nothing. Blind do not simply see, nor deaf hear, or dumb speak. To believe it so is to believe in instant karma and easily dispensed peace. Seeds do not contemplate freedom. They struggle to grow and to strive without limitations or expectations in order to do what so many question as impossible.

After all how do bees fly?

The most immediate symptom what showed was my lack of aggression towards another human being. At that moment I did not want to harm another person. I committed many acts with my hands and many out of ignorance, and yet it's not excuse as so many well meaning individuals usually state under oath. And yet the complete weight was not on me as of yet. I can not call it shock since it has taken so long to show. If anything it simply is the collapse of a system of thought that was also Alpha and Omega. Can we honestly question at the importance of a good act is the math does not add up? Can't we simply rule out coherent thought and call it a miracle?

Doing so leaves us in positions that cost us more than our humanity. I can honestly say that I do not care to think of my past. I do not want to review what has been in order to understand what will be. I've done so the past 10 years in order to put meaning to fallacy and substance to paper mache Mephistopheles. It rids us our nightmares of childhood and replace them with true terror of willing hands and high beliefs. Circular thought collapses as a snake eats it's tail and yet it does not void time and space by becoming naught.

What is will always be and what is not will remain so. If there is any change reread what what you just read.

I think this has cause me to understand something that I'm still attempting to encompass with sane thought as one would take in the size of something immense. Something that goes beyond the eye as the mind attempts to take it all in. Three things happened to change time and space. They happened and they changed my outlook and yet not my drive. I'll start with what was, explain the happening and the meaning of what came about and I'll attempt to find a grasp on what is.

I've come to the conclusion a year ago that I was going to kill myself last month. Perhaps it was more of a thought experiment with a hard expiration or an attempt to find another windmill. I approached the thought as I would approach any problem to see if it was first solvable or if it didn't exist. I searched for the imaginary and where zeros would hide. I was as if approaching a a vast mountain a long distance away. It held promise and solution at a abstract distance and it allowed me to live a bit differently than it has before.

If there is no change then there is no life. Monotony kills us all at a slow numbing rate that we can not witness as you can not tell that you are dying at the moment. Cells dying at a rate that does not reach your rate of growth and yet without any change there is no growth. Without growth there is nothing but end. It either comes sooner or later. Perhaps I'm simply a bit more sensitive on the matter than most of you here. Whilst I live two lives more than the regular person I know the meaning of end and the illusion of a clean start. Hatchets do not remain burred, closets empty of skeletons and action without the cost of meaning. For every degree of knowledge pain must be paid in the same amount.

In truth, I've spent the past few years attempting to improve or correct what was done by careless actions and thoughts. To say that blood does not stain my hands is to say that the sun rises in the west and yet there is something about redemption that causes us all to correct what we have wrought without  the comfort of excuse or the relief of denial. There are some moments in truth that we can never make better. Some of us never realize that. We blind ourselves with what we can and simply make meaningless motions that in truth offer only an opiate's release than the relief of clarity.

Some of us are happy in our delusions. I'm not among them. And so, I decided to die. And yet, I know myself quite well. I'm not able to put down anything and call it an end without having given it my best attempt. I had to live. I had to live well and without any limitation. Understanding that energy is neither created nor destroyed I could not have any regrets. That and I could not let on. I simply seen the moment as the end of a moment of time. We all do it. Everything has it's end and yet we do not take a moment of time to honestly take to mind what if this was the last time we brushed our teeth. Walked through puddles or left cold and warmth. Reading my fill of zen I've come to understand that I understand nothing and must simply be in the moment in order to achieve and moment of satisfaction. Not more that my fill nor less. And so, a year ago I arrived that the thought that I must treat it with some serious thought and receive each moment as my last and have no regrets. 

Odd, you never know how well you live until you decide that it's time to die. At this point, I'll play my cards close to my chest and keep from you on my hows and whens. If it's anything that I hate more than anything in this world is having anything with well thought time behind it simply unravel. All I could say that it would have been simple, no remains would be left to be dealt with and there would be no surprises. Many have done it before me, removing themselves from a group while everyone moved on without them and with no ceremony. A passing thought if any. I still hold it close and hope to that it's how I will end my life. My choice rather than an act of stupidity, disease, or a burden on anyone.

Detachment, I've mastered it. A survival mechanism that allowed me to figuratively and physically cut myself off from anything, anyone, and everything. It allows for clear thoughts and quick actions when hell breaks through. It allows me to walk away and continue to move without hesitation or connection. It promotes my loss of deep memory or secret kept significance which I've lost so long ago. It allows only for a moment of embrace and a quick fading feeling of warmth. Transcending foolish actions that can cut deeper than steel and numbs limbs in order to do what must be done because we can and must.

In truth, my sacrifice is a price paid that no one else would have to pay. I've made peace with it so long ago and regardless of who may enter or leave in my existence it provides me it the initial movement to perform damage control and reduce the suffering of others. You can either kneel and suffer for what is lost or see it as a price paid to prevent another loss. And yet, my loss numbs me to what is lost.

Please don't pity. It what is.

 *Can't write more right now. I still need to ponder and think. I'm not too sure what I'll do and when. Let's just say I'm still going through the math. That and I would rather write this with a clear mind to look over rather than a whim. If there is anything I learned never to do....again....it's to never act on a urge or thought without taking time to grock about it.*