Tired, dead thoughts.

They rise from the dead you know, the shadows of feelings you once held dear. To be brutally honest, they never really die - and they always come back. You try and fucking try to lock that shit in a coffin and bury it deep within the damp earth. The black lumps of dirt sticking to everything, making the burial next to impossible; the dream that just won't die lying in wait for it's unmarked grave. Eventually, after much cussing and back that won't stop throbbing, you get the fucker buried nice and deep; and, while remnants of the feeling may remain, the painful truth is that even within the black clay and mud, the whole totality of the feeling has a beating heart, and the blood will never stop flowing.

It may take years, but clawing through that bargin-budget coffin top, hands caked with blood and rich earth - black tar dripping on every surface - it will break it's way from the shallow grave. No matter how fucking deep. A wise man once said, "You can't kill an idea," and the thought remains valid that, try as you might, you can never really destroy an idea once it's infected who you are - much less wipe it from the face of humanity. No matter how poor the idea, no matter how absurd, tedious, stupid, or irrational, you can not eliminate it from your life completely. The zombies walk, and they are coming for you, for me. Each and every one.

The idea already pulls at your heart, tugs at your soul, and burrows into your mind; but now it's returning for you; and destroy, or conquer, it will have you. It will have me. The idea is the last great virus. The thought is the last unknown. And the dream is the last, and only, thing which will never be fully destroyed.

And then everyone went home, safe and sound.

I feel like I'm starting all over again from nothing. Dust and water shall be my building blocks, or some shit like that. And I just don't have the fucking energy or drive some days to feel it out, to read the script and act like I give two fucks. Because maybe I don't. Because it feels like far too much is actually at stake to just dick around and see what fits; far too much is actually at stake to trust my life with it all. In a room full of happy people, I often feel like a fool. Why isn't that me? Why so many empty fucking houses have to be passed to acknowledge that we're one and the same?

A brief part of me doesn't want to care anymore, it want's to tell me to fuck it all and let things run their course. But the larger part of me isn't ok with that, and it's a fucking nightmare. My brain is literally swimming right now and I don't know what to say or do to make myself feel better about my own life. My own fucking life. I own my problems. I own their solutions. And, I own the fact that they are hard-pressed to get rid of.

Look out world, I've got a filthy mouth, a urgency in my heart, and no fucking clue what to do with it all. Look out me, the world will eat you, and your fucking heart, alive. Look out.

A bit from earlier this year...

I always want to say something so profound and striking; I always want to let the pent up frustration, anxiety, and stress come pouring out in the most powerful and insightful of words, sentences, paragraphs…

Would another “Manifesto,” written by a cynical, romantic, depressed, asshole be any use to anyone, ever? Do we really need another self-serving, self-righteous, dialectically monotonous tome, cluttering up zine shelf-space at a few info-shops across America; being read by three fucking people? What intense and important statement do you even have to make? The high cost of living art, when you can’t even seem to roll out of bed most days – good fucking luck, asshole.

Sit here, fucking sit here – don’t you goddamn move – sit here and think of what you would say to the whole world if they were listening, as a captive audience, right now? The long answer is that it would take way to long to say most of the shit, to get into it and dig around for a minute. Well, fuck, say you have a book that WILL get published and everyone on the whole earth will read it; what then?

Would it go something like this?

Dear Assholes,

Today it occurred to me that I don’t know what I think about the human race; about the dying planet; about why I do the things I do; or how I feel about my own life. This having been said, who the fuck do I think I am to tell anyone what to do? No one. In total, unrefined, and without additives: I am no one. Some fucking guy who just reads a lot. I see a lot of shit that makes me sad, more that makes me mad, and probably more that even that which only causes me to laugh in disbelief. I’ll take the role of the cosmic schmuck, and should way more than I do, but even with that – ya’ll are fucked.

Maybe a retreat into fiction is the answer, no direct, self-righteous confrontation there. No smug absoluteness. In fiction, I could be writing about all the great sex I want to have instead of feeling bad for all the mediocre sex I’m not having right now. In fiction, the highs are much higher and important than they are as another numb, useless part in the living, breathing script of my life. In fiction, I can do all the things I’m too afraid, too selfish, or totally unequipped to do. God, reality is fucking harsh.

Welcome to the Megamachine.

The things set out to destroy me one day may come around to save me the next; this realization came to me recently. Not one of those realizations wherein you've never considered such a concept before, but the sort where an thought that you've flirted with in the past comes rushing back as a fully actualized truth. Or, maybe it just fits right now. The problem with a truth of this sort is that it may not remain true for long - or that's what perspective might teach us; this being neither here nor there.

Several years ago, I started down a path of isolation, a path forged by panic and fear. Today I know that I needed that path for a variety of reasons at that given time; but now that path exists as a lazy way of living. The goals I set out to accomplish through that time have not come to fruition fully, but other seeds were planted that are taking shape, however small they might be. I know now that the clock has run it's course. I know now that the clock is running. All this to say, when will this truth become nightmare? Eb and flow, perhaps.

Through a small amount of events, today served as a great example of a great day. Certainly not the day I wish to live over and over, but it was damn near perfect for today. But the ever-present questions remain, and the goodness of the day seems to make that much harder - at least right now. I'm struck by the image of a hunter putting blood on a knife, freezing it, and putting it out in the snow, sticking up out of the ground. The idea is to wait for a wolf to smell the blood and come lick it off; the wolf ends up cutting it's own tongue on the knife. So much blood brings the wolf to a panic level blood lust; the universal condition of pain, desire, need, and fear. If I'm the wolf, who's knife is sticking out of the snow?

The Outer Temple.

It' feels like standing at the edge of some dark, unknowable chasm; I don't mean in some desperate, 'should I jump in,' sort of way. Something cracked, or snapped, or clicked, or got removed, added or edited. Freedom. Hope. Possibilities, that's the real issue. Getting caught up on passion, fine. Getting caught up on possibilities can kill a person. But here I am, merciless in the absurd humor and true depth of the situation: somehow, starting over again brought me here. This is the Invisible Kingdom.

Continuing problems remain regarding action and desire; reality and novelty. What the hell else am I going to do with myself, anyhow? In other ways, I feel like I'm clawing my way out of an unmarked grave; my eyes and ears are jammed full of thick dirt and my hands will never return to their original shade of tan. Just keep clawing, air is eventual.