The question - the space between a disaster and the aftermath, the hearbeat at the edge of the precipice, the breath before a kiss, the whisper before the end of your life; the question.​

The days don't seem anchored anymore; time seems meaningless, it doesn't have much meaning anymore. I lose track of days like it's summer vacation. I honestly wish that I could appreciate them to the extent they often deserve - for better or worse, these are the only days I've got. I'm tired. I have to grow up, I have to move on, but I'm caring less and less.

At first, fear; I was afraid, I was not ready, I'm still a child. Then, interest; I was not afraid, I was ready, I'm still a child. Now, what? I dont' care, I don't see the appeal, I don't get it, I'm still a child. I'm stuck in that moment, that infintecimal flash of time that is an eternity; WHAT HAPPENS NOW!?

I think too much.

Have you ever had one of those days
where you would like nothing more
than to bash your face into the wall?

"Hey, we're goin' out later, wanna come?"

"Naw, I'm going to repeatedly slam my face into this wall until one of us gives - it's more fulfilling than it looks."

People find me odd [this is not surprising, as I find myself odd], they can't seem to figure me out. I don't have a girlfriend, I have no real direction in my school, I don't mind working, I listen to amazing amounts of music no one has ever heard, I sit by myself during almost every break, and I don't mind it. I used to be rather social; I wasn't vocally social, but I had good amount of close friends that I would love nothing more to fraternize one more time with. I used to go out, even as a gangly, goofy teenager and have a good time doing whatever the hell we wanted - it didn't matter, so long as we were being comrades and doing whatever inane action was present. I don't go out anymore. In reality, even if I had a social direction I was intending to travel, I would have no idea where to begin, nor would I have an realistic amount of available time to form a meaningful relationship with anyone. This social apathy snuck up on me, because I didn't realize it's presence until it had all but become a symbiote with my introverted personality. Heh. Now I think, I think way too much.

Existential ramblings and prattlings of a 19 year old kid who barely passes basic Literature in Community College is nothing short of hilarious.

[Bring back the Apocalypse, bring it back.]

Let me drain!
Let me die!
Let me break the things I love I need to cry!
Let me burn it all!
Let me take my fall!
Through the cleansing fire!

Romantic love shows all the signs of an addiction. Now, this may seem obvious, as many have experienced, however, the areas of the brain that are stimulated and inevitably become dependant upon show incredible amounts of activity when you are in love. I learned this while watching Discovery, and it literally made my week; everytime I need to cheer up, I think of this and I laugh.

Love is the ultimate emotion - it has it all, euphoria, depression, sincerity, bitterness, anger, hate, longing, tenderness. It's the most potent substance I can fathom, something that so many people willingly subject themselves to that is ultimately a gamble based on the people involved.

Unending self reflection is hell,; it is hell without someone to tell you you're an idiot and need to stop thinking so much; it is hell without someone to ignore my quirks, flaws and incompatability; hell is complaining and not doing anything.

Fuck it.

Where ya headed?

Iter Impius

Where's that?

Whever people are people; happy and sad.

Why go there?

Nothing is not a desirable alternative to extremities.

God, I need to reconnect.​

I know there's someone out there.​

I'm funny that way, I laugh at my writing as much as I find meaningful emotion and release in it. I think this is a good thing, intentions are have a plasticity that they have never had before. I'll bet you do too.​

I didn't really have any intention of writing anything, I didn't have any intention of spilling my embarassed soul to cacophanous maze of personal walls that is society, I didn't have any intention of opening old wounds, but I did. Ha ha, I did. Surely, I am the fool.​

A man is digging in the delta
In the dark soil with his bare hands
To work the land for generations
Is he a fool?
And I am working in my garden
To stem the tide of grass and weeds
With the green machine and roto-tiller
I break for lunch
The man has planted all his seeds now
His tired hands are black with oil
Nothing grows
The man is thin and hungry because he's lazy
The seeds are sprouting in my garden
My soft white hands are stained with blood
Again this year I will reap the harvest that I deserve


What happens now?