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?"

Next

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.

Retro Hope

If there is any way to re-gain those times of hope, infused with life's lessons since, there may be a completion of a positive circle.
Something is always missing, something is always lacking, but often inhibitions prevalent are not the same. The things lacked, are later found to be in surplus. It is as though it is a mere misalignment of voids and peaks. At any given moment, you are simply not good enough.

thoughts

A brief vision

Holding you tight, feeling your body pressed to mine, our hearts aligned, your skin, your scent, your hand firmed to my chest, it was the most intense, alive, whole and purposed, the most pure and right, that I have felt in all my life.

It sparked an urge and certainty to make the most vivid love to you. To feel your body and soul from within. To experience you, your body and existence.

a day

So this time it’s 36. Truly one of my saddest days. I have a few memorable days of deepest despair. It was even reminiscent of 18, an odd and disturbing perspective. I remember at 18, feeling worthless, wasted and void of a future of any worth. How profound, how real. 18 years ago I wanted to die, give up, I had nothing and was nothing, now 18 years later, a whole second lifetime later, where am I? much the same, though learned of the further desperate realities of life and the world, still a simple waste, a waste of another 18 years, a waste of another lifetime. I have done nothing, I still am no one.

spilling nothing

I am in a haze. I do not feel anything. It is odd really. I felt as though I was leaving everything. I felt as I was no one. Among no one. Gone. I have to do something, I cannot just sit here fucked up and zoned on colored light.

How could I possibly write anything?

I do not know who I am, I feel nauseas, it is s the closest condition to an emotion I have right now. I wish it would go away. I am so fucked. My mind is fucked. I am in far too deep.

I rejected some toxins, I am clearer now. Now to thought. This clarity brings to mind that I should not even be typing, I find this irritating and it takes the personal touch from any real ideas. I need a fuller expressive experience. I need to write, in pen or old classic graphite on parchment, lined flatness, or textured canvas. Script itself is art; it often shows the emotion as clearly as the words themselves. Arranged sticks and swirls, displayed on sheets have their own visual appeal, if it can be translated into an actual language, then understood with some kind of validity, it becomes two forms of expression. And with that thought, I am off to get my ledger and graphite.

to me

It is very, very sad. True, unavoidably so. It is over and gone. I am no longer in stages of drama; it cannot be thought of, considered or dwelled upon. It cannot be saved. It is not a matter of winning or losing, reason or fight. The soul has left, if it was ever there, it certainly is no longer. It is not a matter of anything coming back, or re-firing and forging. No scenarios encourage success. Things cannot be returned, re-directed, or forgotten. It is not a matter of hopelessness anymore, but of brutal, cold acceptance.

My life must be lived now. I must grow as me and I alone. The primary focal point is now perpetually blurred beyond any level of adjustment or regard to distance. The most important things known to the world must now be the least important, the forgotten and unneeded things. Yes, this world has changed, it is hollow and tastelessly different. It is up to I alone to create a new one, one of me, one of self-preservation, one of happiness with my existence.

I must forget who I was, what I wanted and dreamt of. I must let it all go, most importantly, I must let myself go.

And go I shall...

Drastic changes must be made

No more nicotine: cut way back at minimum

You are not wanted-let it go

You are alone: accept it

Drop all consideration of suicide-not an option

Resist impulses, the dangerous ones

Money: get real job, sell some shit (art)?

Structure-repair schedule of day/night

Plan-stop wasting days and weeks of no accomplishment

Overwhelmed: too much to do. too much want, too much need and far too much is wrong

Refocus: forget about your heart, there is no soul

Appearance:dress like a member of society

Health: eat normally, drink normally, avoid the toxins and chemicals

Pleasure is subjective,so is its need

Cut back on the drugs, resist the urge to go deeper

Live life: do something, anything, experience something

Anger: stop hating yourself and the world

Racing thoughts clouding the mind-relax, stupefy yourself, forget everything, just be

Stop breaking: progress is repeatedly lost and painful releases do not motivate

Remember that nothing matters. Just do. Nothing is on its way so do not concern yourself with receiving.

You must go on.

Everything you want

Les Champs Elysees

I'll do it in a couple days...

Wednesday. That's when everything will happen. Yes, I can feel it. how many things have been pushed back until Wednesday? It may just be the start of overwhelming lists of never did's, and really need to's. I must release though, it has been far too long. Something must happen, be created, be finished, anything uplifting in any way is starved for. I cannot let myself break any longer. This story is going nowhere and shows no signs of change if it is simply allowed. I am allowing it.
I will find myself. I will be.
No escapes or fantastic, ridiculous dreams to follow. But not a thoughtless machine of environment either. There is no where to run to anyhow. All paths lead to the same place at this chapter.
Wait for it.
I will survive, break free and breathe.
I will experience and live. Fuck and laugh. Stomp and climb. Separate and lead. Claim power and respect. Mend my soul (or find it).

Truths and truths

I realize I cannot count on you anymore.

You weren't there for me.

When I was at the bottom, the most intense pain, loss and need. you didn't feel it, didn't respond. Did not help. Did not care.
I had never needed you more, I was so alone, I am so alone. I asked, pried and tried, begged and cried.
It was an accident that I survived.
A shame.
You were my only solid.
What are you now? What am I now? Who are these fucking people? I don't know either of them or what they are.
A shame, as well.
Perhaps it was meant to be, or not to be. It was all just a dream.
A shame.
Hell.

I am still here.

I am gone.

What to do...

I cannot and refuse to be taken away and locked up; I do not need a room of soft walls and no corners, locked inside without option. Treatment is a joke. I've no options. No horizon or burst.

My writing it shit, it suffers in its focus of pain, death, and perpetual darkness. No growth. Nothing of creation, excitement, wild unfiltered needs, adventure or spirit, experience. With no novel work in at the least, half a year; not that it was good work anyways, but it was something. Art? Sculpture? hell, there is nothing there, projects are at a quality level matching that of emotionless assigned pieces from an art student in high school. I feel nothing, I'm not even an artist? Who am I? Am I really nothing?

I think I will just go with the previously thought out option of entering the junkie lifestyle, destined to die alone in an alley.

Maybe then I will just be a poem.

why?

I want my fucking life back.
It will not happen.
I am not ready to go, but I am ready to explode out of existence.

grassy fields of pain and relief

regular

The torturous ups and downs of life continue. But with the regular pains of life come uncontrollable emotion and that emotion that must be released. Heartbreaking trauma, uncontrollable downward spirals, how can it be stopped? You can’t change what’s happening or the world around you, it must be dealt with.

…or at least released.

Life isn’t that torturous really, I mean emotional pain comes and goes, we all have it, we all feel it, often very differently however, but sitting there with a broken heart in some dingy one bedroom apartment with no future, no hope of success,  nothing but a bottle for love may be rock bottom and near death for someone.

But come on..have you no concept of the real world around you? I mean the world, man. Not your world, but the world. There is unbelievable suffrage and pain out there, and you’re going to die over some bullshit?

So, anyways, I suppose my point is really that most of our pain is easily dealt with, and it can be used as a fuel of expression as I often write and sculpt emotionally. The more emotion that gets through, the better my piece is in the end. Though others may not read or even see the emotion conveyed, it is clearly there to me and that is why it was created in the first place.

With pain, anger and sadness being the most dramatic and overwhelming of the emotions, it is often the best fuel. Though happiness is the greatest emotion on many levels, not to mention the most desired, it’s not always easy to achieve, particularly for some individuals on this earth. The other feelings just kind of happen.

So maybe we should just get them out, release them, express them. Possibly others with similar feelings will experience this expression and share it, understand it and maybe even find comfort in it. This validates your released emotion and expression; you are doing something with it. Let’s hope maybe even something good will come out of all this bad.

If nothing else, the release is for me, or I should say, the one who is expressing it in whatever form they have chosen.

I am certainly not defining art and/or expressionism, not even on a personal level, I am just ranting.

stop, just stop

It is one thing to feel there is no reason to live, no one to care if you exist or not, there is a whole other aspect added to the growing darkness when you are directly told this fact.

state.

My soul is drained as I rest my ached head upon pillows of rusted steel, blurred visions of internal emotion become simplistic external releases. Sleep is welcomed.

review

I can't even say for sure what went on in those early times together, the mutually crucial points of possible life and death. But I did get a feeling I "saved" you, I'm not sure how significant the level, but you were truly on the edge. Maybe that is all it was meant to be. If all I ever contributed to you and this world was keeping you in it, than that's fine.

go

I have to get out of here. I don't know where here or there is, but there sounds much better, regardless. Things are growing where they should not, things are fading and dying where crucial.

An estate sale of all things tagged by my DNA must go, at any level of funding, anything to provide the fuel of never looking back would be greatly appreciated by this misfiring blob riding in my skull.

A solitary, hobo life is even enticing, there cannot be failure with no achievements or goals set within.
Interpret it how one must, an exit is an exit.

Emotions and interactions are useless, only those which boost myself to the next moment of validity are necessary.

Rely on nothing and no one. No things once thought to be sure will be considered. Will the sun rise tomorrow? It is unclear, a theory at best, but one not to be considered.