Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
I guess that's what makes it a blog....
The days slide between my fingers like olive oil. It seeps ever so loosely around every curvature my hand has to offer, yet it clings to me with residual that I'll never completely wash away.
It sometimes becomes hard to sit back and focus on any single thing anymore. What I desire in my life and what I allow myself to become has turned into a fan-dangled, perplexing misdirection. Maybe there never was direction, and if there was I'd probably have fucked with that road sign long ago.
In the large scheme of things I suppose I never had an underlying goal for this blog. Fuck it...
I guess that's what makes it a blog
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Exerpt from 'For Better or Worse' (Story that hasn't made the cut...yet)
It all seemed a touch too surreal, yet twisted with a scent of perfection that I prided myself for creating. I had wrapped myself in a blanket of predeterminations and expectations that, not only felt excessively warm, but also was never given the proper observation that it was unquestionably warranted.
Who had made it? Was it myself, or the delusional self within me that holds up a wall of denial like a proud war hero that doesn't care to hear that the war's over?
Disappointment was the only surprise I had set myself up for, and of course, in the heat of love, that's neither expected or accounted for in the large scheme of things. A sense of unmatched belonging clouds my judgement like a fog I yearn to spit profanities at, yet I know it's futile and in the end will only leave me with another brimming glass of bewildering desperation.
I had become a crash test dummy amidst my very own crash course. The irony of self-inflicted pain is boggling; for it's ever so misinterpreted until it's too late.
I wanted her to know it all, although understood that my words alone could never possibly suffice as my vessel of expression.
It seemed that I had created my own mental jail cell, and the key I wasn't giving to anyone.
Who had made it? Was it myself, or the delusional self within me that holds up a wall of denial like a proud war hero that doesn't care to hear that the war's over?
Disappointment was the only surprise I had set myself up for, and of course, in the heat of love, that's neither expected or accounted for in the large scheme of things. A sense of unmatched belonging clouds my judgement like a fog I yearn to spit profanities at, yet I know it's futile and in the end will only leave me with another brimming glass of bewildering desperation.
I had become a crash test dummy amidst my very own crash course. The irony of self-inflicted pain is boggling; for it's ever so misinterpreted until it's too late.
I wanted her to know it all, although understood that my words alone could never possibly suffice as my vessel of expression.
It seemed that I had created my own mental jail cell, and the key I wasn't giving to anyone.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Inner Curiosity
I haven't written a story nor added to any existing ones in quite some time. After a good amount of time neglecting my writings, I find I tend to drift off randomly throughout the days. It's as if my mind gives me no choice as to what I'm to do with these sequences of events called life.
Like an out of control tornado, plots and characters twirl their way around in my mind, blurring themselves as if they were entities that had no real form; like they existed only on a level of cognition that no adjectives or nouns (let alone pronouns) could capture. Sometimes they're worthy of remembrance, yet there's so many that I find myself lucky to recall the 'head turners'.
It's become a sadistic game of mental ping pong. The analogies and plot twists rattle about somewhere in my head, yet I always come up short changed when I attempt to portray any of it with words.
It's a masquerade of taunting and self-pity, so it seems. I'm not sure if that description hits the bulls-eye, but it's certainly gotta be worth a double 20. One thing I am sure of is, is that trying to dig through my pile of memories that make me who I am is a confusing venture. In the end, there's only acted upon convictions. Whether they filter through my logic, fingers, and bias in a manner that is appealing to others is whole other blog!
I like smoked turkey... it never lets me down...
and how...
Like an out of control tornado, plots and characters twirl their way around in my mind, blurring themselves as if they were entities that had no real form; like they existed only on a level of cognition that no adjectives or nouns (let alone pronouns) could capture. Sometimes they're worthy of remembrance, yet there's so many that I find myself lucky to recall the 'head turners'.
It's become a sadistic game of mental ping pong. The analogies and plot twists rattle about somewhere in my head, yet I always come up short changed when I attempt to portray any of it with words.
It's a masquerade of taunting and self-pity, so it seems. I'm not sure if that description hits the bulls-eye, but it's certainly gotta be worth a double 20. One thing I am sure of is, is that trying to dig through my pile of memories that make me who I am is a confusing venture. In the end, there's only acted upon convictions. Whether they filter through my logic, fingers, and bias in a manner that is appealing to others is whole other blog!
I like smoked turkey... it never lets me down...
and how...
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Is Ignorance Bliss?
Like a cracked and weathered road that's replaced by a three lane highway, my life has lost itself somewhere within the wrinkles of time. My smiles are rarely forced (which is exceptional by the standards of national surveys) and I have little to nothing to bitch about.
It's all just become a touch surreal. It's as if I'm awaiting the pinch that will awaken me from a coma induced slumber. As if I was in a car crash as a younger lad and thrown unconscious and away into a equally plausible stream of events called life. I can see it now. I'd be awaken at that prime High School age, only to let all of this life fade from my memory as if it was a dream that I could swear I'll remember as I awake, although barely remember the synopsis of after my morning shower.
Funny thing, diagnosis. Especially towards yourself.
Some people put "No Trespassing: Prosecutors will be SHOT on sight!" signs upon their property. At worse, you'll be shot. Might die, might not. Most of that depends on circumstances such as the range of the shooter, how close a hospital is, and possibly wind direction. It's too bad life doesn't have such abrupt warnings.
"Don't go to that school, it ain't worth the money!"
"Don't go to the bar and take shots... it's gonna hurt in the morning and you're gonna feel like a fool!"
You get the gist.
Then again, the signs are always there. We just ignore them.
Is ignorance bliss?
It's all just become a touch surreal. It's as if I'm awaiting the pinch that will awaken me from a coma induced slumber. As if I was in a car crash as a younger lad and thrown unconscious and away into a equally plausible stream of events called life. I can see it now. I'd be awaken at that prime High School age, only to let all of this life fade from my memory as if it was a dream that I could swear I'll remember as I awake, although barely remember the synopsis of after my morning shower.
Funny thing, diagnosis. Especially towards yourself.
Some people put "No Trespassing: Prosecutors will be SHOT on sight!" signs upon their property. At worse, you'll be shot. Might die, might not. Most of that depends on circumstances such as the range of the shooter, how close a hospital is, and possibly wind direction. It's too bad life doesn't have such abrupt warnings.
"Don't go to that school, it ain't worth the money!"
"Don't go to the bar and take shots... it's gonna hurt in the morning and you're gonna feel like a fool!"
You get the gist.
Then again, the signs are always there. We just ignore them.
Is ignorance bliss?
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