Sucking the Marrow from the Bone

      It's a difficult thing to write honestly without sounding like a pretentious prick. Over time and now, I can feel my knuckles cramping and fingers gnawing at themselves unless I sit down and write it all out. I used to write about women, but then i met one i held onto. I use to write about the shortcoming of humanity, but i realized that what i thought were shortcomings were only ignorance and deception. The person doing the wrong never saw their fault, and i deceived myself into thinking that it was up to me to change something. i too, was lost, in a world where change was something you could do all on your own, and i felt responsible to express my opinion, even though, most times, nobody ever was asking for it. i had stepped out of line, i had done what i could do, said what i said, and pissed off many on the way around the course, and now, i knew, that whatever kept this place spinning, kept me going, had me here for however longer, i was nothing more than a spec in the universe. My problems don't matter, my reactions and family and society were all built to suit me, to manage me, to train and keep me fatigued, to keep my eyes and mind busy, so i couldn't ask questions or be alert. i found out what they were trying to do, and by-god man, i wouldn't go down without leaving a small piece behind.
      i wonder why people insist on coming here to read my brain spawn? This is the garbage of my head pouring out onto some paper. i can't use the typewriter anymore, it makes this mad noise late at night and the neighbors and my roommate can't get a decent nights sleep. So now i'm back to this, back to this computer, back to this machine. I find it funny that I constantly push people out of my life, and they keep trying to wiggle their way back in. As if not answering my phone or your text messages was not enough. You don't understand that i just want you to leave me alone, and if you did care about my happiness, you would write me out of yours like i just wrote you out of mine. and yet, you still come here to read this and be continually hurt by my words that aren't even met for you in particular. you're searching for a meaning in a pile of fucking railroad spikes.. you'd have better luck starring at something your friend put together at ArtWalk than trying to find a meaning in all of these rambles... yet, you still continue to come here to be hurt. Where's the logic in that? When was the last time i reached out to any of you? Why do you reach out to me? i have to come home to find you sitting on the stairs to my apartment. i politely ask you to leave, and yet you remain, and you keep bothering me, annoying me, and i ask you, very nicely to please go away, until finally i have to tell you to "get the fuck out of my life"...
and then...
you cry. and you sob. and you say that you only want to help me, be my friend. i need your friendship like i need a hole in my head..

     maybe you don't get it. I don't want to clutter my life with any of these bullshit people problems. Because your problems don't mean anything here, and neither do mines. We create problems with no solution to keep us entertained. We create little projects, we try and live our lives on a grand scale, as if our meager efforts to move life along will mean anything.

     I'm very proud when i write, and i come off black or white.. there's never any grey area for me when it comes to putting it down on paper, it all seems so clear, so tangible, i can almost reach out and fuck it. Anyone who knows me well can always find me alone, usually reading, or smoking a cigarette outside. I know that my view of this place is so one sided, and i have no excuse for that. Maybe i'm not as intelligent as i believe myself to be. Perhaps if i was smart, i'd find a way to make myself stupid, to sit back and live the Walmart American Dream. To sit back and smile and be content with the system, the wife, the polar icecaps and the whiskey. To try and believe for a better tomorrow, to hope for change, to hope for fight, to hope for a sunny day.

      You know the thing about hope? It breeds disappointment. If you have a realistic enough view of the world, and you try to understand it's inner workings, try to find the system, try to find a way to manipulate the system, then at least you can say that you knew going in, you might not come back alive. But what the fuck does sitting around "hopping" do for you? Not a goddamn thing. I can sit here and hope all day. You know what that'll get me? A sore ass and a lost day. Hope is radioactive toilet water, you drink it down into your belly and eventually you die a slow blind death at the hands of faith and promise, and no one will ever remember you as what you really are, but as how they saw you through their own blurred, butchered, and vain vision. it's the same as you reading this, you draw your own conclusion as to what i may be, how i may treat others, but in fact, your judgement means nothing to me, you're just hits on the visitor counter.

have a nice day
i know i will.
:)