I Am, Regretably, Not a Robot.

Emotions. Too many to handle, and caught in the crossfire. Balance and chaos, in my own, and all around me. Glimpses of tantalizing fantasizes manifested to flesh, so alive and powerful, suppressed under fear and exhaustion.

Just another day I don't have the energy to change myself. Another day I retreat, folded in upon myself, surrounded by my own frustrations and fears, steeped in them; stewing in them.

Planning, dreaming, hoping, for a better tomorrow. Dreaming far beyond myself; for the benefit of humans everywhere. Just a dream, shattered by the words, actions, ideas, and practices of society. The blind eyes, the screams ignored, the justifications for wrong. Just another frightening day in our stained, sparkingly utopia.

The sickness infests my heart. How can I change myself, when I can't even change the world?
I should believe that I can change myself in order to change the world. But how can I change myself when the world can't seem to be changed.

How can I change the world when I can't seem to speak at the right time, or loud enough? How about when no one really hears what I'm trying to say. My simplest statements, misinterpreted. Why bother explaining? Belittled and attacked over the mundane. Assumptions made quickly. Why bother explaining?

Why bother explaining? Why bother pursuing it? Should I ask for forgiveness when I see no wrong in what I've done? Should I ask for forgiveness for misinterpretations? No. No reason. Perhaps I should explain, but what gaurantee do I have my words would have an attentive and interested audience? A life time of being shy, and a life time more, it would seem.

Exhaustion. Depression. Reverting back to trying to be a robot. Why? Because it is all too much to handle.No words convey adequately what I feel. No name for it, and the roots go deep.

Maybe I should not sleep until I go absolutely insane.  Or sleeping for all of an eternity.

Sometimes all I want, all I need, is a fresh start. Or a mostly fresh start. Something new, to not twist and tangle. Something to keep wondrous, passionate, and beautiful.

To lay my head down, is the closest I'll probably get to peace. For now at least. To lay my head down, is the closest I'll get to my dreams, pressed against the edges.

To lay my head down, to sleep.

Observer or Participant?

I watch silently, I try to pick up on all the nuances. I try to immerse myself in the thoughts and emotions of other people on occasion, but I'm not that brave very often.

Am I cause, or effect? Am I a result or am I just the question? Am I a journey, or a destination? The air or the wind? The tide or the water? An idea or just a thought? The source of light or just the lack of darkness?

What is the right thing to do? Truly, it seems it is not up to me. For I am just the observer...

As much as I want to pretend my presence has not impact, I am just lying to myself. But the true magnitude of my piece in the playing puzzle, is unanswerable.

It might just be up to me after all.

Burn Again

Phosphorus, or flint. Lighter Fluid, gasoline, alcohol; I don't care which.

I never knew how easy it would be to set it all on fire. I guess I packed it all with kindling. Grinding the lumber to saw dust, gives it that extra little explosion. Soaked in accelerant. It only took one spark to blow it all to hell.

Left to pick up the pieces again.

Alive again. The smoke; the chemicals. My head pounds with the heady fumes. Sickness; this was too easy. It burns to much to be a dream.

All my feelings burned away. The memory still hurts though. Blinded. Reeling.

I fall dead. I wither and crisp.

I rise; Pheonix. Another level transcendent. Another lesson to learn, until, I burn again.

Ignis Solus.

Watching God Go Mad

Insane. Not quite adequate to describe what is happening, but it is the best word.

What is the best word when the world seethes and pulses with a madness so great, it feels like god has gone crazy and decided, you know what, fuck this place. It needs redecorating. People are faster to direct and change than mountains. A rubix cube to play with, and not a vast painting. Pick it up, twist turn see how much more colorful and confusing it is now and give up again.

Then the rubix cube walks away and starts thinking it is some great golf ball in some weird pinball machine. Silly cube. They never contemplated much what a post-human existence would be like for them. Hell, I doubt they think about what makes them human to begin with.

Human rubix cubes. I don't even want to think about the subliminal symbolism slithering in that simile. Or was it metaphor? Does it really matter if it is still symbolic, no matter what itchy word you assign to describe it?

Of course, god is debatable at the best of times. Maybe it isn't a god going mad, but more us going mad. Rebels without causes, shock value in spirituality as fashion. Nihilistic self doubt, yet still a yearning for meaning and a clear definition of right and wrong, reduced to a wobbly gelatine they try to sell you and tell you its the body of Christ. I'm no cannibal, but...

Actually that is a hell of an idea. Jello shot Jesus blood. With little crumbs of bread in them, so you can get all your god redeeming soul cleansing symbolic cannibalism done in one! Jesus Jello Shots! God loves a drunk!

Or does he? Supposedly, but since god has gone mad, I'm not sure we feel up to asking that question. Maybe his dad was an alcoholic. Maybe his mother was a good woman trying to make ends meet, yet still managed to be in denial about, reality in general.
All the kids at school made fun of him because they heard the stories. Not really stories. Their parents said something about a fruit roll-up blowjob.

So god went and created a god damned universe just to go mad, and destroy it to teach them a lesson. That isn't very nice at all. Very self centered, wouldn't you say?

God is mad therefore man is mad and thus...

The implications are vast.