A Lull

There’s been an artistic lull in my life. My mind has been stagnant lately. In a practical way my life is full of sustenance. My body and intuition control my life; there’s not much time for pondering when you’re doing what you want to do. Life has been active, and events and opportunities come my way. My mind is emaciated because my body is living too hedonistically. It’s all too easy now. I’ve cashed in my hard work over the last two years and now I’m complacent. Soon I’ll have to get back to work: hit the books, learn about the world, feed my soul again by appreciating the mystery. But it’s all too practical now: plan to spend time with this girl on this day, plan to dance that day, plan to rock climb another day. The people around me have been consuming me, and now I feel claustrophobic. My relationship with myself is no longer intimate. I only know myself in a casual way. Because I’ve been spending too much time with other people, I now don’t have time to nurture a meaningful relationship with myself and the mystery. But after all, maybe this is not a game for the youthful, but for the wise, and what I’m doing now of putting on miles and collecting information may create the old man that can play the more mental game. Lest I forget when the time comes, this serves as a requiem for the philosophical and artistic side of life. For now, I’ll be in a happy lull, and hopefully a meaningful one.

Weakling Cesspool

Seemingly strong and powerful, but really weak. You fight the pathetic and weak—weaker than you. Validation is the name of your game. Your hunger never satiated because your meals have no sustenance. So you eat the pathetic nothings—and they come crawling to your ugly beauty. Your scent powerful, your glow incandescent, but there lays no tangible and real beauty in you. Beauty repressed by coyness and deceptively enchanting words. You’re only here to eat. To be one and to bond has no worth in your corruptness. All you know now is to eat. I came crawling close—enchanted by your scent—now I turn around and leave you to rot.

Petite Thing

There’s a pattern that my mind has recognized: petite girls develop insecurity through their less than perfect sexuality, as a result they use deceptive tactics on desperate men to validate their sexuality. They ask you out, knowing you’ll come crawling—broken spine and contorted just to get to them. Ask them into your world (say, to share an experience) and their power is out of the game, and they’re no longer interested. This is their world: they’re the player and you’re getting played; they only like who doesn’t like them—the truly valuable.  It’s besetting dealing with these petite things.  

They’ll remind you of your pathetic neediness every time. The sex doesn’t matter, but the disrespect you put yourself through does. This is love—giving yourself to something, but this attraction was much cheaper and more seductive. The outer beauty and glib talk conceal the looming beast; it’s only job is to feast on your desire to feast. It was your fault to begin with. Learn their game to feast on their hunger instead.

Dead at Sea

Once again, he was disoriented.  He hoped for inspiration to come; there was no more spark, no more catalyst within him.  External energy was required for him to create art.  This is what he wanted: to create art.  But he couldn’t fight the destitution of his life—paying bills, grocery shopping, observing automobiles as they zoomed to work and shopping stores.  He was entangled in this world—the world of complacency.  Although, complacency was too much of a euphemism to explain something so complicated. 

He stared at his screen for a few more minutes, before stroking his rabo and slipping under his covers.  In a world so obsessed with being someone, he could never enjoy life through experience.  He would look back on his life with regret and contempt; his pursuits were a series of short-lived progressions leading nowhere but complacency and boredom.  It was always the two-year mark when he would change ambitions.  His current ambition was writing.

Writing was different.  This ambition wasn’t made of only flesh and blood; it wasn’t about a Nietzschean pursuit of power.  There was an understanding and consoling of the soul which none of his previous pursuits could give him. To be someone was demanded in life regardless.  To be someone was a necessity of being human; and if you chose indifference instead of being, it would be picked for you.  He was lucky to have picked a good set of ideals he could base his identity and life around.  If not, he would’ve ended up truly free on the side of the street as a schizophrenic.

Schizophrenia has strong roots in ontology; there is something to be deciphered about the human being from studying schizophrenia. Schizophrenics look at themselves not as selves, but as a series of different mechanisms; they’re unable to organize the complexity of the human being to form a stable identity; their identity is not even precarious; their identity is shattered. Writing was the glue holding this complex being of multiple parts. But unlike other pursuits—bodybuilding, athletics, entrepreneurship, being a family man and worker—writing was a less adhesive glue.

The form of the writer is less structured and stable than most forms of being.  The only structure is a loose set of grammatical guidelines.  Chaos, symbolism, illogical thinking, and contradiction all can be used for a rhyme or reason.  Sometimes this writer would write illogical nonsense, just to appease his animal and induce catharsis.  Music was the only thing that was similar for him.

So, he wrote daily.  The more confused, the more he wrote.  And he was always confused and filled with an internal noise.  Only when the noise stopped could he experience life through being it.  For now, he was a voyager on a stormy sea looking out at the world from afar.  Rarely would the sea calm, but when it did, he would dock his vessel on shore and become another reactive biological organism traveling through space.  From another vessel far into the sea, this failed writer was now seen as part of a mass of chaos reacting in a unified way; no longer an individual, no longer a writer.  Another writer dead at sea. 

Gertrude

Writing from months ago..

Brain fog, limp dick, half ate chicken breast in front of me.  Today is dreary.  I barely feel alive.  Can’t finish the rest of my chicken breast.  Gave away two loads of swimmers that could have been saved to shoot into someone else’s hot wife.  The emptiness and dullness of today is enough for self-mutilation.  Fortunately, tomorrow will save me from today.  There will be no half ate chicken breast in front of me.  My dick will be vigorous, and I won’t touch it.  I’ll have a clear head so I can do the things I like. 

Waiting for today to be over.  The day of the pathetic boy with a drained ball sack and half ate chicken breast will soon fade out of existence. This is a quality of life that I like:  everyday eventually ends and fades into nothing.  Every experience gone with change; this is why monogamous relationships don’t work.  Love is transient and ceases to exist.  If today were given a name, it would be a grotesque one.  Something like Gertrude.

Oh Gertrude how you dull me, sadden me; giving me the perception that life is something unbearable, because today is unbearable.  Oh Gertrude I see past your sham with my conscious monkey brain.  I see that yesterday was different than today and that tomorrow will be different than yesterday and today.  Tomorrow I will not drain my cock of the zeal which will carry me to somewhere other than laying in bed all day lethargic, desperate, and hopeless. 

But Gertrude, I may be able to murder you before today.  Murder you with a cold shower- invigorate myself.  Invigorate myself to study the Western countries of Africa near Senegal.  Invigorate myself to read.  Invigorate myself to learn Elliot Smith on guitar.  Gertrude you’re more precarious than you think.  All that holds you together is a half ate chicken breast and drained cock.  What holds me together is much more. 

I Want to Run My Hand up Her Fish Net Covered Popliteal

The psyche is formed through assimilating physical compliments.  She was given less compliments than the other one.  Her soul was stronger.  The other one’s soul was abjectly unrousing to my platonic attraction of her.  Despite this, I feel more towards her.  Feel more, towards a vapid piece of flesh.  And the truly beautiful one: my feelings are less acute.  To find the well-rounded women, is a grueling numbers game; one that risks becoming a jaded asshole who finds no joy in life. 

Really, I’m mad I forgot her name- twice.  I’m unabashed, but still feel sorry; feel sorry for her feeling bad.  Taking responsibility for an imperfect memory is stupid. She couldn’t empathize with my imperfection.  I feel indignant and resent this girl.  This is why I hate women; but I unfortunately love them too. This is the problem. 

It was her fault; she was wearing fish nets.  Don’t wear this around me.  I imagine a gold path leading to the inguinal, where a warm moist cunt is ready to console my sexless rabo.  I want to run my hand from her sural and crural, going up to her popliteal and patellar, and finally making my way to the inguinal.  There is something to say about making sexual things all too sexual.  

Accentuation is a form of altering someone else’s reality; like me looking at a person as a piece of meat to jam my rod into.  Islam was on to something.  Ostensibly, Islam took it too far in the other direction.  1940’s America was the perfect medium.  As old man Bill says, these girls leave nothing up to the imagination.  Skirts would be nice. 

I don’t care about changing the female’s reality; philosophizing is fun, and girls interest me, so there you have the perception of a misogynist.  I’m not.  Simply, a frustrated and happy romantic clearing up the obfuscated world through the art of writing.  Lucidity please.  

To Whom am I

Writing for the sufferer

Weights for the social loser

Mountains to climb for the madman

Music for the emotionally sensitive

Netflix, wives, and husbands for the soul robbed workers

Alcohol for the man that has nothing

Nothing for the recluse who wants nothing

Whatever consoles is based out of who you are

To whom suffers and sees all the winding roads laid in front of him, needs consoled through understanding and accepting. 

The power of the sufferer

To whom was rejected by people, needs consoled through re-shaping their identity.

A healthy egotism

The power of the social loser

To whom the plains of the Midwest weren’t enough, needs consoled through the mountains.

The power of the madman

To whom the world was bland and unmysterious, needs consoled through the enigma of music.

The power of the emotionally sensitive

To whom soul was robbed, needs consoled through a personal life insulated from work.

And if marriage isn’t possible, alcohol is the great consoler

The power of the soul-robbed-workers

To whom wants nothing, needs consoled by a hermetic life in the woods

The power of the man who wants nothing

All these winding paths laid in front of me

Now which do I choose

If I must choose, it has already been chosen

To whom am I but a sufferer

This is my seemingly frivolous power

The cries of a sufferer

The Stumbling Why of Writing Horse Shit

Sticking to the things that I like

A like, meaning ease of effort and comfortability

Vance Joy instead of obscure avant-garde jazz which expands my ear pallet

Humorous poetry lines instead of rhythmic goodness

A rhyme is too forced

Too constricting

Stifling self-expression

This is why it’s reverential:

Being able to express yourself in narrow confines takes effort

Something I don’t feel like doing

My mind always in a bind

In a kind of mind-pitiful way

My first step of freeing the bind is to write

Write horrible rhymes

Because the two-step used to fumble me around

While the tail-slide bumbled me about

And that petite blonde at Target used to crumble me down

Now that creature at Target, once hot, scary, and alien

Is now, hot, scary, and non-alien enough to approach sometimes

Stumble about with my words is fine

Because frustration can be placated if you understand the, stumbling why

A Lieutenant is better than a non-lieutenant

In him, a drive, focus, and foresight

Foresight into his future

Foresight induced by understanding the mind’s ability to do great things

Improving

Growing

Learning

 And stumbling about in the meantime

Arrogance and Entitlement: That Guy with Biceps the Size of Cantaloupes is the Same as Me

I command reverential treatment: I have tits and an ass and know the word reverential.

That body builder at Golds Gym with biceps the size of cantaloupes- that’s me.  Me, as an aggregate of all the things I do.  No one views me in that way.  I will never receive the reverential treatment that cantaloupe man does; this is because I have little to nothing to show for.  Nothing to show for the mentally taxing philosophy I endured, mediocre drumming and guitar skills, footslogging through over 160 miles of the CT, basic training if that counts, beautiful prose, and skateboarding which I no longer do because of my bimalleolar fracture.  I have a nice ass from squatting which gets attention, that’s it.  

I should be allowed the same arrogance and haughty strut as cantaloupe man.  I want the same effortless confidence that is a result of effort in personal pursuits; I want more social confidence.  Enough confidence to allow me to hit on that petite brunette at the gym today.  My greatness isn’t easily accessible; I’m not suspect of it due to my inconspicuousness.  In fact, I contradict myself and efface any greatness, by veiling it with simple clothes, normal conversations, small talk rituals, and an incognito car. Sometimes I go as far as belittling myself. 

If science permitted, I would contrast my total amount of effort, to a mono-maniac’s total life effort.  Then, I would manifest my effort into biceps, and compare them to the mono-maniac’s cantaloupe biceps.  Objective truth would be found, and I could either sprinkle more haughtiness in my walk or sleep in an extra hour because I feel like an impotent loser. 

Winning the monkey competition feels unattainable to me.  I can’t compete with gym bros, narcissists, and entrepreneurs.  The best I could try, is to bare my soul out to people and learn an art form to paint with my retarded being.  If I wanted to label myself, it would be a semi-convicted artist, who would be a more respectable version of an artist, if he learned grammatical nuances and dropped his hobby of cold approaching girls, to instead write and play guitar more often.  You make up for your lack of sustenance by hitting on lots of women, or you make up for your lack of hitting on a plethora of women by developing yourself.

Here I am destroying the beautiful art form of prose by regressing into a vapid monkey who talks about women and cantaloupe biceps; at least it’s self-explorational. What else is there to talk about; I already know that everything is perspective and that points of view are infinite.  I expected to be gifted some sort of tangible truth about the world and myself through my incessant self-investigation, philosophy studies, and conversational shroom trips with friends and co-workers.  Instead, my world feels more obfuscated and chaotic.  The truth I found, is that there are multiple. Or, like that philosopher with large cantaloupes said: all I know is that I don’t know nothing.