The Word

I made myself lonely. There, I said it, acknowledged it, pledged it for the world to know. I made my myself an alien. I did it meticulously, over the course of 3 short years. Sure, I can blame two people not in my life anymore on that bitch named death. But everyone else was me. My love for discourse and passion for self-hatred. I made myself lonely and bitter. Maybe it was the pills, the long, loathsome nights staring at a blank wall waiting for them to black me out. While my roommate and at that time, best friend, as well as others enjoyed each other's company. I filled my belly with whiskey and pills. Being high is a steadfast feeling, a temporary and ultimately grisly feeling, the loss of your own self-control and inhibitions into some sort of fantastical bliss only you can truly perceive. You know what trying to constantly achieve that got me? Nothing. Nothing but alienating those couple friends I did have left, after all, who really loves a drunk? These people I used ...

 Why is it so hard to tell you I’m way you deserve so much to hear? Why can I simply not convey these feelings for which I have held since the first day I met you, so that it becomes more clear crystal when doubt clouds your mind? Romance is such a perplexing thing, it is a wonderful bliss of rambling emotion and pure ecstasy wrapped all into one perfectly orchestrated bow. It is that small cherry on top of your sundae that compliments all the rich and delicious tastes contained within. Love has the great ability to iverserate and cripple a person, driving us to perform the most diabolical, outlandish actions, things we would never do in a sober state of mind. I say that, because this amazing and dreadful feeling is the best of both worlds, it is the universe’s most widely used mind altering substance, one that you cannot simply buy on the corner and a drug that has reached tens of millions of years’ worth of addiction. How can I become sober again? I continue to wrack and scra...

        Finding purpose is the most difficult challenge that is presented to us as people. It provides both this feeling of uselessness and a strive to be useful when in reality, are any of us truly useful? See there i go getting negative again, whining like some teenager fresh off a spree of angsty, punk-rock concerts and dying my hair two shades of red just to piss my seemingly conservative parents off.     Useful is the most useless feeling, it is really just a word of trickery because in the end you are only as useful as the person or process recognizing your usefulness, otherwise and in the true grand scheme, we are all useless. Our lives operate based on that sole need to feel like we are doing something that contributes to the reason behind the drive of achieving this feeling of usefulness. I feel like this an argument made only by sad people though, for what is useful sadness? Those who are happy know their purpose no matter how much someone else ...

I feel like a major part of people's happiness has to do with acceptance by other people around you. This has become an increasingly more difficult thing for as i have grown up, i feel as if it's not that people do not accept me, it is that i feel that on a subconscious level, they are finding me just as strange as i am finding them. I often notice myself silently observing the way someone watches television, pondering exactly what sort of silent thoughts they may be having about the structure of my face as i also watch the television.  Do they find my fixation on the same program odd? Do they notice that white dryness on my lip sort of how i cannot help but notice the crust in their eyelash? It is an offbeat topic for discussion, that i could not agree on more and yet in the same instance i feel as if i cannot be the only person who has ever had a thought to this level of blatant insecurity. I do not think these strange observations make me unique, though i do not believ...

It is often at such a late time in the evening i find myself wondering about life's greatest questions as they appear for myself. Will i ever actually make anything of myself? Will i ever truly be the man i believe deep inside of my subconscious i am suppose to be? Why does life seem so fucking dreary? I am dating a girl i really care for and yet i cannot seem to push the notion away that i am still in another seemingly directionless relationship. I feel as if life has no true fulfillment in what we need it to be fulfilling in. If life were a physical person my very first intuition would be to drag it to the nearest source of water and force whatever it breathes from far inside the depths of the water. I want to watch it wrangle, hoping there may be a source of mediation in disagreement somewhere upon the horizon. It is disappointing, life. I want to throw this whiskey clear into the side of a hard, unforgiving brick building and yet i stare at the one i live everyday and can still...

12%. Can you fathom as humans today, as advanced as we are, only utilize on average, 12% of our brain powers potential? Speculate for only a brief moment what the infinite possibilities would be should we find our key to our species Pandora's box. Intergalactic travel, reaching as far as the forex dwarf galaxy and beyond, seeing the constellations we've gazed at for centuries from the grassy knoll at night right in front of your face. Imagine walking into your local drug mart and picking up your one-time cancer vaccination. Peace amongst nations may new achieved with no bloodshed and darwinism finally prevails over mythological gods and cultist ideologies.  Literature has a brave new world to traverse as intellect evaporates our currently vapid society. Bilingualism is an unnecessary talent as we have evolved into one universal language, and racism being nothing but an example of this foolish period in time, one engulfed by selfishness and self-righteous pretensions.  We ...

Last night, throughout my turbulent on-off sleep pattern of which I've become accustomed to, I was forced to endure one of those pesky little irritants we call nightmares. I was not being chased by some ghoul, nor was I trapped in a graveyard of mutant zombies, oh no it was so much more horrific than that, a concept that could crush my very existence should it ever come into fruition. I dreamt that all forms of writing: fiction, non fiction, even boring statistics book, were banned indefinitely. All books were just simply gone, as if they evaporated into the heavens. When I would attempt to sit down at my type writer, the keys were held like concrete. In a panic, I rushed to the library to find my once beloved place of solace to be nothing more than a vacant structure of what once was. I collapsed to the ground, chest breathing heavy, and attempted to collect my thoughts. When I began to conjure a new story, I experienced the most dreadful writers block I have ever known. My eyes s...