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.

Tongue Tied

I realize that it has been a very long time since I have actually written about the going-ons in my life. Well, looking back that is a lie. Half of everything I write has great significance in my life it is just weather or not you know how to read what it is. Now I realize you might need a decoder for what I just said, but instead I strongly encourage you to agree. Smile, nod, and walk away.

I'm horrible at talking, I'll admit that, and many of you readers that actually know me will agree (okay, like all two of you.) I have this (supposedly) incredible gift of writing, so as to the point of people actually liking to read it, and on some occasion it even provokes emotions. But alas, I can not translate that gift to my tongue. Some people have a silver tongue... mine is rusty iron.

I agree with myself, I'm horrible at talking. And it really bothers me, purely because I know you could hand me a piece of paper and I could write for you a small poem on exactly what I want to say, and more then likely convey my meaning much better then my idiotic stuttering of words, and "ums" could ever get me. I am, honestly, trying to improve this shortcoming of myself, but I really don't know where to start, I think for one I will just verbally express myself more then my classic masochistic ways.

New Years Resolution

Just let us know what's going on,
don't make it so difficult and stupid,
to figure out whats going on.
When you just sit there moping around
we don't really care what's on your mind
unless you want to talk.
We don't want to have to beat you senseless,
with our questions and concerns,
cares and sympathy,
just to hear you blow it off.
We don't want to deal with all your shit,
the only way we can get to it
is with two fists and a crowbar,
we just don't care that much about your problems.
If you want to sit down start talking about it,
we'd be more then happy to help you stay on your feet,
keep your head cool and smiling,
keep you from losing touch with all you love.
So just get over all of your stupid problems,
let the cat out of the bag;
attach your tongue right back to where it belongs.
Tell us everything you care about,
everything that bothers you.
Just get in out of the cold,
you masochistic s-o-b.
All this emo shit is getting old.

So it begins.

The familiar sound of the flywheel sticking greets the 19 year old as he turns the key. To many this would be the sign to call AAA, or perhaps flag down another motorist to get some help. Not Ablyn though. He grabs the steering wheel with both hands and violently shakes the small cab of the Toyota pickup in an attempt to get the flywheel moving. As he turns the key for a second time, the small four cylinder engine gives out the roar you'd only hear from pre-1990's automobiles. Slowly he pulls out of his curbside parking space and makes his way to the near-by interstate five. This is about to be a very interesting week.

EVERYTHING!

Here I am so worried about everything, never actually stopping and looking at everything going on around me. I really just need to stop and think. No, not think but think less. I think too much, my brain is always plugging away at the random shit inside my head. She loves me, she loves me not. I take little things and they suddenly mean the world. Oh, look at that! She smiled; it must mean that when the planets are aligned with the moon and the sun is on its downward decent that she absolutely hates me. It makes sense! Oh, why does the world hate me so? This is all in my head of course, but you can convince yourself about anything and everything. You can tell yourself that you are crazy, and well when you wake up on the floor foaming at the mouth wearing nothing but a pair of ladies underwear on your head, you might just think. I was right all along! So why tell yourself that you are crazy? Shit happens.