Calmed

Why can't we just be as one?
With the earth
With life and living
Doing and feeling
Expression and absorption
A calming peace
Simple appreciation for what is there, what profound things are here for you.

surrounded

Have you ever just stopped and looked around for a minute? What the hell are you doing? What is this? This seems like such a joke. I worthlessly drain, surrounded by my own filth and consumer packaging. What things do you see that are truly giving any pleasure? What of that pleasure? It never seems to have been that good or worth its inevitable trouble to get or the consequences of its indulgence.

Look at each item. Pause and read its story. Where did it enter your life and why? You don’t need that shit. It isn’t doing anything for you now, it barely did anything before, but you had to have it. This is your life focus. This empty can is the reason you woke and fought through a day. This pack of cigarettes and its twenty individual containers of euphoric relaxation is the reason you struggle and cry. You became a hardworking man for this phone.

This is not life. This is not feeling.

In the afternoon

It was an interesting experience. Small bursts of mild bliss coupled with moderate connections. It's different to live now, I know so much more of life and love and reality. I knew exactly what every feeling meant, how serious to consider absorbtion and it's necessity. I understand myself in such a logical way from exterior. If I could reduce the fog, see clearly the rest of the world, I would have complete control and power.

-

Who are you to tell me how and when my own life ends?

Casiotone for the Painfully Alone

Losing and gaining a pointless continuance

I haven’t a thing to say, I have no pure thoughts of any kind. Why can’t I simplify my mind and complete a thought other than despair and pain? I cannot create anything when all I want to do is destroy myself. I thought I had a core of creation, and uncontrollable urge to bring new worlds into ours, it seems I just have a different way of seeing the wretched things that are already here, already discovered and finished.

I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what I am or what I am mean to do, or be.

I am a writer, I am a sculptor, a photographer, I fully express the world’s thoughts.

I have never written a damn thing, I am the only appreciator and understanding soul of my sculpture, my photography is repetitive and consists of emptiness re-enacted, I have no thoughts the world cares about, or anyone for that matter.

Do we each have a calling? What does that really mean anyways? It’s like saying fate, or destiny, solid un-deniable words like, soulmate or obsession; it’s too much to say. You don’t really know anything for sure until it happens. Some grand painter lost deep within the exterior of some simple server of ales in a nowhere bar somewhere with no knowledge of his inherent talents and passions within because he has no interest in art, never gave it a try. If I am to believe I am meant to be anything, I have to believe we are all living a misguided mess of a life and wasting ourselves. Maybe that is the only key, everything must be tried at least once to see if it can be done better than anyone else in history, by you and with no effort on your part at all, as it truly come that naturally.

Well, this seems more and more bullshit with increased thought. One must just try anything I suppose, just stick with it long enough and you will at the least be good at it eventually, then that’s worth something, sort of. Now we are back in the realities of just picking the one that makes the most money. There is always this reality of structure, socially and economically that just creates an existence of mere existence.

I feel I am on another anti 9-5, rat race rut lifestyle rant again.

It just leaves such a void; I cannot be the only one who sees this. It’s not a matter of intelligence, or ignorant bliss, there is no philosophy work involved here, I assure you. If anyone who is capable of loving or even dreaming is out there, I am sure they have some emotions as mine, some need to really do something and be something other than the culturally created citizen.

I have an altered view of course. I am overwhelmed with emotion, passionately and obsessively driven in paranoid, devastating realizations and constant struggled need to break free and be. I honestly hope there are few others on my level or more.

In closing…

Title unavailable

I just don't want anything, dreams, thoughts, wants, feelings of any kind.
I am not an artist.
I just want to slip into the American rut. Work to pay bills that allow me to call a place home and maybe watch some TV before bed. Get wasted on weekends to pass the time and snub realities. There is nothing to offer, especially from a broken man as myself.
Exist, you don't have to make a difference, contribute, or leave a mark.
Perspective, we are really nothing anyway. A spec in a flash of light. In a thousand years, even hundreds, why did you matter? Might as well get high and fuck, it's just my own mind's experience in my own short glimpse of reality.
Consider life as a day off, what would you do? Something productive? Help others? Lay around all day drinking stout, close the night with masturbation and falling asleep to a film with subtitles? These are all lifelong achievements depending how life is lived. They all have the same impact and can sum up a man's existence on this shit orb.
I need to turn off, live simple and easy, just do until you are done. It is a common system, most are ok with it. You do not have to be something special. Just doing what must be done in order to take care of head.

Corner store

Packed with barely clothed, over amped Americans with motorized entertainments spilling over into trailers. All the liquids, gasses and solids being collected in anticipation if their purchased thrills and adventures for the day. A bright sky is calling, heat, air, an environment of pointless action. Good times spent of your perfect ruts lived, routine fun. The small mazes of consumables are impossible to traverse. The crowds further thicken to the only point of exit. With the satisfaction of plastic card swipes, they are eventually released.

I just wanted a pack of cigarettes...

I thought

I had the most brilliant thoughts earlier today, around one o’clock, I believe. The only thing of significance I recall is my insistence on coming up with a system of recording said thoughts due to constant loss. Apparently, a pocket recorder is in great need. It must be something separate from my phone and completely purposed for journalistic expression only. A pod might be perfect. Wi-fi can connect to my phone, laptop and related apps and programs.

What am I to do with all of these redundant, repetitive journal and digital records? They tell no story. A collection of my “writing” would evolve into nothing. Yet, I continue this urge to copy and express my worthless commentary. If I can focus on the grand explosions of ideas that truly need to be shared, then there is a profound reason to present myself and my thoughts. Alas, I have mudded and filthed this export into a rambling personal journal of useless thoughts.

These thoughts should be on paper.

Brilliant, guided descriptions of mundane masterpieces of life and phylisophical investigations of nothing and everything are to be recorded, spoken and visualised through comfortable, free-flowing text and language. That is to be gifted. That which is real, life, energy and connection.

Words are words and I am asleep

For now…

Facebook is dumb

This is why I want no part of your adolescent time wasting "experiment". Are our lives that simplistically empty? Mass audience does not equal an appropriate or useful one, it is certainly unnecessary in any regard. Is it a longing for approval? Or fame, even if it be only among peers or localized? Is it a self made retrospect used at low times, reminiscing days of worth? Pointless points continue with no reasonable traits. Time wasted, much like the time wasted here writing this, is the most regrettable of reminicents. It all becomes a cycle of wasted time, from its repetative, simple creation and progressively in existence lost while staring into its pixels during drifting thoughts of "where did my life go wrong?"

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Write words that do things and make things happen. Tell a story of clarity and significance. Blow minds with unique style, language and knowledge. Waste your time.