A Notice of Change…

It has been one crazy six months… I have been having a blast writing every month, every week, and every day for those of you have stuck with me… I will be taking the month of February off… To work on my book and to think of more exciting stories to tell you in the coming year… What that means is that I won’t be posting any new stories or blog pieces… I will be posting some of the most liked stories for the last six months, new Broken Thoughts, and Poetry though… 

This is only temporary so I can get ahead of the curve… I will still be visiting blogs, answering comments, and be around in general… So that is why I am calling it a change rather than a break… I will be back to my regular schedule for March…

Thank you so much for following, reading, commenting, and being here with me this past six months… I appreciate each and every one of you… each and every day…

Layne Ambrose
1/30/18 

 

One more thing before I go

How Ugly It Truly Is….

“Working is how life passes you by. Time itself passes you by. Relationships pass you by. It is only so long until everything passes you by and you are left with nothing or no one. There are so many aspects to this country and money seems to be the biggest one. We all have to make money no matter the culture. But what do we become when we make money our culture? We make the money match the time? Money can always be earned, but the time? Days spent unconscious as life passed by. So I can pay the bills on time, afford the drinks to keep me going, so me and mine can live the life we want to live. Which looking back was never the life we wanted to live. It wasn’t the life we dreamed about for ourselves or you. It wasn’t much of a life at all. In my opinion, life is nothing more than this ever passing time. Since as long as long as I could remember life has just been going on. Whether I was part of it or not. Whether I did the right thing or not. The amount of control and freedom you think you have is how little of both you actually have. Nothing is free. We all pay a price. Whether it is our bodies or the very soul we think we have. Listen to me rambling like the old man I have become. You didn’t come to visit me to hear the ramblings of an old man. You came here to make peace with yourself. Get right with God or whatever you kids call it these days. I’ll admit I like these visits except for your need to want to escape.”

He looks up from his phone, “Dad that’s not how it is.” He goes back to his phone. “Bullshit, you don’t think I’ve been you? Nothing you’ve done or said is anything I haven’t already done, said, or thought. The subject has changed but the words will always stay the same. Humanity is in an endless cycle. No two ways about it. The meaning of life isn’t to live it is to keep going,” I huff. “Have you been taking you Meds?” He asks the phone. “Of course I have been taking my medication. They don’t shut my brain down. If anything they amplify my mind in this useless shell of what I once was. Keep death from knocking on my door. If anything I should stop taking them. Haven’t you been listening?” Have you ever listened? My life has been wasted on this pursuit of nothingness.” I look down upon my wheelchair. Look at my broken useless body. “Here I sit telling you the same thing I was told by my father then and he was told before as well in what could be called the cycle of life. Since the dawn of time and maybe even before then. Hell for all I know the god damn animals are telling each other the same thing,” my voice raises. “Calm down. What’s the point of this speech Dad?”

“The point, the point is to not waste time. To not look back and regret the time wasted on needless things. If you are going to do something, anything, do it because you want to. Don’t do it because you are told too.” He looks up from his phone once again, “That’s not how the world works.” He stands up and pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you again in a couple of weeks. Let me know if you need anything.” He hugs me as he leaves.  It bothers me to know that he does it because he is expected to. Not because he could give a damn, but it is my fault in the end. Never was there always had something. Time is a beautiful thing until you realize just how ugly it truly is.

All We Have Are Lies

Lately, I have been feeling as though everything is escaping me. As though life itself is nothing more than a silly, meaningless game that I have to play. Win or lose, rich or poor, but unlike a game, I can’t start over or walk away. I hate this feeling. This looming feeling of waiting to die because I have nothing else better to do. It is a waste and worst of all I know it is. Though I do nothing to change or fix the odds in my favor. If this was a game by now I would have found a way to cheat.

I’d find a way to make it all seem easier or seem more fun. In reality, though it doesn’t get better and all the fun is long gone. I’m an adult now. Any new experience is only one I’ve felt before taken to some new extreme. Any thought is only one I have repeated to myself one more damn time. All that I need to know to survive is known to me to some degree or another. I would like to think that life still has some surprise left for me, but in my heart, I know it really doesn’t. Life is what it is, and what it is, is pretty shitty.

The world is left with broken dreams and heartache. Bleak, I know. The truth often is. The truth is often the worst thing about life. It is the lies that we truly enjoy. It is lies that move us in our minds and in our lives. We would like to think that it is the opposite the other way around, but it has never been that way. Our past is made up of lies and so is our future. I’ll lie and say that isn’t all right, that isn’t the way it should be. But in truth it is alright and that is the way it is. If it wasn’t for lies most if not all of us would be dead, dying, or in the ground.

I think, I know that is why we follow a religion, false prophets, science or any other bullshit we drug ourselves with. These false promises of something better made out of lies. These things are not better. They are only the same with different surroundings. Heaven is no way to live just a lie we tell ourselves to keep going. A dream to push us to that next level, but every level is the same. Play any game it is the same. The outcome and the process, are the same.

If you want to get to where I am. Start ripping out the stitches made of lies. Pull the skin apart and realize we were all we ever needed to survive.

Good Times In My Head (Vulgar)

I can’t stand being here any longer. I can’t stand the control you think you have over me because you are in “charge.” Every day spent here is a waste of my time. I just want to scream in his face, but “insubordination leads to termination” or whatever the stupid ass saying is at this shit hole. The asshole in question is a ponytail wearing prick who thinks he has some form of hold over me because he is the lead. A worthless fucking title that basically means he has failed harder than me. Of course, I want the title too. If you are going to fail at least burn that mother fucker into the ground go for management. All he has over me is a need to not want to be homeless or in jail. They don’t tell you that when you are young. Follow your dreams, follow this, but don’t worry about the reality that is life. “It’s to work or it’s to jail.” All Hail by The Devil Makes Three. (That’s a real song. Check it out sometime.)

We choke down these broken ideas of a future that can’t be for everyone. If everyone got to do what they wanted why would we have war? If all it took was hard work why would anyone ever give up? Lies, jokes splashed into our young faces in hopes to grow a few flowers out of the bull shit. Reality is that most of us will only get buried in the ground. Fighting for sunlight and hoping for a chance at something. A root deeply rooted into the ground. All I know is that he is lucky.

Lucky I still drink the water or his ponytail wearing ass would be on the floor. Three hits is all it would take. One hit to the face, another for his ponytail to whip around, and him hitting the floor. If only I had enough venom to stand up to his abuse. I’d do it and laugh my ass off out of the building. Strip my clothes off and run around carrying a lighter screaming, “I am the one true God. The fire inside us all.” Turn this assault into a real show of insanity. The perception of which all of this really is. Here I am a grown man about to ask if I can go to the restroom like a fucking child. Whoever came before him must have been some twisted fuck or maybe his parents did a number on him. Either way, I don’t care if he was beaten daily as a child or made to do every horrible thing at this fucking place. At some point, you’ve got to make a stand and say enough is an enough. I’m not them and they are not me.

“Excuse me, Mr. Goodwin.” He stops stocking for a moment. “Yes,” he says in his smug fucking tone. “May I use the restroom?” I ask as calmly as a man burning alive from the inside can. “It will count as one of your breaks.” I only get two of these fucking things I think. “If you really want to waste one of your breaks on using the restroom then, by all means, go ahead.” I want to waste one of them mopping up his blood, a thought I keep to myself. The warmth of my piss takes a hold of my shorts before he can open his dumb fucking mouth again. I look him dead in the eyes, “No, I don’t think that will be necessary.” He glances at my urine-soaked crotch. He wants a child than a child he shall get. “Did you just piss yourself?” I look down at my crotch, “Looks like it.” His face is full of disgust. I don’t laugh and I don’t smile before turning away. Going back to work all I can think is I’m just grateful I didn’t have to shit.

Being An Ass At The Center Of The Universe

It is different, it is profound. You speak as if you know everything and nothing at the same time. You speak as if you are the human race trapped in time and space. The words fill the page but they have no real meaning. Because truly words have no meaning other than the ones that we give them. A book like a list of words is lost on those and anyone who reads them will little concern. A story is nothing more than a beginning, middle, and an end. You travel with and against the story as if you have something to say. But as I listen I quickly realize there was nothing there at all.

This is the story. These bits and piece lost between the big words. The nothingness of it all is all you are trying to say. As I watch the cigarette burn down to ash. As I watch the thought escape my head in between everything I’ve said and everything I have not. A thought crosses my mind. A profound and different existence on a lost plane of suffering.  But is this life? Is this the truth that every great writer is trying to say?

Nothing matters when everything is said and done. Your words have no meaning as mine don’t here and now. History spreads their lies in order to prove that we must survive. We’ve faced much worse yet look we are still here. We’ve said much worse yet we are still fine. They say actions and words have consequences, but they are only temporary. So say as you please, do as you will. If religion is truth then nothing you say or do was your choice. A running theme and I wonder why? Puppets of a story with no time and place. The world rattles out of control. Yet you stand right in place. As “God” has intended you stand right in space…

Before Ask, Yeah…

It has been three years since I finished my last novel. The time and space seems like forever ago, but the feelings and emotions still feel fresh. Every new day is a mixture of past experiences and freshly served shit. Life keeps piling it on whether I hide in the corners or throw myself into the mix. Years have pasted yet I feel the same. I still smoke too much, drink even more, and waste my time as if I have more to burn.

Ten years ago I was sixteen and ten years ago I still had much of the same dreams.  Ten years from now it will be the same. Only time and depression will change. If ten years from now I am where I am today what would have been the point of all of this? My thoughts are worthless yet I value them at a high price. I believe one day my thoughts will hold enough meaning to warrant me money for nothing, but they are only thoughts. Thoughts that no one gives a shit about. My point of view must be worthless in the end because they are all the same. “Sorry but you are not what we are looking for right now.”

Isn’t that the point? Shouldn’t You be looking to the future? If this, what I say is not “in,” isn’t that what you look for? Taking a chance on me could pay off. I might be the next big thing. In the end, I might be the greatest, but I’m not stupid. The rejections state that I am good, but really I am not. They mean to say give up. They mean to say you are an untalented, pathetic writer that no one cares about. Direct quote for my headstone.

The words used to motivate me because I thought they meant that I just wasn’t there yet. Lies I told myself to keep going. Lies that used to inspire now only hurt. They are little paper cuts across my face and hands. Little scars filled with poison. Little losses destroying what’s left of a heart that was already broken. I’m becoming more damned every day. Becoming normal in every way. I want to give up, but what’s the use? I’ll still feel the same as I did yesterday.

Short and to the Point

Life is a struggle no one could ever dispute that, but what if you already failed? What is life then? A constant disappointment broken into insignificant sections. Living them over and over, day after day, making it harder than it has to be. A constant drain on ever lasting thoughts. Making choices that I know will end badly. It’s not that I don’t care, but really I don’t.

I don’t see a greater outcome. I don’t see a future that I change. All I see is struggle. A struggle to be this or that, to get this or that, to be the best at anything. Even when I try to push it away all I can think is, “Is this really what I want?”

Do I want fame? Do I want people to care that I have something to say? Do I even have anything really to say? Breaking down these thoughts on paper isn’t helping either. A cross between a suicide letter and a list of complaints. Maybe all or none of this matters? All I know is that I am dying either by self infliction or by those around me. Living life has become more than a struggle but a self-imposed suffering. Broken bones and torn joints. Maybe this is all I will ever be. An after thought to a broken life.