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.

The Morning After

He woke up staring into the trees, knowing that the firmness underneth him was the parking lot of the Rusty Spur. His head felt like it might as well have been left in a vice for the night while a blacksmith took care to hit the soft spots. He was painfully aware that it wasn't a hangover, mainly acredited to the two beers he did have, but much more table three and the five gents that sat there.

"Need some help?"

He somehow knew that voice, but not from the night before, or even any recent history.

"Are you okay?"

Again. He slowly looked over and knew exactly who it was. He had never met her but he already knew there lives were more than a little intertwined.

"I should be good, once I figure out which way is up."

Getting a good look of her he had never been more certain of anyone thing.

"Could I give you a ride somewhere?"

He knew it was a risk to ask, but again, it was so clear.

"I'm heading East."

Goats go to Heaven

I have no will.

I'm completely governed by the environment around me; by the way people talk to me. I have no self-motivation, or desire to live. I am here purely to entertain those around me. To make them feel nice, to do things for them. I will always go with the crowd, not because it is the "in" thing to do, but purely because I leech off of the hive mind. I don't participate in the thinking, nor do I even enjoy the decisions. I am just a leech on the outside, holding on for dear life because I know nothing else. And even when I do know what's better, I can't release myself from the link that is keeping me what I think is sane. I have no self identity, only that which others tag to me, and I do not argue or defend, I mold to what they think of me. I am not just a sheep, but a lamb.

I can't be here.

Fuck.

So I drive.

It's been a few days now, but still. Fuck.

I can't escape. The place I'm running from is in my head.

Now it's been a week, I'm starting to lose it.

I drive.

Awaited

Well it has been much too long between updates, but then again is that not perfectly normal for me?

So here we are, off on the grandiose adventure, pigs and penguins galore with not but a lampshade to guide are way. This may be pure madness but is that not what we have all been created from and surly if not created then at least it is to what we all travel.

But alas, here we go wading out into the shallows which very well may be our lost spirits mourning and screaming for us to take them back and heal this horrible place we call mind.

Observations

Now that we are all here lets start with all the background.

He is really not that sociable of a person, but he craves human contact. he needs it to keep his mind at ease. It's actually quite strange since he is very particular about who he interacts with even though this need for interaction is so great. It's much like a drunk who can only drink wine to satisfy their thirst. Or a smoker who can only smoke menthol.

Beyond his social life, lies his consciousness. Which would more then likely make the average person exhausted, and on more then one occasion taken its toll on the subject. His brain never seems to halt is is always thinking of something, whether it be how something works, or what he should have said in a conversation that happened several weeks earlier.

He loves her with all of his heart, and wishes that he could love her more. Everything thing he does in his life more or less ties into Her. Luckily She loves him in return.

Much beyond that is just as much a mystery to us as him. The subject would be very happy to know how he works and several of us would be too, but for now it will be an enigma, and more than likely it will remain an enigma. Whether that is good or bad will forever remain a question, and is best left that way.

Nothing but a diddle.

How strange be this, nothing but a little diddle, written on the corner or a small little napkin.

Day 2

The Oracle stared at him from across the empty road; each of the tattoos on his neck almost seemed to glow with a light just on the edge of our visible spectrum. He had seen this man several times before and none of this felt like a surprise. Suddenly the Oracle opened his mouth. As the Oracle did the rest of the world seemed to get a little fainter and a little further away. The seer's tattoos were throbbing with that invisible light as he spoke.

"You will meet a girl, to the East, traveling as far as you but for a much different reason. She will lead you where you need to go. Do not fear her for she will hold sway over you."

He didn't even attempt to respond, he nodded knowing that the Oracle would say no more. With that the Oracle walked away, leaving him to his truck and small breakfast of bread and tea. He blinked a couple times blankly at the sun before gulping down his tea and discarding his bread the waiting black birds, who fought over it viciously. He got into his truck and turned the key. The truck started with no problem.

"Well that seems like as good of start as any for today." He said as he pulled out towards CA-44 East. "Looks like I should keep my eyes open."

Somewhere between the middle and the end.

There they sat on the tail gate of the pick-up, it had been a long night but one could hardly tell through the crispness of his suit and the smile she wore as she sipped her mocha vente with an extra shot of espresso from the small coffee shop down the street. They both were reading part of the newspaper. He, of course, had the comics section, and was lightly chuckling at the likes of Dilbert and Garfield. She was looking for what might be the cutest animal in the classified section.

"Let's get this bullet out of my arm." He said as he folded up the funnies. "It's starting to hurt again."

She stretched, folded up the tail gate, and proceeded to climb into the passenger seat. "Will they ask questions?"

She lit up her cigarette and smoked it out the window as they drove towards the Sonora Community Hospital 30 miles down the road.

The almighty return of Nothing

Jeez, it seems like it's been forever and a half since the last time I've posted, and quite honestly, if forever was a month, that statement would be 100% true. But for now lets pretend that I'm not dead and I will post between now and the end of time, and hopefully more then once or twice. I'm talking like 4 times.

So yes, yes, and yes. I honestly don't know. I don't even feel like posting all that much. I'm just here to kill some time and kittens. Well not that last part. Because you really can't kill time, it's a non-physical entity. You can bash clocks all you want but it won't change a thing. You can also slow it down, but to do that you'd have to approach the speed of light. Which is kinda hard to achieve, kinda annoying too, but that's for later.

I guess I haven’t posted more because I have a jub and less free time to think and get depressed and artistic and shit. And then the times I do get depressed I have a wonderful girlfriend who I can just think about and get in a much better mood. And like so many tortured artists, love and happiness do not mix with the poetry some call death, and others call inter-webular-emotion-spills-that-no-one-cares-about.

I leave you to think and care about anything.