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.*

Three Strange Days, revisited

Listening to Chris Isaak, while turning the cold piece of steel, has a surreal feeling to it as if I’ve done this before only to realize that it’s simply a moment of Future Past.  I’m writing this simply in a n attempt of piecing together my sanity as a frightened child pulls fragments from some china chachki, hoping that the glue will hold and that there are no missing or powdered pieces. In the matter of a week, I’ve ended up with a cut down my wrist, having to take a knife away from the drunkenly stupid, having to play the villain on xmas eve, and missing out on Chinese today.

I swear, somewhere somebody is crying.

I know. Some of you are wondering what the hell happened. You’ve just seen me a few days ago and how the hell could I have this shit just happen in the matter of a few days. If I knew I’d would have hidden myself in a Norman Rockwell dream including the white picket fences and the Holly Jolly Sandy Clause leaving me gifts under a moonlit night. Then again, I’ve never really had Heroin, although I hear it’s to die for and it’s all the rave since it replaced that nasty finger that goes down the throat. 

I know. You’re trying to keep up with the thoughts and wondering if I will ever give the symbolism a rest and simply speak plain. Sorry, even though my usual response would have you removing it from my cold, dead hands a la Charles, I still need to live in the spaces between what is  real and what is in the either. I’ve learned too early in this choppy life line that you can’t return to reality all too soon unless you wish to gain affinity to crash and burn. I need to keep things in an unattached, and abstract frame of mind unless I would have to have someone shake me to stop the screaming. 

I’m trying, ok? I’m trying. 

It’s funny how history’s greatest moments have been in the cause of a woman, or a hog, or over some stupid insult over a meaning of a word. People never see it as it is happening, yet with the glory of hindsight you can actually sit down and ask yourself what the fuck were people thinking about. Honestly, would you have hung around Poland without your foreskin? Would you have told Ronnie that fucking with the Russians using Afghanistan is not a good idea for the New York skyline? Or that John should not sign autographs in front of his high rise? Little moments in time that slip by in the blink of an eye as quick as a sigh or a regret. 

I’m still trying to get hold of the events in some sort of a timeline. To understand that I’ve saved someone’s life again and all it cost me was a little bit of blood and a handy skill of a silver tongue. I mean, it’s not just for helping your partners hit that soprano’s high notes! Since I’ve learned the use of my tongue I’ve have to say that I’ve learned to keep from getting shot, stabbed, beaten, and many other act of vengeance that I would have not have looked forward. Yet, today I’d have to say that it has actually saved someone’s skin. Someone who have no idea who the hell I am or how close they were of having the the living shit beaten out of them over some air of bravado or insult of honor. 

Guys, seriously. I’m talking to you. You, fucker. You. Your dick is not that big. I’m telling you this not because I’m interested in the size of your wiener, but interested in preventing some of the stupidest shit to happen. You are not that big. I don’t care if you can beat down someone with it, you are not that big. You are not your dick. Get your head out of your fucken ass and understand that you are not in the fucking south with honor killing and this macho bullshit of not getting respect. Seriously, son. If you want that deep down respect and look of admiration, get out of your pants and use your fucken brain.

Mutherfuckinghell!!!!!! *angry tantrum that is more guttural gurgling than coherent diction*

You know. You make plans on how things would go so nicely and smoothly and yet things just get so messed up over stupidity and alcohol. I mean alcohol. IF anything needed to be licensed or prescribed it would have to be alcohol. I mean if you can’t think clearly enough, or become an asshole or if you can’t recognize that since you are drunk and your thought patterns are not the best, booze is not for you. Seriously. You need to be referred to the weed man to calm your ass to the point that you are not even coherent or mobile if you are going to be this stupid. 

So, in the matter of a few days everything has come full circle. I’m going to say just enough to protect the chronically stupid yet I think you can get enough of an idea of the living hell I’ve endured. In the past three days, a dog was lost, children cried on xmas night, accusations was tossed around, a car full of mutherfuckers was rolled, my wrist was almost slit open, my plea for peace and humanity over some guy’s case who I have no idea who they are, and the dog comes back. 

Yes, the dog comes back. Seems some little girl liked him so much she took it home and never bothered to ask who placed the collar on its neck. I swear, I wanted to look for the muther fucking cameras. I was expecting Tiny Tim or at least some cameo followed by silent night being sung. The sight of the stupid over this little, yapping dog and not at the guy with the bloody wrist could have not placed more of a cherry over the ironic sundae. The look of dumbfounded stupidity and contemplation over what could have been done in the name of honor and big balls. What could have been done?

Seriously, someone needs to write this movie. You thought Forrest Gump was a money maker. I’ve given up with the book. I don’t have enough words to express some of this shit. I guess it saved me both time and effort in talking to the chronically stupid as well as the amount of blood that I was losing. 

Seriously, a Four Non Blonds moment. Am I getting a dollar for every seriously I say, cause I want my cut at this point.

In the end, my cut wasn’t that serious. My point was proven in not jumping to conclusions over who stole a dog or who is a witch.  And I still have that knife that cut me. Dave, you’re so right. Just prepared in getting cut. The stupid just rolled out with their machismo between their legs without a word. I sit here now with the physical hopes of a liberated Cuba trying to get my mind around the idea that stupidity almost killed. Not mine, but someone else’s. Perhaps I was stupid. In my act of standing against if I suffered it and if I look far enough I could say that I was stupid myself for saying a damn bloody thing. Perhaps I should have let the shit hit the fan and just let things fall where they may. Ha, and perhaps I would have been happy with shootings on my street and more acts of stupidity.

And yet, I wonder how many of these ghosts of xmas past have I endured that were like this? I mean, how many of these have I endured? How many of these stupid moments have I lived through and oddly enough the pile gets a little high and unsightly.  I expand the though now and think of the entire month. How many Decembers have been filled with future humorous moments to make a great story after the scars have disappeared a little? 

“All things pass into the night.”

Geesh…my plans went out of the window. Least I know I’m not going to slit my wrist when I kill myself. That just hurts.

Mumbled madness meant meaninglessly mindful

“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe...." Frankenstein~Mary Shelly

"Seem that this living nightmare has gotten too crowded for two fears to exist." ~mumbled madness meant meaninglessly mindful

Like everything I end up writing I have no idea of where I'll end up or what will come of it and yet I submit to what graves I may end up disturbing in hopes of a better ideal.

Oh wait......you're wondering where I've been and why it's taken me so long to write and to share another piece of my madness ridden mind with all of you? Perhaps beg your forgiveness for not prostrating myself and making myself worthy of your voyeuristic curiosity? That I owe you for some certain amount of indignant treatment that I have come to administer to you on my selfish and dis attached behalf? Hmmmmmm.....that?

Well, perhaps I should apologize to you, my shadowed reader for my absence of glasnost and that I should offer you some beguiled satisfaction. You do have a point and yet, you'd most likely be the one unleashing angst at groundhogs for their fickle fears at their own shadows. Either way, I'd simply say that why not be happy that I'm here than to make me regret getting back at you. After all if you wanted me to return to you fast, I'd would have crossed a few bottled messages on my path to egress.


...and so, as Pushkin would say, Onwards with my story.


A memory keeps replaying in my mind of an age past and the hurt of a torn heart masqueraded as bravado and romantic fate. Walking the streets of Redondo with a cigar in mouth, I face the sea rain with a moment of introspection and determined focus on why I would even allow myself to be placed in such a cameo role in my own love life. And yet, I simply walked on in a westerly manner into the oncoming storm.

The faint anger of gulls and the taste of salt as my cigar smoldered in my wet fingers, my world this one moment of time. I knew that I would have to return to a moment where I was everyone's lifeline and protector, a role more inflicted upon me due to the need of the moment rather than any chivalry. This moment was mine alone and with some hindsight I could see that I would have to relive a bit more indignities of being me for the comfort of a friend in need in the near future. In moments like these I've always wondered how my greatest strength was my weakness rather than any bravado. This was one of the few moments where I'd be vulnerable and scared at any feeling of love with the understanding that it will only shred me into emotional tatters than inspire me to act of greatness. It could be challenged that my greatest acts of evil has been a selfish yearning to be loved and mayhaps understood.

I've always had an affinity towards Mary Shelly. Not only had she traveled among the greatest group of vagabonds and mental gypsies ever collected, but in the act of living they would create the greatest literary movement in English literature in my humble, and perhaps foolish opinion. Romantics understanding that the world rallies against us and yet we can not even raise our own standard to pull together ourselves against any onslaught of approaching devastation. We can only stand against what wickedness comes our way with a brave and yet frivolous act of strength which many account in history has only declared silence is not mockery at our foolish and meaningless act.

I know my time clambers near, and yet I can only face it instead of cowering. As this fallen Prometheus, written by such a graceful and understanding mind know what it truly is to be human in this world, can face such overbearing opposition with a choice of a scowl or open arms expecting any embrace. It's clearly known why I'd would rather forsake any creator of mine in hope of not shaming them with such a lowly creature. I can not help to understand a yearning for the embrace of kindness and yet expect only the quick and harsh strike of reprimand.

You could simply state that all my acts of need have simply been rewarded with lacking compassion and desire. Self explained my actions are in why I'd rather take on my Holy airs and mantle not to carry favor to anyone who judged me as incomplete at birth, but for the sake of simplicity and peace. Of course I hunger for the warmth of a caress and yet I know for certain that any sharp stings of cruelty can not reach me either. It's a costly price and yet I'm already accustomed to paying it. I can not remember when or who have declared my banishment, yet I can always remember that I've survived against the slings and arrows alone.

All rewards hold their poisoned liquors within. Then why not choose our mode of death?

We arrive alone to the world and we make our egress in the same manner unless a twist of tragedy accosts those around us and offer a lofty offering. Holy orders claimed that any form of attachment causes us suffering at a greater scale if we simply reach out with wanting hands only to be rebuked with hot stinging hands and a crushing disappointment that can openly be lead by need. I understand this thought well in these moments and while a warm body slumbers near with faint breath and warm touch. Such need has always been fleeting and understanding that if a chosen subject of desire has been raised another would soon offer someone sickens of their proximity.

I do not look forward to the wanton needs of others fore I know certain that they will tired of me soon. A cross to bear or in my experience a cold walk like this one. Some would admonish that a rough gem must me excavated and worked to enjoy the true value of what has been found and yet I can not find anyone who recognize that potential hidden within and still hold the asperous stone with adoration and content. I have been the lover of many and the companion of countless, masqueraded others only to understand that I'm handed a role of who I should be rather of an improvisation of who I am. Many of these moments I've come to lose myself in the role and give each what they wanted and recreate myself as only dull clay could simply to be tossed among the rejects. Can the clay blame the potter for their inspiration and vision?

Should I remain malleable and willing to the hands of others or shall I simply allow the world to pull me away from such reaching and cold hands?

I stared into the grey ocean above an ashen sky as the roar and turmoil of my mind allowed me to know that I can never unpack my overnight back I carry constantly. I must always me on my way. It's not surprising how hands can change just as the rain can always hide the blue sky. And yet we ignore it all until the blue is hidden. Such a deceptive color. Blue hides with no substance whist grey exposes all with no shame.

How can I have feeling when I don't know if it's a feeling?
How can I feel something if I just don't know how to feel?
How can I have feelings when my feelings have always been denied?

How~John Lennon

I inhaled the remains of the smoke as I dropped the smoldering carcass into the wet sand and crushed the smoldering remains into oblivion. And know that my role is not at an end. I think it would be the last time I would ever play the lover's part. I'd hate to be typecast and to be written out of the story rather than take on a more familiar and complex role. Either way, I'd enjoy to give one last performance as I give the willing cast and audience what they came to see. Such fickle creatures, women. They can only understand an action of love if it costs me dignity, honor, and half of pound close to the heart. That and they yearn to live my role: desired by many, love by few, and abandoned by all.

And they call this romanticism. Lord Byron would have died of shame instead of fever.

How can I give love when I don't know what it is I'm giving?
How can I give love when I just don't know how to give?
How can I give love when love is something I ain't never had?
Oh no, oh no  

How~John Lennon

Hindsight is worth more than any weight in gold. It offers peace of mind and the mysteries of what was as what is. It gives motive and understanding their rightful place among us who search aimlessly for their meaning. It makes us doctors of not what ails us, but for those who suffer what we have survived in hopes of allowing them to bypass the cost we have already paid in their place. Blood sacrifice has already been paid at a cost that we carry in the depths of our eyes and the haunting voice that wakes us from our slumbers to reach out at phantoms of what was and will never be. A medicine worth more than life itself since the more it costs us in the end the more it can save in the beginning of a circular moment of imploding squares of time and integral space.

Perhaps that makes my time with you all the sweeter. Not only would I have to face the world tearing me from you but also the creeping thoughts what lies beneath me whilst I slumber. The voices that tell me to remain in four walls of my sanctuary cell of a trapped circle than the sunshine of the imploded square.

As one path ends another always opens.

"If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.” Frankenstein~Mary Shelly

....Except Me and My Monkey *finished* or the Art of Acting

*Stares at the screen and after finishing coffee decided that it's time.*

The problem with me being over exposed is that it leaves me emotionally open to others. It gives me hope in the human family and that people honestly want to do what is right. Bullshit.

I have to be honest. I'm angry now and my defenses are back up and running. Anger is the best way to snap me back in my regular stride and to silence the optimist that think there is hope for humanity. Fuck humanity. I've learned long ago that if you're an optimist romantic the world will teach you to become a pessimist very quickly. There are only a few times the human spirit can take life kicking down it's sandcastle before it reaches over and strangles the destructive fucker.

It's the difference between reacting, acting, and being proactive.

I'll give you a perfect example.

When I went to campus yesterday to pick up my check, the shared joke is that we are all there for money. It's almost sad how a room full of people can be so petty and shallow if we forget to mention how we are paid so little for a service that not only calls for magnificence, an open spirit, and a dedication that leaves you open and often unprotected. Sadly, a good amount of us waited for our checks to arrive until we were all told that there was a fluke and checks either didn't exist or had to be remade.

I knew my check would only be ready on Friday. A week away from me being dirt poor. As the old joke used to go I'm Po' because I can't afford the "or" to be poor. I'm used to it, yet I knew deep inside that the lack of true leadership and vision or simply following through and allowing others to do things without checking up on them. I'm used to the vacuum of leadership. The fact that people who I'm supposed to take instruction from are those who do less than me and demand more from me than they are willing to do. That fact that they want me to conform to their ideal of what is best when in truth their best is mediocre on a good day.

Perhaps it's because I've been around true leaders at a young age. I've lived to hear the words, "Follow me" instead "do this". I known people who have given me an objective and a blank map and a deadline and allowed me to become innovative and brilliant as I now inspire anyone who ask me for time, advice and assistance on vision. I've learned the meaning of making things from nothing and to pull magnificence from failure. True leaders allow you to handle the work instead of looking over your shoulder. Real leaders support those they placed in the position to get the task on hand done while they take care of what matters like paychecks, hours recorded, materials and an honest answer to keep me on task. The best words you can tell someone is always, "I got this shit, keep doing what you're doing."

Instead I'm surrounded by those who react. They wait and sit staring at what is wrong with those they placed trust in. Micromanagement in a moment that demands leadership. The trust given to those who are supposed to deliver and take away worry has failed. Although I'm not sadden by the fact that I have to make non existent ends meet because it's not the first time and I'm in no way surprised. This is how an optimist becomes a pessimist. When you pull out all the daggers al la Cesar from your back and realize why you were abandoned, left in the open, abused and even mocked, ridiculed and slandered by those who you are suppposed to have faith in.

Sorry, but faith is for charlatans and liars.

To act on all of this I understand that I must be diplomatic and not hasty to respond. I must hold my tongue until it becomes civil and understand how I must always remain with a smile to counter act this. If I was a weak man I would have reacted and raised my voice and hell's fury with it. Instead I know that these are just the numerous sling and arrows of those who planned on getting back at me for one trespass or another. It's the price for having an auditorium filling with cheering people chanting your name or why I'm never foolish enough to take bows from a hungry audience whist my detractors and critics silently plot with cunning eyes. A moment in the sun only allows those to get a better aim at you and in truth is only for the shallow. Those who seek recognition instead of placing their all into what must be done. Those who would rather celebrate instead of toiling with you when it honestly counts.

That and I enjoy the fact that others will give me credit for making a difference instead of demanding attention. Are you getting any of this Kenye? Probably not.

So to act, I play the french role of looking unto the heaven with a small sigh and a "ce'la vi". I give no one their satisfaction of anguish and hurt. The bitter fruit of my suffering to those who have either plotted for it or who would simply enjoy taking a bite from it. Yes, life is going to be tough for the next few days, but I've lived harder. I seen difficulty and wept bitter tears for things that still stand as reminders and drive to never let happen again. I am poor for now, but not for tomorrows to come. I've earned my patience and know that time moves faster with busy hands rather than eyes focused on clocks.

There is still much to be done.

The secret of all is to be proactive. I think this is my optimist self surviving through my pessimist. It's that loving spirit that I protect so much that yearns to be free and to seek out those eyes of the storm that allows me to be as close to who I am. I'm not allowed to be who I am, cause to be who I am I'm easily one who gets hurt. I'm the one to sit and cry for the betrayals and lack of protection that was supposed to be given by my fellow species. Instead I picked up the works of Machiavelli, Sun Tzu, and Musashi in order to not only see through the fog of my personal war with ineptitude, cruelty and stupidity, but to plan ahead in strong places to prevent anyone from hurting me ever. I see those with ulterior motives or with just chaos in mind and prevent them from getting close. There are times when they do and much time is gathered in making sure they can not do so again. The more I remain proactive the more I smile in future moments.

For those who wanted to understand why my name was chanted in that auditorium and mayhps not theirs? It's because I shared with those around me this little truth. It's because not only did I help other find their voice and to know the value of it, but to ensure that they will always be heard not in reaction, but in proactive movement that unites us all and makes us better as a whole rather than divided and torn asunder by those who benefit from our hurt and suffering. I simply have paid forward to those who taught me, have died teaching me, and have left me alone with a task at hand.

I honor my dead by doing what is right and freeing as many minds as possible. To make equals if not those who will surpass me. To show them that they are valuable to me then the riches of the world and that anyone who have made them lowly have lied to them. I've loved everyone in my quick season before my end will come. I remain to do so until I can not hide anymore and my time to leave is reached. I live an eternal example of sacrifice that is too deep for the shallow minded and can not honestly see the value of blood spilt for an idea that frees and unify rather than binds and restricts.

Great men and women have done this. I only relive their memory of what they have given a worthless, ugly child lost in a world too sharp for his skin. All in the hopes that someone else will take my place when time arises.

Why?

Because I love you all. I love you in the same way those have loved me and I could not understand. I paid my dues and now understand that if you honestly love someone, give them freedom. You do not question who they are, but take part in finding out who they are. You nurture without reserve and offer an oasis in such a harsh world.

It's not my name that was chanted, but the name of those in a long line that have done what was needed to be done.

How I miss them.

....

Time to be who I need to be rather than who I am.

....Except Me and My Monkey *unfinished*

*stares at the screen and wonders if it's the right time to share the thought he'd held on to for so long. He sighs deep wanting some sort of strong drink and glances at the bottle near him only to look away. he would not depend on pills the same way. He begins to write and hopes it comes out without too many twists and turns and no nights of a strong subconscious and nightmares of reopened graves buried so long ago.*

It's kind of a tough moment for me actually. I've feel a bit over exposed and what I want the most especially at this time is to just lock myself in for a few days and just mentally recover. I get like this twice a year. This case I'm like this because I've given more of myself that I usually do for a higher goal. It's when I force myself to go against everything I've learned and to put myself in the open and to wear my heart on my sleeve. You can't inspire those to do what is needed to be done with words without an example of faith and hope. It's like dancing poorly in front of an audience without shame and smiling widely at a stranger in hopes of inspiring the same smile. It calls for confidence and the lack of regret. Something that I often have a decent store of both, but in moments like these I often over extend myself and leave myself emotionally open.

And right now I'd rather stand naked in front of all then to feel like this.

You never gave me your pillow
You only gave me your invitation
And in the middle of the celebration
I break down

I know I'll shake this off. I'm not one to feel this way, especially since I abandoned this all so many lives ago for something of greater substance, and yet I can't help feeling that it was all for the greater good. For a moment of my life I abandon the restraints of my mind which force me to remain reserved, calm and collected for the passion that burns in my so deep that it restraints and fear of those who have hurt me before. I give up the safety and solitude of the shadows I've grown so used to for the brightest spot in the sun to entice those near me to bask in it not in a small moment, but as part of their birth right. And yet, I know I can not live in the manner that I promote for too long. Some of us wear our scars on the outside while those of us wear them deeper and from the view of others.

You know what....I can't finish this now. I just can't.