Over Here Please

I’m constantly bombarded with these notions and ideas that I should be doing this or I could be doing that. It is as though everyone has an idea of what I should be doing except for me. The shitty part is that it is never what I am already doing. It is always something that takes a commitment that I just don’t have right now. This is what I want to do. Whatever the fuck this is, is what I want to do.

I may not be the best at it but surely I am not the worst. Of course that’s not what anyone wants to hear. I don’t make shit doing this, but is that the only reason to do something? Some days it feels like the only reason I can’t lie about that even to myself. Though I know that it is not true. Life is a struggle this career is a slow march through hell.

It takes a toll on you. Hacking one piece of you away at a time until all that is left is a bloody stump that won’t shut the fuck up. I’m nothing more than a tortured soul tortured by my own thoughts and views. A constant pain that no matter how much I say I’ll keep having more to say. Even if no one is going to listen. But that is the point is it not? To find someone to listen to what I have to say. A never-ending struggle without no real sense of a goal. Here’s to another long night saying the same old useless shit to myself.

Wait For It, It Pans Out, Kind Of

We spend so much time lately searching for something that has always been there. We spend our time pretending we don’t see it at all. Yet bitch and moan that only if this or only if that we could have a sense of purpose. Existence is nothing more than the idea to keep going. Bombs satisfy these needs only in defense. As an offense strike missiles provide nothing more than what they advertise. Destruction, destruction of a person, destruction of an identity lost only because they do not share the same view.

We preach that we are righteous, that we are holy, and that we are above all principled. Are we really when we do so much wrong? If we really cared. If we really wanted to make a difference and to prove we are what we say. We would spend money to educate, rebuild, and promote the acceptance of differences rather than bomb the living shit out of them.

We keep taking the easy way out and it never pans out. Not once has our way been the better way there’s just no one left to tell us so. Our ways will run out and we will fall. Not because our way was completely wrong, but because it is broken. Our society is better in so many ways, but there are way too many faults to outweigh the good. Our broken education system works wonders to promote an agenda we swear up and down that we are not following. Keep us deaf, dumb, and stupid. As long as we keep buying everything will be alright.

What happens when there is nothing left to own?

What happens when we have everything we will ever need as we have had for the past twenty years?

What happens to us then?

We fall apart as we are now. Our education is outdated by thirty years and counting thanks to all of our innovations.  Each year we fall behind because we can not keep up with the technology. The education gap is spreading further and further apart yet we keep hammering the old ways over and over again. We focus all of our efforts to teaching things that can easily be taught at home, and yet because we need so much shit there is no one at home to teach them.

No one at home who isn’t too tired to take a vested interest in what the fuck is going on. We are working so hard to realize this dream that we so deeply believe in yet no one can remember what it is we actually dream about. No one actually remembers why it is that we live. Why it is that we have come here in the first place. Fuck everything that moves of course and spread the sickness that is life.

Underground Parking Structure For All Eternity

I think of all the things that I have to say and all the things that I want to say. Two very different and conflicting ideas. The question is am I happy? Simple at first more complex as time goes on. Define the word happy or the feeling of happiness. No one is happy for longer than a few seconds. The feeling fades, cum and you are done, the feeling disappears into the brink of darkness. Overwhelmed by all the living done around me. I don’t remember a happy time from my childhood, but I can recall in detail every single horrible thing that I was put through.

I remember these things like most people remember fond memories of loved ones. It is that only these tortures memories were, are my only friends. Why must I always be submerged in darkness even in light? I wonder if it is just me. This is who I am. Depression is often described as though a dark cloud is always hanging overhead. Always ready to rain. The feelings never ends. Forty more years of this seems like an eternity yet the last thirty went to fast to be doing nothing at all. Choosing a path is so much harder without a trail.  So much harder in the rain from a storm that blinds my eyes. Built to be stronger than the way I portray in my life. Though maybe I am weak after all. Too weak to see the good that I still have left in me. Seems to lie with in the same region as happiness. It comes and goes, but really I’d love to be the one to destroy it all.

Burn it all down and absorb the screams. Enjoy the end much more than the beginning. Would be hard at first to go against nature. The day-to-day things might come back to haunt me. Faded memories, but I’d forget their faces after a time. I know by the time that it was all said and done I could get over the shock and aww. We paint the devil as a villain while giving him all the traits of a hero. A liberator of man only to be tinged by the flames he wanted all along. His punishment was his goal in the end. Who really won? We fight every moment to obtain what we are trained to never achieve. We praise Jesus, but worship Satan. Doing the right thing only gets you crucified. Suffer until there is nothing left. What if the bible is real, but we have miscomprehended it since the dawn of time? What then?

If God was among us what would she really have to say? Live your life or do it my way. It’s all the same as time goes on. We make choices for no reason at all and decisions on our own time. Nothing ever lasts, but we’ll wait until the last second to figure that out. Not an issue when there is still so much time left for me to decide.

Bowl Full of Something and It Keeps On Moving

Early, I’m always early. For what I don’t know. It’s not as though anyone is standing around ready to go. Waiting on me to show my ugly face. Always in a hurry to be done with whatever it is that I’m doing. Out of time, I’m always out of time I suppose.

I’ll be early for death and in a hurry to get it over with. Yet I suffer from extreme anxiety that I will die before I am able to accomplish anything. Whatever that might be. An enigma, I am an enigma. Andrew Jackson Jihad has a song called “This is Why I’m Hot.” In it the singer states that he only has two years left with no context to why he only has this much time. Since turning twenty-eight it is as though the song and the lyrics have become my mantra. How long do we chase the ghost? Until we die? I feel as though the longer I go the more the lyrics will depress me.

Who knows though maybe one day I will never feel like this anymore?

Maybe one day I’ll be dead. I fear that death is nothing more than one long therapy session. Constantly thinking, reflecting on a life time full of bull shit and regret. Worthless excuses to why I didn’t do this, but rather did that. I often wonder what it is that I will say if this is how death is. I suppose that is why I write. Get all of this off my chest before the big day. As I stated before always early and always in a hurry.

Wrap It Up

So many thoughts come to me but not a fucking one is worth mentioning at this point. Some days feel like a total waste of life and time before they even begin. Yet I still have the whole day to reflect on how shitty the day is. I’m sure I’ll come up with some epic idea by the end of day. Throw enough shit against the wall and you will have your masterpiece.

Only my mind seems to only want to cooperate right as I fall asleep because fuck you brain for always letting me down. Strike while the iron is hot. Too bad it is only at the worst times. Right before work, before I sleep, or any time I have to do some other shit. Dead ass tired again with no chance of sleep for three more days. How I can’t wait for Mondays. In this crisis for sleep everything feels as though it is coming down on me. Shit raining down on me, fighting me, against me while I’m curled up in a ball on the floor.

Who the fuck thought twitter was a good idea? An asshole with too many friend to care beyond 140 characters. I want to hear from you but keep it short and lose big words jerk off as no one has time to look that shit up. Next generation is so fucked and they are very welcome. Too bad we had to be the ones to bring it all down. Tear down society to leave our mark. At this rate the next generation will be running out of shit to burn down. The smile I have is so wide that it hurts. Fuck’em all.

Living in a Caste-less System

He walks the street at night searching for half used or discarded cigarettes to smoke. Dirty, unkempt, he smells of a hundred days of sweat, but by what laws of man does it say he is doing it wrong? Those of us lucky enough to be awake right now cast our judgements. Make our off-handed comments as I stand amongst them silent and not caring. I do not fear or respect this man however I do understand. I understand his plight to do as he wishes. I understand why he makes his pilgrimage here every night looking for the things that others don’t want. If only we too could have his conviction, but he serves more as an example to why we can’t than why we should. We can’t all take our shitty useless jobs for granted. I finish my cigarette and leave the part left on the bench next to me among the other unfinished ones. In an act of charity I leave another brand new one with the others. Unlike most in his situation he won’t accept charity though I have tried once or twice. He however will take anything discarded by chance. Silently I walk back into the building. Go back to my shitty job that I could give a fuck about, but need more than I’m fully aware of. Trapped in this box within another, and yet another.

I’m tearing at my stitches and wondering if this is the right thing to do. Examples displayed to me by fate or God or what the fuck ever would tell me it’s not. Yet each stitch of my very existence begs to be popped. Dwelling on such thoughts and such actions is not healthy to the system in which I am confined too. I often wonder who it that is imprisoned in this world is it the free or the damned? I’m hanging on by very little these days. Becoming unhinged I would say. With death metal drums beats bouncing around in my skull I want to get violent. But why? What for? What I have to say is so far from violence and more to do with depression. On point with torture than violence. The feelings dig deep, stitched together by the reality that none of this really matters. How I feel has nothing to do with living life only a byproduct of how I choose to feel about all of this. Life is ever-changing. Constantly evolving and it is how we adapt to it that dictates the outcome of it all.

Diary of a Broken Soul

I’m a miserable self-loathing piece of shit. I’m hidden, in hiding among the insects, between the cracks all around us, waiting it out, and then again I am nothing at all. Everyone always wants to know what I am doing. I lie and say nothing. When really I’m writing down every stupid thing they say, every unfortunate thing they do in my mind or right onto the paper. Profit off of their in securities and their secrets. Each one forming a character inside my head. An excuse to make sure in some way they are dead. I don’t know it’s a process of letting go.

A lady, a bitch, a person with a vagina and tits told me today. She told me the corn tortillas are too hard. Too hard compared to what? Flour, I’m unhappy. I’m not sure at all. Have something to say. It’s on the tip of my tongue. My mind clicks, gears churning trying to not get stuck, trying to not destroy myself from within, and no words come out. A simple smile and nod as visions of beating her to death with corn tortillas dance in my head. No one speaks to me here anymore so, I thought I’d share some words with myself. Madness, I live in a world of madness. It clogs up my brain. Full of nothings and repetitive bull shit. She was white in case that matters, but here in Texas we are all Mexican at heart. Denounce our true existence as if we could hide our bronzed over skin or retarded fucking accents if we get the chance. Ingrained and in breed the sun seeps through the cracks on the walls. It finds its way in for no reason at all. Taunting us to come outside and see the big ass Texas blue sky.

I fail to heed the call preferring to stay inside the majority of the year. Winter, spring, summer, fall doesn’t matter the season I hate every second here. Every moment that I have to deal with these people. These outsiders that come from all over the United States bringing with them their problems they thought they had left back home. Instead they only tow them right to our door step, right in our face, and all they do is complain about how this isn’t like this or that or who gives a fuck. Why does it always seem like the hardest thing is to let go even if you wanted it to go all along? Why move to a place only to change it to where you came from? Transplant city is confused. Segregated by not only directions but by the people themselves. Each with their own set of problems, concerns, and morality. Falling apart at the seams, it seems the stitching has come lose after so much wear and tear. Inspiration is lost on me as of late. With so much mediocrity shoved in my face day in and day out I’ve lost track of who I am. So lost in a sea of lost souls. Doesn’t matter anymore how I feel or what I have to say. As long as I shut up, do as I’m told, and get this fucking lady some soft corn tortillas.

So much of this is beyond my control. So much of this is beyond anything I could know. I can’t control how I feel. I like to think that I can or that I could, but how much can I really control? We don’t choose who we are born to or when we are born. Though they factor into our existence every day, but not by choice. The way we think is ingrained before we even have a chance to think about how we process information. Some say we are born this way. If that is the case then all of my outside influences don’t even matter. I would think this way and feel this way no matter who or what I have come across in my life time. A bunch of shit if you ask me. Born this way? Genetic hatred for everyday life? I don’t see it even if I feel it. A slow progression built up over time. The distance I’ve traveled. The assholes I’ve met in between made me who I am. Each and every knife dug in and drug out of me has molded me and shaped me into what I’ve become.

Yet I like myself. The perfectly cut scars, the misshapen features of a monster, and the overall decomposition of my soul. What’s not to like? It’s the people around me that I hate. With their Caesar like actions waiting to cut out what is left of me. But if I wasn’t in the shadows where is it that they lie? In the light or in the darkness with me? Do I ever really shed them off or are their knives and their influence truly part of me? I think about this as I pick the scabs. The never healing wounds of my past. If I hadn’t been beaten as a child would I be who I am? If my father had stayed by my side would it have made a difference? These questions have no answers. These questions therefore are not real questions at all. They are only lingering thoughts that haunt me in times of sadness and despair. Try to not focus on them, to dwell on them, but I always know they are still there.

My daughter has become a constant reminder of these topics. I look at her sometimes as she sleeps, as she plays, and all I can think is how could anyone walk away from her? Walk away from their child? Hurt their child or another person’s child? Yet I am proof that it can happen. Not only a witness but a victim and still I don’t understand. A real thought turns into so many real questions. Maybe it was meant to be this way. To feel this way. Maybe I just so happen to be a better person because of the knives. Again no real way of ever knowing. Eighteen years from now my daughter could be a drug addict, a murderer, or worst of all conservative because I stayed. Life proposes too many what if’s for one day of reflection.