I don't know why I continue.

The thing is that it isn't failure, it just the way life is. Let go of some of the bullshit that you count on and think about exactly what you're doing. Fuck all those little mushrooms, and even more so the small feline monkeys who try to steal them from you. Let this thing out of the cage and ride it like a turkey with its head recently severed from the rest of it's body. Eat the purple sauce, it's probably not what you think it is, but hey it is vegetarian so we need not to worry about the risks we take with not cooking it. But we never loved anything like that before anyway, it was all desperation. We make constant attempts to love, but as humans it the closest thing in our lives that will ever approach perfection, do you really think we can make that the first time around? Butterflies are all that tasty goodness we were always told about, but it's not like we can actually let our teeth feel the tear of their beautiful wings. It would cause insanity and even worse it would tell us who we were. But for now it doesn't matter, our cups fill themselves with hate, greed, and power. We are humans and we will be the end of ourselves. We hope for the best and we are sad when we get the worse. Just sing a few more songs, someone might appreciate them, but really it's nothing more then an annoying ring tone, set for someone who you really don't want to talk to. Let the cowboy take a look at what you really have to say. sometimes I wonder about the stars, this is something that proves we are mortal.

Flies in the Pie

Time is such a thing, it comes, it goes, and above all else it flies. Flies like a little spaceship orbiting a far off star not anywhere even close to out solar system. As it orbits it's speed is completely relative, it could be going many thousands of miles per second, or it could be crawling around at four feet per hour, but for whoever is on the spaceship it will feel like a constant pace no matter what. Like that spaceship we ride time, some times we look back and see that we've come thousands of miles in just an hour, and other days we see that we are right where we started.

I honestly don't know what to think about time, I just know it works against me, every second I sit here staring at the screen is another chance to do so many other things, every day I sit doing nothing is another 1000 miles I could have gone. It seems like I need to justify every second that passes just so I don't feel like I'm wasting my life. But much more often then not it's not justifiable. This is when I just need to sit back and realize that sure I may have a limited amount of time, but with a little thought I have alot more then I know what to do with.

Right now I don't know how I feel. I'm in a state of near pure confusion I don't know what to do so I just sit back and smile, take absolutely everything as it comes to me and just take it for the better.

Maybe this is the way I am?

Lets play a game. I call it try to think of the most interesting thing you could possible shove into your life and add a whole lot of undeserved, invisible mind fucks. This is a game I'm very good at playing, sitting here trying to see how I can change my life, never thinking that this is in fact my life and that this is in fact the only chance I get. But if it is my only time around why can't I have fun? Why can't I mess it up for the better? Why do I need to care about everyone else's standards. This is my life, this is my only chance, and this is exactly how I want to live.

But is it really? Yes. When you doubt your actions you become insecure and you get depressed don't question yourself, question reality and all that it tells you. Question not just your own limits but the barrier of reality itself. Live like you're in love and just slam it all.

Happy Oblivion

There he was, looking out at the rest of the thanklessly small universe, trying not to fall backwards into the violent grip of some other unreality. This wasn't quite what he imagined it would be but it was unquestionably the end. Not the end of everything but the end of nothing. From this point on everything was going to happen. Not all at once but in a rapid succession fired neurons and digested proteins. It was all falling down. First fell the stars, and then with no lights to mark upright the ground quickly followed. The fall was similar to that of August just with more fire and less golden sunsets. The fire was not consuming but much rather creating. Creating that which one must fear, what one must love, what one must worship. In this fire of creation he could see himself. Not as a reflection, but much more as himself in everything else. And as he looked at himself he fell. He fell into himself and out of this world. He fell toward the beginning and back into his mothers womb. But the falling did not stop there. He slowly folded into himself and could see all the little minerals and insects that once had an existence free of love. He could see how eternity looked from a standpoint of mortality. And this was what life was. Not but a small fleck of dust on a infinite glass plane set in the sliding door of a forever expanding consciousness, awaiting for the rock of reality to slide unnoticed through it in a splintering headache of dreams and hopes. He opened his eyes and could see not.

Inadequacy Overcomes

Inadequacy overcomes me. I feel as if I can not be the person people want me to be. And I know that is complete and utter bullshit. I need to be who I want me to be, but I only want to make those around me happy. I can't do it. I've even resorted to not going out of my way for those people who are a little further from me, and trying to only appease my close friends. But even then I feel so much less. I feel like it's not me. I don't know what to do, I'm worried that the real me is horrible. I'm worried that I won't even like the real me. I don't know what I want to do, I'm not sure where I need to go. All I know is that I need to know.

I look at what I just wrote and all I can see is "I"... That makes no sense to me, I've never been "I" I've always been him, or not even written at all, just a tragic undertone for you to twist out of the deeper message. Writing about "I" is so weird, makes me feel so afraid. Just the fact that people will know what I'm actually feeling is scary. Have I always been this closed?

Lost

Here he lays, silently staring at the stars, wondering just what the next step is, wondering where he needs to go. Slowly his vision begins to blur. Tears. He lays there crying as the sky softly disappears into a foggy memory. So much confusion so much insecurity, he doesn't know what to do. He can smell the grass, but that is quickly outlived by the sharp tang of tobacco.

The smoke wafts from a location not in his near vicinity but much rather from a point in his memory, a point in his life where something like that was much more of a welcome, comforting scent to escape the reality that he would have to face otherwise. At this point there was no confusion, but much rather cruel certainties that racked his brain for time on end. Even then the bitter smell of the smoke wasn't truly welcome.

His vision clears, but what comes into view isn't the original picture of the stars, but much rather his face. A horrible sight, not nearly aged as one would think but subtle and calm, the eyes have a look that they have seen much more then eyes of his age should have seen. A light blue accented by what looks like thunderbolts of a almost blackish blue.

He closes his eyes in hopes to make it all go away, hating every one of his senses wishing that each would stop, and let him live in the present, but it's too late, he's lost somewhere that he's never been, with absolutely no familiarities and no safe havens. This is it, this is what life is.