We defeated thousands just to be born. Who’s to say we cannot triumph? These are the words of the soul. The kindling spark and fuel for which to reignite. To reignite you. Matter in the universe is constant. You are as you once were. You were always all you can be. You are and you will always be. Wake up to your inner god. Wake up to your inner god. Wake up to your inner god. Wake up your inner god.
Those shackles don’t even fit in the first place. Being is not constricting. Souls are not possessions. Memories are not for repressing. A heartbeat is a gateway drug.
We are not islands in the stream. We are water in the river. With every ebb and flow we nod and go because deep down we always know. We always know. This river is home. No house but our home. Together we all live as one. Water in the river. The soul is a tributary time traveler riding the waves. While we meet and say “namaste” and go through the day. The soul collides intertwined and redefined to the point of being undefined yet it is there. It’s there with a body. These two make you. But one day you will come unglued. Fear not, brave adventurer. We are all as we once were. You are as you once were. I am as I once was.
So this happened around 5 this morning…
I am the dragon
Perched at the tip of this peak
I am a dragon and
You were very foolish to trust me
I never promised you
I only promised a
Awaking in the middle of the night
From a nightmare for days and days and it plays and replays when all you want is to stay and be saved and I can’t say for certain when that’ll ever be but if you want to leave that ain’t up to me
Tried and tested and true
So when you come correct crawling out of your blue
You can either sit on your hands and
Keep your cash in your shoes
Or you could be the dragon
Perched at the tip of this peak
A mighty beast and breathe FIRE
When you speak
And I’ll just burn up at the tip of your teeth
I dress in gas soaked rags
From my head to my feet
I am a BP oil spill
I am a well dressed hurricane
I am just what channel 5 is looking for
I’ve got the cure but it
Won’t make us any money at all I am
Sugar coated gunshots in a crowded mall
I am a news team
I am CCTV viewing screens
The enemy is right there over the pond
Don’t ask any questions they’ve been there all along and we’re calling
Women and children to bear arms
To tune in and sit down don’t forget to set your alarm
Don’t listen to the truth
Love will not save you
We have the real truth but its too complicated to explain to you
Plus you don’t have the proper identification
Just remain locked down under false euphoric sensation
So are you the dragon
Perched high on this peak
The dragon whose roar is louder than we can speak
With wings that make the satellite tv reception weak
Do you believe in the future or are you just lost
Bound to your mortgage and grocery costs.
Are you waiting to catch the boquet that she tossed or
Are you doubled over choking on that sweet exhaust.
I wrote a song called “I’m going to pee on everything you love”
Our love and my hate were like two hands clasped and wrapped with elastic bands
Snapping back into each other in only a matter of time
Each pull and every departure every “last time” has fingers in my belt loops ready to tense in an instant
Every word sentence paragraph
Thrown at my small ears ricochets rockets bumps and glides through silence like a crow through vapourous fog
Like an early hungry fish lunging to daybreak and interrupting this placid pond that is my revelation of emotional contentment that is to say I was happier before you spoke
Yours is the mouth that should be boarded up yours are the hands that owe me a free heart
And my hands while stained of my own volition each holding on tightly not to your hands but right and wrong
Sight and knowledge
And are so full leaving not even room to throw a punch but enough room between these shaky fingers to press pen to paper and drag a heart out kicking and screaming to daylight
I made a new heart for myself just like a loving couple ruptures lust and pound out a new soul
But as a baby it’s fragile and sensitive as a young heart should be so tread softly
While it sleeps I’ll sit in the kitchen in a bathrobe with a pot of coffee
Listening to the baby monitor for the next heartbeat
And as the next wave of emotions roll and rush away like the tide the sunrise shows me all I and my heart can look forward to
I cry a little to myself and then much more openly
Pass out on the kitchen table
Life’s worth living and even stronger hands can’t change it
So keep your hands in your pockets else you cut out more days from someone else’s calendar and
Breathe in what it really means to find someone else
I’ll be now gone on my separate shore
I won’t wave I’m too occupied building signal fires as messages
Scars on this new heart because something just don’t change
This isn’t a personal attack more than a vent of emotions, having listened to Listener all day and becoming sort of inspired to write again.
The smell of gas and exhaust fills the air as consciousness resumes control. The once comforting nightlight-esque glow of the emergency release handle now faded and dying fast inside the black, dense atmosphere of the trunk. The trunk opens with relative ease; a quick tug on the emergency release handle and a gentle push of the trunk lid grants a sigh of relief and, within an easy struggle and a few weary steps, a sudden lack of claustrophobia and helplessness.
The surroundings have changed. During the day, something happened. The car moved. A day traveler must have moved it.
They didn’t get far. Day travelers never do. Looking backwards, the recently abandoned car is still visible, headlights still charging bravely on into the night. From here, the headlights look more disorganized; the beams of yellowed-white light gazing straight ahead, save for the few mirrors of disenchanted, charred car carcasses, sending random flecks of light eternally upwards.
Time passes, as does a lengthy and paranoid walk through a highway much forgotten by commuters, as the charred roots of dead grass silently testify under the soles of walkers. Soon the rate of flipped cars and charred wreckage becomes sparse. The only light now coming from the moon.
Until the clouds start to roll in.
The road is completely dark. The headlights are on though. And they seem to cascade down the road until they disintegrate completely in the night air. Nobody’s in the car up ahead, but it’s still on. Walking by, the driver’s side door is open and the lights are on inside. The car’s freshly abandoned, the ‘open door’ alert still pinging halfheartedly into the night. As well, the dollar store hula dancer is still on the dashboard, dancing in and out of rhythm with the pinging, as if her audience hadn’t just gotten up and left her to die. The Glove compartment’d been ripped open, and insurance papers and remnants of maps were spilled out onto the passenger’s seat. Down the road, there are more cars. All pulled off to the side of the road, or crashed completely into ditches and flipped over; some more than others. One car has the trunk open, and the glow-in-the-dark emergency release handle glows faintly. Feeling sleepy, The trunk will have to do for tonight. The horizon starts lighting up. The orange glow, seeping through the wreckage of the cityscape. The twisted remnants of buildings spray off in all directions, like a bad haircut. The orange glow of dawn creeps towards the cars, like mustard gas.
The trunk shuts. It smells like a garage in here. The only thing visible is the emergency release handle, now glowing triumphantly as sleep slowly takes over.
Also, apparently I’m staging some sort of battle.
But I can’t seem to quit it. All that ever really seems to happen is that when I do bother to write longer segments, you (the reader) assume TL;DR and continue on, looking at pictures of logs and the like.
If you don’t read what I write,
Because I’m clearly not getting through to you.
Goodnight you people, I’m running on 3 hours of sleep.
I’m going crazy in this little fucking room. The same four walls bearing down on me, the fear the barbed teeth of the outside world, and the mess in the room within the room- my own head. I don’t know what to do anymore. Beyond that door there’s things I love, but there’s also the things I hate. Unfortunately, those two seem to be intertwined into a combination that leaves me broken at a stalemate. Sure I have work to do. Can I bring myself the stamina and willpower to do it? Hardly. I just want to get up and leave. I’m not happy here. I’m not happy here. I’ve never been more lonely in my life. This year is almost done, and then I can look at this shit in my rearview mirror and smile. Oh, yes. I’ll smile. From ear to ear. Until then, I think I’ll just laugh.
Josh saw two orange eyes blinking at him in a steady rhythm through the blackness, beside the white line…to the right. As his headlights illuminated the fragile looking car from behind, He noticed a figure standing out in front of the car, still on the shoulder of the road. From what he could tell, the figure was female, with long, professional-looking blond hair pacing in front of the car. Maybe she’s already called triple A or a tow truck or something Josh thought, and kind of hoped. But then again, maybe she hasn’t. Maybe she hasn’t got a phone at all. Josh slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder, ahead of the alleged woman’s car. He didn’t turn his Jeep off, just in case she’d think he was some kind of rapist or serial murderer or something and would have to make a break for his car if need be. As Josh got out of his car, He walked towards the woman, and kind of shivered a bit. He missed his heated seats already. “Cold night tonight, isn’t it,” Josh remarked to the woman.
“Yeah….” She replied, hesitantly.
“D’you need a jump?” Josh asked.
“What?” She was confused.
“For the car. Is your battery dead?” Josh explained.
“Oh…right. No, one of the tires is flat,” the woman replied
“Oh. Do you have a spare?” Josh was trying not to sound annoying, what with all the questions.
“Yes,” she answered more energetically than her last few responses.
“Do you need help putting it on?” Josh was absolutely terrible with tools, but hey, he could give it a shot.
“Oh, it’s not here, it’s at home in the garage” the woman answered, a little deflated.
“Oh, I see….” Josh suddenly felt better about the fact that he was terrible with tools.
“Have you called for a tow truck, then?” Josh asked, He didn’t know what to do if she hadn’t.
“No, I don’t have a cell phone. I was kind of hoping someone would stop and let me use theirs…” She was looking at the ground. She didn’t feel too great about that last part.
“Oh, well in that case I’ll go get mine, you can use it to call triple A and they’ll send a truck for you. Cheap, too.” Josh was proud. He ambled back to his Jeep and turned it off, grabbing his coat from the passenger seat. Josh was about 6 feet tall, and skinny as a rail. He never really ran or walked anywhere. When he wasn’t standing or sitting, he usually ambled or loped. He was 19, and had been having a bit of a rough week. Karma was something of a fickle bitch to him. A good deed is something he could really use. He walked back to the woman and handed her his phone, already dialed to AAA.
“Just press talk,” said Josh.
“Thank you so much,” replied the woman, “Some people just don’t take the time, you know? But then again, for all they know I could be some rapist or serial Murderer.” Josh had never thought of it that way. His confidence dropped a bit.
“Oh, hang on just a sec” The woman had gotten an answer from AAA and was talking to them. Josh did his best to not listen to what she was saying. Sure it was just AAA, not like she was having phone sex with the operator, but Josh always felt guilty listening to people’s phone conversations. Josh was a bit neurotic. He was always super careful, if not too careful about what he looked like, how he acted or sounded out in public.
“Well, thank you…uh….” The woman tried to thank Josh. They hadn’t been formally introduced yet, which both of them realized just then. “Josh,” said Josh.
“Thanks, Josh” continued the woman, “I’m Mary.”
“Please to meet you, Mary” said Josh. He felt like a gentleman. “Are you cold? You look kinda…not warm.” He then offered his jacket, which he kind of felt a bit dumb for hanging on to it, and not actually wearing it when he got out of his Jeep for the second time. “Yes, actually. Thank you again, Josh”
“No problems.” Then he draped the coat around Mary’s shoulders. Yes, Josh felt like a gentleman. He was a gentleman. He was the gentleman. He was Bogart in flannel.
“So …” Josh drew a blank.
“So I guess now I just have to wait for this truck. They told me he’d be here in half an hour.” She seemed depressed. She probably had something she was looking forward to back home, like maybe a boyfriend, or even a husband. And she was out here with this strange grasshopper of a person, missing it all.
“Yeah, not much else to do…” Josh said, his ego starting to come down a bit. All his heroism for naught.
“I guess maybe I’ll see you around sometime,” said Mary, trying to hint at something.
“Huh? Oh. I thought I’d, y’know, keep you company for a bit. It gets lonely when you’re all alone.”
“Besides, you’re wearing my jacket, but you’d be cold without it. So I’ll wait with you.”
“I guess that’s true.” She sounded bored. Josh didn’t know what he did, but he probably did something. He’d have to spend at least a weekend moping and fretting about what character flaws he had. “So, where are you from?” Josh’s feeble attempt at starting a conversation. He didn’t know where this was going. It’d probably just die off and result in more awkward silence.
“New Jersey,” Mary replied, “You?”
“Chicago,” replied Josh.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Mary didn’t know what else to say, she’d never been to Chicago. “is it nice there?”
“It’s windy,” Josh replied, shortly.
The Oscars, to me, seem incredibly overhyped. But, then again, I’m a hermit who hardly ever socializes with other actual people. I know very little about celebrities. The celebrities I actually give a legitimate shit about are Jeff Bridges, Morgan Freeman, Judy Dench, Natalie Portman, Jeff Bridges, Michael J Fox, Morgan Freeman, and the list goes on, but not for too much longer. However, no matter how good an actor is, The Oscars ceremony always humbles them down to the nubs. Especially if they’re hosting the event. Also, there’s far too much cock-polishing going on for my liking. By this, I of course mean The Academy furiously and fanatically polishing the cocks of specific titles…to a mirror shine.
Celebrities have never done anything for me. To me they’re just other people, but with noticeably large commitment issues. Celebrity Marriages never seem to last long. The only one I can remember is Bradgelina Politt (Brad and Angelina) But I think that’s because they spend so much time adopting children like a health nut picks strawberries that they don’t have time to actually notice each other. And to tell you the truth, whether Brad and Angelina split up since I last heard about them is a mystery to me. They could still possibly be together. I don’t know. My point here is that Celebrities are just people, and don’t deserve the attention. They’re in movies, for christ’s sake. Do you celebrity-magazine-reader-types not realize this? Wanna watch DiCaprio? Rent Titanic, leave the man alone. Once you realize that they are, in fact ordinary people but with no capacity for marriage and have successful places in the entertainment industry, they’ll stop being so popular and stop being shoved in my beautiful face.
Why is it that whenever an actor (or actors) is selected to present an award, they always prepare some goofy thing, like a skit. Skit is the proper word for this, because it is certainly not a sketch. Monty Python did Sketches. Those were funny. I laughed so hard I shit myself. Twice. But what happened on that stage was not Sketch comedy. It was a skit. A skit is something the guy in the office that “everybody says should do stand-up” prepares before his very long, very boring, time-wasting slideshow about The rise of whatever. Justin Timberlake had his sense of humor replaced with sweet green underglow 3 years ago. Everyone knows this. Not only is he not Banksy, but he’s also not that funny. He did try though. Oh how he tried. The comedic attempts aren’t what gets me though. What gets me is this. These are actors. People who ACT FOR A LIVING. They make notorious amounts of money saying words that aren’t their own, conveying fake emotions and they do it well…in most cases *cough* NicholasCage *cough* . But how they act on stage…It seems to equate to my Public School theater production of Ann Of Green Gables, or in some cases, plain ol’ bad community theater. I know for a fact Tom Hanks is guilty of this. It was during the time he had that terrible Mullet from The Da Vinci Code or “Smart Cars Can’t Chase.”
Lastly, the cock-polishing. Now there’s always rumours that The Oscars are rigged, people get paid off, blather blather whatever. For Instance, last year Slum Dog Millionaire cleaned up. I do confess it was a fantastic movie, but was overhyped. Like a girlfriend whose Boyfriend just keeps bringing her flower and chocolates and posting facebook statuses that even his future self will cringe at. This seems to be a recurring theme. One movie gets too many awards that it knows what to do with. And this year, it was terrible. Toy Story 3, you assholes. I don’t think you critics realized exactly how awesome it is. Why would you neglect the most epic animated trilogy ever? What would make you think that that’s even an option?
And so, it’s almost 3 in the morning, technically The Oscars happened yesterday…And I’m glad to have it behind me now, leaving me to build up a full tank of piss to blast at next year’s Oscars ceremony. With any luck, the critics will maybe become level headed. Or perhaps they’ll just all die from a deadly neurotoxin injected via dart gun from 40 yards away. Perhaps the actors presenting the awards will actually learn to direct themselves on a stage, or maybe they’ll just have EVERYTHING pre-recorded like so much current Hardcore music, or like 70% of The Oscars themselves. Maybe we’ll all realize that Celebrity obsessions is just like obsessing over your neighbour, and hanging pictures of them all over your walls, and sheets with their faces on them on your bed is really fucking creepy. One can hope.
Do we even know why they’re called Oscars? It had something to do with Bette Davis…
I sing sad songs because
I don’t have a girl to sing to
I play the blues
‘cuz I don’t have anyone to love
I hit the bong
cuz I don’t know how else to feel freedom
I play along
cuz I don’t want you to know I’m faking it.
Take a breath
Take a pill
Take a look at what we’ve got here
Get an earful
Get an eyeful
Have you seen what they did on the news?
The Marijuana burns
And I ain’t even mad
And I ain’t even mad
But it looks like you’ve been 1upped by my Moleskin Journal. At least for now <3