Anxious...

I don't feel safe in my own skin,
The crawling, the buzzing of force-fed sin,
Do you remember when the clouds still held their rain,
Before they injected me with suffering and shame?

And every time I fall asleep, I try to stop the shakes,
My body falls to tremors that were invented by my brain.
My heart's violently pounding and there's nothing I can take,
To keep myself from lonely shivering in the rain.

I don't feel safe being a part of the game,
The rising and falling of my chemical waves,
Have you ever felt the current building toward an end?
It breaks and then it's over, my body's been rent.

And every time I fall asleep, I only see your face,
The frustration I feel every day is my own disgrace.
I pretend that there's a body sleeping next to me,
I dream of being tossed into the middle of the sea.

The more I see, the less I believe...

What else is new?

I've been picking at a thread in the wall. I leave a note on the other side to show myself I'm at ease and I move slowly back and forth from the brink. If a person is standing in the middle of a dark alley, they may be scared. Even completely empty, the space itself is frightening. It's an unidentifiable feeling based on fleeting perceptions.

A lot of emotions can be like that -- corporeally binding, but logically unsound. But maybe the brain has been built by the body, and is guided by muscle and flesh, by basic impulses? The most extravagent idea is nothing but an imposition of a very basic piece of thought. And that thought is weaved in rythym with the body.

Everything I think gets washed away at the end of the day, and I'm back to here. What are plans, besides a way to get my mind off of the horrible depth I've fallen to?

I hate people. I hate all people. Everything they do only triggers something in my brain. This leads to a feeling that I associate with each person, and they're always too complex to be good. It's never simple, there is never anything basic behind a person's eyes.

And I hate myself for thinking this way. I hate myself for this delusion that has brought me to my knees.

It's at times like this that I remember why I've always felt like something ominous was breathing down my neck.

No reason...

Now, all I do every day is wait. I spend no money besides on what I need to get by.

I'm shutting off my brain and waiting.

Because... I'm not a sad person. I have a strong connection to the feeling of youthful exhuberance. It's just that there are all these things consuming me, eating my brain away like a recurring nightmare.

So, at least for now, I am turning off everything.

I just can't run away like I used to...

What matters most isn't my resolve or determination, but the waning strength of my sanity.

There is a beast hanging on my back that tells me every day I won't live long enough to see any type of fruition.

In the midst of everything, I know that I am destined only to escape. And, one day, it's going to be in a way that is irreversible. In just the same way that I can never keep anything, life can't keep me locked up forever. Even in death, there has to be some sort of release.

Right now, all this means a constant escape through chemical stimulation. I am not narrowsighted, nor self-centered; I know what this kind of madness grows to.

...But I'd be happy if I could just get a short period of fulfilled happiness before I die. I've just seen too much of some feelings, and they're thinning the walls that keep my mind stable. I reach extremes outside of those walls, sometimes -- and it scares the hell out of me.

So, in reality, I'm dedicating the next few months of my life to escaping from my life. Ultimately, I think that it will lead to escaping life permanently, or just being drawn back into it. And then, I'll be here again. I'll come back to living in a constant state of mental deterioration.

I feel just as pathetic writing this as anyone who reads this thinks I am.

The waves crashing echoes inside my head...

And when it all breaks, a purpose is formed. It's laughable... but it's there. Filling myself with forward sight feels like a breath of fresh air.

I'm not a morose person, not morbid in the least. But I know myself.

Years became mummified...

I have to leave. Staying here indefinitely is going to cause my death. If everything in my life continues to follow the same path, I am going to commit suicide.

So I'm leaving. In one hundred and three days, I'm leaving. It's a long time, but it's as realistic as I can be. I need time to prepare, to get my shit together... to start my escape.

I don't know what else to do. This is the only thing I can do to keep my sanity... to cut everything loose, to lose my entire life.

I'm a coward, a despicable joke of a man. And even if I'm standing in a green field one day, at peace with the world and my soul, I will always know that I am just a joke, fallacy in human form.

But I live for myself, and this is what I need to do. There are many things that I never wanted to lose... but they are already long gone. And in those people, I won't even be a memory. I'll be forgotten. That's the way it should be.

Cogito, ergo sum...

He had a disease... anxious flagellation underneath a structurally compliant form.

The more he ran, the more he was manipulated. But, one doesn't know that his world is a cage until he's cornered, with no escape.

His dull, everyday eyes are atrocious. They lack the spark of ingenuity. From the outside, he's just another machine, and his back is against the abyss.

To reach forward, to plunge past the veil and save him -- impossible. He is and always will be of his own accord.

There is a deafening roar, an inexorate wind blowing all around. He can barely keep himself from being cast out into the hazy gray storm. As he clings on, he thinks to himself.

"Since when have I been so obsessed by the idea of becoming a fellow citizen to the point that I've killed my own personality? And this is the result? I'm a complete failure."

As he stares outward, away from the world, he sees an infinite expanse of nothing. The wind is howling, pulling him slowly towards a conclusive exile. And slowly, he smiles to himself.

"Never doubt the system. Obey all the rules. These are the requirements of a fellow citizen. It looks like I won't make it as a fellow citizen, in the end."

Within the chaos, the door connecting himself to the world grows smaller. His arms outstretched, he opens his eyes. Ominous and intense, they shine with an infected, calculating stare. They're the kind of eyes that penetrate through the corporeal, ripping apart preconceptions and faux innocence. They are the eyes of realization.

"It's over. It's all over."

Arms outstretched, he slowly closes his eyes and releases himself to the wind.

--

Are we only what people remember?
After we've passed, are our values dismembered?
I'm not just a sore, an infected brain...
Yet every day is torturous in its own selfish way.

I will not survive.

It's been threaded that way, my life.

Torture test...

There are three parts to this. The first was watching it happen. The second is realizing the effects of it, and watching it progress . The third is understanding why and how it has happened, and really feeling the impact from it for the first time.

When I'm nervous, I choose my words so precisely that It's almost as if I'm trying to manipulate the conversation. I always feel like there's something the other person is missing, and I have to point it out to them. I say unnecessary things, and I never know when to say the right thing. I've watched a lot of people grow tired of me....

And I tell myself, "fuck them." If there is an environment that stifles me, retards my growth, then I don't want to be there. But, I'm anxiously hopeful of someone just over the horizon.

Now, I sit here with dozens of phone numbers I've never tried to call again. All of my efforts to reconnect with anyone have been met in the same way that you'd flick off an ant crawling on your sleeve.

I feel like if I needed it, there wouldn't be anyone to stand by my side. And I don't need that; I can stand on my own. But I want it, because no matter how many people I've held up, I'm always left wounded.

And I need something more than a presence... I need something to help me look forward.

I've been to the moon and the stars and the go-inbetweens...

Observe, if you will: The art of dancing. It's a physical expression, usually based on audial stimulation.

I think that dancing is important, but only in its purest form. When it's the body's reaction to music, it's a manifestation of how you feel about the song. I've been to a lot of clubs, shows, bars, et cetera. All I see there are puppets on strings.

Most people don't dance to dance, they dance to express. This isn't a reaction, but more like a reason. It's hard to explain....

Most girls do the booty dancing shit. Dry humping to music. I think that this not only demeans them as a person, but it shows that there is no real connection to the music playing.

In a mosh pit, it's the same way. There are always those cockfaced pretenders who throw around their fists and feet, trying to do as much damage as possible, trying to look as cool as possible. It's not about that. Moshing is taking the intensity of the music, converting it into energy, and slamming your body against someone else who is fueled by the same power. It's using yourself as a weight, to feel the collision of passion and rage; to focus adrenaline into something with meaning, even if only in your own mind.

And this is how a lot of things are. Most people show a reaction that's more acceptable, or a reaction that's flambouyantly plagiaristic. There's nothing of the person underneath in those expressions; it's just to show other people something.

Everyone has had at least one phase where they've thought they were cooler than anyone else on the planet. That arrogance and pompous flagellation sticks with some longer than others. But that's what culture is all about in America; not what's real, but what is aesthetically and philosophically appealing.

When someone submits to its iron bars, they lose sense of themself. Groups of people are labelled the same, because of something as small and stupid as clothing. I have a haircut that looks kind of emo, I wear clothes that make me look like someone who raves and is into grunge and metal. I wear loafers. Old man's shoes. I have tattoos in japanese on my arms, and symbolic tattoos on my neck.

When you're exposing your interests and values, especially in a country that turns everything interesting into a whore, it's important to really expose who you are. People get caught up in the image of it all, and they have nothing to show for it inside. This is because so many are using self-expression as a behavioral adaptation, a justification of acquiescence, instead of what it should be: self-expression.

The next time I hear someone say only what they themselves want to hear, I'm going to snap their sentence in two, and call them what I think they are: A parasite on the back of reality.

Because it doesn't matter how cool you are. Everyone takes a bullet the same way, and there aren't many people who would ever sacrifice something worth more than a slap on the wrist.

So much for losing track of time...

Every now and then, I get a day where I wake up, and nobody's called me yet. I have no plans, and I've got the house to myself. I put on a CD and I get stoned... and I dive right in.

Happiness, for me, is complete and total disassociation. At least, that's what it's become. I won't disappoint myself for a few hour, at least.

I realize how stupid everything seems, looking from this state of mind. But, I know I'll be back there soon. I'll crawl back into a cage of sorts, set with limits that are as strong as any bars.

But I need days like today to reinforce my muscles. I need my strength to push as hard as I can until I'm covered in sweat and heaving, to bend these bars just a little, and expand the cell.

The way things have fallen...

I haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks. Every day I wake up, I feel just as drained. My hand is scarred because I have no other way of releasing some feelings. And even then, it never helps. I feel sore all the time, and it doesn't help that I get fucked up every night, and smoke too much.

I speak too fast because I don't think anyone listens to me, or believes me. My teeth are beyond repair. I've had bags under my eyes for so long that I don't remember what it's like to look healthy.

I don't eat well; it's sporadic and usually unhealthy. I have the constant feeling of my stomach being cramped by an unnamed anxiety.

When I'm in a situation that I could use to reinforce myself, I blow it. When I'm supposed to be saying something constructive, I'm saying something awkward. All of the things I think, I can't get out, ever. There's never a chance to.

I haven't really been that close with anyone in a long time, and it's causing me to think more and more within the walls. I pace back and forth over the same things until my legs remind me of how tired I am. So I lay down, and I think about those same things... and I can never fall asleep. When I do, it's intermittent and I wake up the next morning feeling a little more exhausted and detached.

I don't have anything to look forward to during my day-to-day, other than an awkward conversation with someone I have very complicated feelings for, someone I may never get to see.

The people whom I could speak my heart to and be honest with... they're all gone, and I doubt they've ever thought of me. I can't imagine that they would, because there isn't much of a reason to.

I sold my soul away...

Music is far too much a part of pop culture than it should be. The whole scene is based on image and initial impressions more than depth or the ability to convey an abstract philosophy. Every song on big radio stations has something catchy about it, something so prevalent that you associate the entire song with a few notes.

And while some things are more intense in a simplified form, This strain of music is so obviously only being used to ride the financial coattails of modern culture.

When I was in middle school, I changed the way I dressed and looked. I immediately went from being one kind of a person to another, and all I did was buy different clothes. I t hink that's so laughable.

A lot of people limit themselves by this aesthetic appeal. Emo kids are emo, they listen to emo music and do emo things. It was the same way, ten years ago. I remember when grunge was big; flannel shirts were a staple.

By limiting yourself to living inside a cast mold, something that was created by another person, you're cutting off every other form of knowledge. You begin to think like you "should". It's so gradual and habitual that they don't realize this about themselves.

It happens with everything in this fucked up country. Everyone's just riding a wave, picking generalized niches because it's more widely accepted. You don't dare breathe outside of your hole, your indention; don't dream of thinking purely for yourself. Do what you're told, do what the news says you should do, act on what you read. As long as it leads everyone to hell together, it's not that bad, is it? We can all justify our actions with the same ignorance and arrogance that every evil dictator, every contemptuous man who ever lived has. Every murderer, every rapist, every torturing monster has a good reason for what they've done, even if the reasons are impulse and insanity. As long as you can tell yourself it's "right" for long enough, and put the right spin on the wording, it's hunky-dory.

The only infallible trait of mankind is our ability to delude ourselves. The only part of humanity that is pure is its corruption. It's been constructed so perfect that I feel crazy sometimes going against it. And while I struggle with this mind-fuck, so many sheep are led off of a cliff, to crash into the ground complacently.

Even the choice to represent one's own mind has become fashion. People build effigies of introversion and subliminal acquiescence in everything they do. Every person that feeds into selective truth, selective presentation and selective feelings is weakening mankind's worth.

I'd like to say this to every kid I see who thinks they're creating an image for themselves, when all they're doing is acting like a fucking drone.