They Call It, We Sing it.

We writhe, constantly, struggling for a comforting angle and an explosive release, which eludes our constant dance; our spasms are in vain, a hopelessly decadent self-deception, filled with our greatest desires and most significant fears.
Alas, we spin. We spin our own way, we crash and collide and bounce away. Nothing ever really stays the same. Our careless half heart pursuits managing, some how, to expand into a potentially serious situation for which we have not prepared, in anticipation for not really giving a flying fuck about the outcome in the first place, for being indifferent to the outcome. Not needing an outcome but applying by halves, then becoming alarmed when the pace steps up and unseen machinery chugs along.
Fate and choice intertwine. Some call it Karma, I call it the explicit inescapable reality. I am where I am because of my choices, but I could have made different choices. It is impossible to truly comprehend "what if" because each decision echos for an eternity, and after its done, you can not have done it any other way. Mistake or not, it's already been done, and only you could have done it the way you did it. Live with the regret or learn a lesson and improve.
Or let fate drive the car, just done be surprised when you find yourself on an island built with bad decisions, or in a ditch of existental crisis. Hell, it can be an existential crisis anywhere at any time. Don't ask the question if you really think you don't care about the answer. But don't fool yourself into thinking we can train the responses, be conditioned and altered to perfection.

Dr. Pill and his sexually deviant mistresses all agree, that the drug for you, is LSD.

Billboards preaching the end of civilization while civilization is distracted with glowing rectangles. All hail the all mighty rectangle.
Our Rectangle, who art from heaven, hallow be thy apps, thy browsing be done, An thy entertainment be done in church, as it is on the train. Give us this day, our daily distraction, And forgive us our firmware delinquency, as we forgive those who envy thee glowy rectangle. And lead us not into arguments with fanboys, but deliever us from arguments, for thine network connection is harder faster better stronger. Work It Harder Make It Better, Do It Faster, Makes Us stronger, More Than Ever Hour After, Our Work Is Never Over.

Drop the bass motherfucker. IF you don't... hell, I don't even want to think about what happens if you don't. That is a nightmare I am not willing to embrace as of yet. So feed me sexy imagery and sick beats, feed me your delusions and fantasies.

And now I think I'm done. For now. Never really done but the words just kind of trip over themselves. remember when i turned the lords prayer into a daft punk song? that was cool right?

Fatal Questions

Does it matter?

What a fatal question. Yet, it haunts me constantly.

Why do I bother?

Every time I feel all my efforts mean nothing. Every time it gets harder and harder to accomplish anything with this doubt constantly nagging in the back of my mind.

Everyday has turned into a struggle to accomplish anything, between "Does it matter?" and "Why do I bother?"
I guess I'm not as ok as I would like to be. In some way it's a relief not to have to pretend to be alright all the time.
But it's still a matter of coping with everyday, one day at a time...

12mg of love...

There are many types of love, and as such, just as many perspectives, and ideas concerning the subject.
What this post will be about, is an emotion that is temporary insanity; sensual overload and lust mixed into a heady mixture; A chemical fixation upon another person; Romance. We will call it love.

Love is an absolutely fascinating concept. Making another human willing to do nearly anything for another person, putting their needs before your own. In many ways, it undermines basic survival. Departing with resources to win over affection.

Love is certainly addictive, considering how extended periods without "romantic" contact, tend to make people more fragile, more vulnerable to disease. Yet, love is just as dangerous. Exposing yourself to heartbreak, stress, disappointment, if the love is not returned, and potentially more diseases, depending upon how polyamorous or promiscuous the person you experience these intense emotions for, happens to be.

Honesty is for people who are boring, and in lasting relationships, not people who are hopelessly tangled up in the vine of love. Fools to their ever changing bio-chemistry, the super-freak reactions that complicate and simplify their essence, to be entwined and tied into hopeless knots... A beautiful, and devastating dance, Pushing, pulling, clinging to be torn away and then driven back together.

Appealing, is it not?

My mind knows the dangers, and yet I still crave love, like a junkie. And that is what scares me. Getting over love, is exactly like getting over the addiction; Months without any romantic contact, but one more fix and I know I'll be a fucking wreck all over again. Another junkie, who cares only for the next fix. Admittedly, that is one thing I've always envy about junkies: simplicity in their priorities.

However, for those without love, it is not entirely without its fun. Poking, prodding, picking at all the things stated, and believed, making someone question love, making someone explain why they love someone...now that will drive someone crazy.

As for a statement about what love actually is, I leave that up to you. Make your own damn conclusion. Or are you in love with my mind and craving another micro-gram of wisdom, of snarky wit, of caustic honesty? Or another eruption of volatile and unstable emotion? Of rage, frustration, sadness, and bitterness?

Make up your own damn mind.

The Razor Spikes of Self-Doubt.

It's best not to question whether what you are doing is worth it, especially when you wonder if other people care about it.
But it is perhaps the driving question, the annoying kid in the back seat that asks, "are we there yet?" When the journey has just begun. That bit of self doubt that is the drop of poison in the wine.
So, do other people care what you do?
Short answer; no.
The long answer: They don't care what you do until you have done it. Even then most people are so wrapped up in their own affairs to care. Sometimes, depending on your relation to the person, they are so wrapped up in if you care or not to notice what you do. At least, that is the way it seems to go.
So no, people don't care right now. But that begs another question: WILL they care once it is done? There is no simple answer, because that is the nature of people; rogue variables in an evolving equation. The equation doesn't mean anything, until it is calculated in the moment and the result is apparent.
Such thoughts and worries, if left to their own wills, their own ideas, will prevent the greatest art, stop the most important journeys, and crush the most beautiful souls into dust. And no one will care about the loss of great art, or great knowledge, if they care at all. They will only care the price they have to pay.
At least, that is my assumption, based on a few scattered unscientific observations.
Alas, it is time to return you to your volatile dreaming world. Remember this: Be amazing, when the world tells you it doesn't matter. Be big, when the world thinks you are small. Be unpredictable, when a trap is laid for you. Most important of all: Imagine.

Mind Vomit I

Shoot me at the moon. If I don't get there, I'll just fall back to earth.
A view so high my perspective means nothing. The earth, just a beautiful backdrop for my peaceful decent.
Born again, falling anew, awake and alert for the first time in forever. Surely, it will not be the last. The Cycle of life compressed into a few passing moments.
The Earth, growing larger. Calling me back to it's embrace.
Closer and closer, slower and slower, I return. My decent all but stops. I alight on the soft grass, the gentle summer breeze tugging at the corners of my shirt, a child trying to show me someplace.

Cupid the Sniper

For the longest time, Cupid was the cherub of love. Forever young and forever playful and optimistic. But, no good deed goes unpunished.
Cupid started to age, slowly at first, when people blamed him for mismatches and mix-ups. When work picked up, Cupid couldn't keep up. He had to incorporate. His worker drones weren't too bright and errors and mistakes made business bad. He kept getting older.
One day, he decided to hang up his halo, his faithful bow and arrow. He found himself aging faster with no purpose. So his purpose, became revenge.
Mad in his age and current state of mind, he decided two arrows for two people was just a bad system. Why not two arrows for one person? Why not stash the other arrow and let the person go unmatched forever?
Cupid called up the gods, and said he wanted his old job back. No more corporation. Why should the entire world be punished because he is busy? Why let the world accept sub-par standards? The gods reluctantly agreed. A few were suspicious of his new enthusiasm. They did their best to keep track of him.
And so the bodies lined up. Cupid discovered that a few good and true matches could do more than any unmade matches. A missed arrow grazing the heart, combined with the view of true love, would drive most people insane.
In fact, it has. It has driven many men and women absolutely mad. Some kill themselves. Others wait around forever and do nothing. Most go mad and take things into their own hands.
Cupid smiles upon those crazy enough to actively seek out love. He prefers it that way actual. No match made in heaven, but can they really complain in this world of suffering and torment they build for themselves.
Cupid is young again, but not as young as he used to be. He is still insane and wants to see those curse his name tortured. So be careful when you curse his name, he might be close by, and will shoot you once, to drive you insane.

This Poem is Probably About YOU.

Always waiting for that one lucky break, always wanting one more chance, it's not my fault, those other people are to blame, feed my addiction and turn a blind eye, always waiting for that one lucky break...

And I say...No.

Defiance to a self-fulfilling prophecy, the courage to drop the ball and walk away. Let the cycle spiral to its inevitable end.

Pull the rope tighter, observe the inevitable fry and snap. A shovel to lay a foundation, used to dig a void into which to fall.

Every opportunity to succeed and still failure is the result. Such weak acts of “rebellion” only enslaved and encouraged the status quo!

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- Note - I did write this, with one person in mind. One and only one.