When I try to sleep, I often pursue strange thoughts. Chains of thinking that all lead into one another, but I have no idea what direction I’m facing by the time sleep finally claws at my brain.
Cat circles my feet. I wonder, why do people domesticate some animals, but eat others? People that run shelters for dogs and cats most likely eat at fast food places like the rest, should that be ironic? Or, is it just that being cute makes for a handy survival trait?
I have no reason to think that, but I do. I am surrounded by a lot of pointless drama, and I see the cat around me. Maybe this is why he’s here? This small creature sees through a lot of bullshit. He’s perfected the art of not giving a damn.
I see other odd things in my mind. I’m reminded of the Christian cross, and how it is used as a symbol of enlightenment and faith. I find that strange considering what it was originally used for. It SHOULD be a symbol of burden, when did that change?
Passive in my mind, I’ll smile some times, put on a good face, and keep my focus on something less outward. What they don’t know is that I burn.
Depression? No. Anger? Yes. Or, wait, back up. Fuck, I forget.
Born amidst a battleground, a war being waged inside my head. I balance what people say to make me feel better, amongst the odds of what reality favors. I will be no great author. I was born on low standards, so I keep expectations low. What stories I weave, do not favor the world I see. Need a job, need food, need to find a new place to live, need basic things. Scratch it out, eke out whatever living I can. I’m a bottom feeder, dreams of grandeur are not befitting of me. Just dreams.
I look out at the world, and I wonder why I bother with words, it’s very clear how useless they’ve become. Internet lingo and poorly spelled MySpace chain letters, message board hissy fits and text messages.
I need them to rot away. This world wants everything so quickly. I can’t even feel my heart beat anymore. It’s soaked in too much static, blurring my vision and making the blood run out of my head.
This is my voice. Amongst reality, I am not myself, because the world will not permit it. Talk about suffering and here we go, let’s all change the subject. Talk about suffering, here we go, let’s all say things that mean nothing to try and lift the mood. Suffering will not be eased by avoidance and distractions.
Need a place to rest my mind, need much rest. No rest here, no sleep for the wicked. Not simple troubles bothering me. Is this just me, what I’m born to? Can’t find the meaning of life if I can’t find the meaning of myself. Just another slob, jobless and scratching at the bottom, just trying to live, no freedom. Something in my brain? Should I see sound waves as words, or is that some sort of function unique to me. Feel them in my fingers, makes my eyes wander and flicker. Gives me focus.
How many nights did I sputter about pointlessly in the dark? Wondering things that I should have let fall to the way side. Who’s sitting with them now? Who’s watching over those I once watched? Trying to walk forward, but I’m only interested in my wake. Ripples of what I’ve left behind, trying to discern judgment out of it. Look at myself, look at what I am, look at what I’ve become.
It feels like my thoughts are in a cloud of intense inertia, spinning faster and faster, making less sense as I dwell on them, removing me from focus.
I could live a million times, and make the same mistakes, would I be better for it, or would I have seen it all happen again, and feel nothing? From outside views, I’m but a being of pointless focus. Reciprocity means nothing in the world I dwell in. Nothing to gain from me, because there’s nothing to give back.
But even if that were the case, so many are locked in a climb to the top, taking what they don’t need. We’re all to blame, but clearly some are worse than others. No one sees anything from the top, but the debris of how they got there. Very few seem to notice that.
I’m a man that spins tales, in a world without ears or eyes. What few bits of fiction I’ve had read by others has given me only more motivation to stop.
Nothing to sacrifice… just, walk away.
But something about that seems cold. Mostly the people I’ve walked away from, or the places, or thoughts. Still, so much…
Swathes of color and vivid thoughts trailing about my brain. Interactions between two of fictional origin, I rip at them now, claw at them, and wonder why I hate what I’ve produced. There’s too much me in these stories… too depressing, without end. Nobody’s real, but I feel sympathetic towards them. Perhaps that’s because there’s very few people that can garner my sympathy in the real world?
I can’t write anything save for rants these days… that’s because they require no focus, no point. My thoughts can be whatever the fuck they are, spilled out like blood from a deep wound, and I can just let it flow. There’s few moments where the brilliance of inspiration strikes me, because I spend so much time each day thinking to myself “Just shut them up, just shut them up”. With something like this, I don’t have to pay attention to anything, no structure, no message.
I suppose this is actually a decent state of mind to be in. Considering just how royally shitty my world is, I haven’t snapped yet. I’m sure putting out such personal journal entries on something as cruel and pointless as the internet is a sure sign that I have a screw loose, but I think at this point I’m beyond caring.
So much static, both in my brain, and in my world. I could never regain focus at this point. I could wander a million miles from here and find absolute quiet, the bitter edge of the universe… and still the foundations I’ve built would be in ruins.
The great tales I’ve sat on and done nothing with, they mean so much to me… but I’m well aware my ability does not match my bias. What I see of myself, what I see of the things sitting on the floor now remaining unread. What I see is a world constantly stuck in a blur…
Stuck in a world that just won’t stop burning, and I’ll watch it with tired eyes, trying to figure out why I should bother to care. Those that are burning, are the ones that set it all ablaze. I’m just stuck in the middle, forced to deal with politics, environment, consumerism, the theatrics people thrive within, the vice that they cling to. None of those options provide an answer, but I’m starting to think no one wants answers.
Pretty people, put on a pouty face, stuff it down their throat and watch them choke on what they once put out in front of others. Take away the cameras, the drugs, the fundraisers, the money… what are they?
I got this feeling that I’ll never be at ease. I’m rolling, but in strange directions, not in control. It’s almost September… I hate September. The closer my birthday gets, the more I remember. I remember breaking my wrist, taking myself into class a day after because hell, it wasn’t the hand I wrote with. I remember holding out a pen, and no one signed my cast. Only one friend of mine was kind enough to do that. I don’t know that person anymore. I remember turning thirteen, in a busy damn hurricane season. I remember not even being able to go outside and enjoy the weather, because I was in a cast again, same hand, different break. I remember turning 18, and blowing my dad off from anything he tried to do for me. I remember turning 21, and screaming out that I didn’t want to do anything. I remember a bunch of people showing up, trying to be happy while I just wanted them to go the hell away. I forget if it was 14 or 15, but I remember driving on the highway in the rain, sulking to myself because there wasn’t any money to do anything, so I was treated like my birthday was just some regular every day thing, no happy greetings or anything, nothing.
The closer September comes, the more regret I draw with every breath. There’s nothing to celebrate in commemorating that I’ve wasted another year, that even more time has passed, and I’m still worthless.
I remember turning 19… I got my first iPod that day… the original Ten-Song. I remember my father took me out to pizza. Katrina had just left New Orleans in ruins, and it was all over every TV in the place we ate at. It was the topic of conversation for quite a long time… it was the first… (and regrettably last) REAL conversation I had with my father. He slipped me some cash when he dropped me off and gave me a hug. He said he was proud of me. I wondered what I had done to be proud of… but it didn’t really matter, because it was the only time I could tell that he really meant it…
…
I hate September.
Washing dishes, birthday wishes, watching baseball matches
The other future that I wonder ‘bout
So many things I wish I didn’t wonder ‘bout
Tags: Journal
