I have not been able, I must confess, to update regularly on my own blogspote partly, or largley, to my own stubornness and fault. To this, I apologize. But I cannot seem to grasp the nautre of why. Ahh the most important question. The question people should ask today but never really seem to get around to do so. Today we are so concerned with "now" and tomorrow we shall be concerned with "then", a most acrimonious sense of nausea is to instill as we long to regain our old life. Its seems more evident now, I must say, than it was yesterday. Although yesterday was no picnic either. How many times have I, in my ripe youth, lazed in the backseat of our van, the air condition heightening the chill of the moonlit night. Their is this sens of longing I would feel as I stare outside the window panes, at the passing people, their faces never having been so random yet so human. one day I would grow up. One day I shall face the trials of human life, one day I will feel pain unlike anyother and I shall cry in despair asking to end all agony. It seems almost natural of not so melancholic. It seemed almost right. And I was barely ten. And unbeknownst to me, life would hit me much harder and much faster than anyone could have anticipated. I now look at my life, with so much promise and yet so much regret. How in the world could two such opposite feelings ever mix? Mysteries of emotion aside, I knew there were so much screw-ups in my life I deserved every so much a fate of dropping down dead on the floor, but I didn't and I certainly do not wish to... not yet anyway. Life recently in the years have been so... mechanic, not in the sense that everything was routine. Oh no, nothing in my life recently can be anything called routine. Well unless recently at least, things have been calmed down a bit, the calm before the storm I suspect. There is always a storm. If not that a hurricane. So usually I pray for the storm instead. Rather life is mechanic in the sense that it no longer seems like life itself. Does life not feel the exhilleration of itself breathe into your soul, does life not feel good at youth, the exemption from adulthood's hardship and the bliss of youth, the company of friends. I have felt all these things for sure, but at small amounts, and at large intervals and most importantly at little effect. Is this what life should be like I must ask? What is life then if for some reason I have now felt it devoid of either love or passion. Oh and don't get me started with love. You expect such high sincerity in yourself, in the nature of your love. You feel almost holy with it. Yet in your many endeavors you are nothing more than a fool who splashes his own face with his own shit. What kind of crusade is that? I blame it not on love, but on myself, but the mere implications run amock and my mind, with it, goes afoul. I am a fool in love, and any girl who I ever loved in such a manner (I know of only one) should consider herself better off and do her best not to be associated with me in as much ways as possible (she had been doing quite a magnificent job so far. Whatever rare interactions with her I consider both a blessing and a great act of pity). And ANOTHER thing! Do not tell me, friend, that love is such greatness. How long have I told it to scram, get lose, go screw itself, it screwed millions of others. And it never does, not truly. Once you think it has you come across a picture, a name, anything in your twisted little imagination of yours that could, no matter how vaguely, remind you of her. Once more you are stricken with grief and more than that of embarassment, a reminder of your shortcomings and your foolishness. What is love but something that holds you back once you have failed in it. It will make me stronger, I am sure, but now I am too weak to even bother. Should life then truly be like this? I know, all to much, that I have not even tasted a drop of the bitterness that lies in the grimy undercroft of the lowest layer of dirt. I have not tasted hardship yet, but I know its coming. I know more than most how mush I will soon face, and I know I don't even come close in my speculation to the actual amount. Life is full of shit, and it throws more and more at you as you grow up. I already knew this. I have dreams you know. High dreams. And I know that as a temporary member of youth I am inclined, priveleged even, to have high dreams, great hopes. And I do. I wish a lot of things. But unlike others, I know somewhat, deep in my heart, that I only have hopes for the singular purpose of having life smash them into pieces the moment I take a foot out that door. I know this, yet I proceed anyway. What kind of crap is that? Worst part is that most of the time you go at this alone. Say all you want about friends, dear precious friends, and your beloved family. In my case, I very much doubt I'm that important to my friends and my family may care, but they will never actually understand, not completely at least. It's not teen angst, it's not I know it. My cellphone has been pretty much silent since graduation. Any interaction are those obliged, and my friends may ask me "How are you?" and to which I shall answer most respectably "Fine." I have grown to be such a good liar, I apologize to anyoen reading now that feels stricken but the years of being an actor has made it almost second nature to me. My family, it's all once again mechanic. I know ltrue love is in there, somewhere, but why the hell can't I feel it?! In the end this all just sums up to join my other fears once more. Not only will I have life bashing me all the way till I finally drop dead, it's going to do it at me alone- solo-- mano-e-mano. Crap, I better get my fricken gun then eh? I'm not usually this sober, usually I'm so drunk with the forces of life that I don't have TIME to feel sorry for myself. I just had to write it down before I forget that I also get miserable. And the sad part is that it really doesn't have to be. Not really. Well we all know who to balme a this... oneself. So with a roaring cheer and a gleeful yelp, let us raise our shit-stained glass in the misty air and cheer on the count of three for life, for crap, for stupidity and most of all for one's decree in suffering as is one's must soulful duty.
One...Two...
Three.
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