November 29, 2007

I've been shooken to the core

The bell sounds as another lifeless moment of my life passes before me like a leaf blowing in the wind. The moment is caught in a whirlwind. It circles and circles. It never goes forward. I do not go forward. I do not go forward willingly. I am shuffled along as a dust speck on a giant broom. I only shuffle and stumble forward. I've stumbled out of the blocks on a race to death. I race the clock. The clock is winning. I am empty. I am alone. The breezes can blow me away. I am nothing. I am lost.
In a lecture on my future, I shift in my seat restlessly. I lean away timidly. I am scared of my own future. I am scared of the changes that await me. I am scared of the changes that await me tomorrow. Tomorrow is not a preverbial tomorrow. Tomorrow is tomorrow, the day after today. I am scared for my life. My life has more focus on my Netflix queue list than my future on this planet, in my body, in my soul.
I don't want a future. I don't want a job. I don't want a career. I don't want responsibilty. I just want to live.


It pains me to say this, but I'm picking the Cowboys to beat my Packers. As some form of redemption, I would much rather see the Packers win than have my picks be right.

November 19, 2007

that sound is mighty

The funk giver returns again. The funk giver stops me from doing work. I have been working. I'm on break. I'll break you off fool! The funk master is not around. The funk master rides on the sinewy clouds like a feverish fairy destined for redemption. In a land with only two protagonists, I emerge to purge the party and start a hearty mix of sin and Styx in a cinnamon stick castle.

My brand of rocket science lends itself only to my mind. My mental rocket isn't on any docket in the minds of the many. My funk explodes for Latin lovers underneath the covers to jest at my silly countenance. I haven't a prayer, a pain, a stare to give them back in my defense. I just roll along with an unoriginal song, just a different perspective from the rest. I am alone. I'm stuck.

My minimal digital digits fidget in a spray today of hefty hay and rank decay as I have nothing real to say. I'm a hollow wordsmith in a forgotten generation of overbearing, beastly burdens. I've collected my soul and am waiting to pay my dues. I need to finish my work. My world is an influx of nothing. Nothing is nothing more than a concept. It is a ghastly concept that my humble humanity is not able to even attempt some remote form of comprehension. The cheese melts eventually. The night was sultry. Owen Fenby is a terrifically terrible character. Glory be, the funk's on me.

November 1, 2007

sorry seems to be

I've gotten depressed. I've gotten lonely.
My life is shrinking.
In high school I had about twenty good people that I connect with on a deep level for a little bit every school day. The rest of my time was spent with my family.
Freshman year I had a good group of about ten people that I could connect with for a long time every weekend. I spent the rest of the week roaming between groups of different, "lesser" friends, but good people, or spent a lot of time alone.
Sophomore year I had a good group of about five people that I could connect deeply with on weekends. I spent the rest of the week almost entirely within myself. I had very few connections outside this group. During the week, my quantity of interaction was based almost entirely on luck.
This year I have two good people that I can connect with a little bit every day, but I'm not often completely fulfilled by these relationships. Outside this, I have very few people I can really call "friends."
In these first three areas, I was able to always count my best friend in my social circle. This past year I have not. I am left a little more empty now than I always could have been then.

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October 31, 2007

twice as dope

Well, the first days are the hardest days. Don't you worry any more. 'Cause when life looks like easy street, there is danger at your door.

I've come to take my children home.

In a life where only I can possibly stop myself, I run with the brakes on. My life is not fulfilled. Only my life is fresh in the eyes of the creatives. I aspire for a creativity. I age ceaselessly in the hopes of finding something domestic yet prolific.