A house called Blake.

I can't wiggle my toes,
nor can I feel my elbows.
I feel numb, unsure about what I do or don't think.
Not sure about what I do, don't, should, shouldn't want, think, understand, hope for, believe.
I'm broken, bits and pieces of me lay around me, as I'm a shattered mirror and my soul empties itself out onto the cold marble floor. Why? Why not? Why so, how, who, when, where, what, wendigo?
I don't know what to do, I'm frozen in not-time, not-place, not-anything-at-all. I'm frozen in place, terrified to wiggle waggle a toesy woesy, woefully benign upon the line that ends at no sign, frozen in place while I let my heart race and my feet pace, frozen in place, place, place.
Unsure. I implore a state of decadence upon this very matching of souls, for me to wish, for you to kiss, for a hiss of bliss, a conundrum that blasphemes this silly dream of lost and humdrum. I don't know what you want, I don't know what I have, I don't know, know, know until it's all I can do but sew a quilt full of woe. I can dream, a pleasant little dream of budding blossoms blooming, busy bees buzzing, beautiful birds basking in the glory that is nature and all of it's domain.
I can't wiggle my toes,
nor can I feel my elbows.
I feel numb, and dumb. I imagine this is what it doesn't feel like to smile, but rather to file, file, file away a lifetime of smiling memories, to file, to file and to lock, to lock and let dust settle upon the metal of the file cabinet while I sweat, I sweat a billion drops of would-be dreams for you to chuckle at, to chuckle while I buckle, knees kissing the ground.
I feel numb.
Like I can't breathe, no matter how much my lungs heave, no matter how much my soul grieves, my heart believes my lungs can't breathe, and so it's like I can't breathe, like I can't breathe, breathe, breathe, or weave a basket of tragic dividend so unclear it tricks and stutters until the project hits a dead end.
If my soul could scritch scratch on the back of a government building, it'd say it exists, and then request validation by form number number number. To get this and engrave it into lumber, and wake great massive number man from his humble slumber - he clicks, he clacks, he wiggity wacks the clicker clackers until it's found that I legally have no validity to life. I capsize, I capsize and twist myself into discombobulated rapture, and it's my own self I seek to capture, my validity, my validity. I don't know what it is I can't, what I won't, what I shouldn't and couldn't.
But I want to try. How many roads must a man walk down until he realizes that cliche can be risqué, yet he lets himself trip and stumble along a mass confusion of what-if's, what-if's.

I cling, I cling to off-chance, and indecisive gratification of radical determination. But what's the point, what's the point of chasing after something that probably isn't there? I won't know until I've tripped, and fallen, been dragged through mud and blood, to find where I stand a time from now that isn't now.
A separation of realization and globalization.
My heart and mind, my faith so different,
my heart and mind made available.
Though broken, and often unwaking.
I used to live in a house on Blake street, it was nice.

I like that we're not the same.

I don't want to be a misread label,
or succumb to your pretentious endeavor to understand humanity.
It's not that I misunderstand you, because I do understand,
not only do I understand, I accept and embrace.
It's not as if I'm going to object your sense of self,
what makes you so truly and utterly.. you.

I don't see you as unable to grasp reality,
or speaking to imaginary friends.
In fact, the simple act of thinking I see you that way..
Isn't that intolerance in and of itself?
To make a wildly generalistic assumption about my personality,
without so much as consulting me about it for a second?
Way to read into things that aren't there, right?

What I believe or don't,
if I don't bother myself with it then why do you?
Not that I mind you expressing your feelings,
I do encourage that.
Since it's not like I'm saying "He doesn't exist"
I suppose I still tend to fall under an agnostic
pretense, and maybe that's more attractive?
I think science is fantastic and all that, but it's
impossible to disprove anything when the universe is
so vast a place that things could exist beyond the
comprehension of said science.
Adopting the title of atheist?
It's not a title or anything, it's not an evil cloud
burying itself within my eternally sinister soul.
It's not like I'm saying it's impossible,
it's just that because my life is my life,
I've come to not believe.
You can call it circumstantial disbelief if you want,
that's a-ok. Others call it atheism, that's fine too.

But in the end, it's just that I don't believe.
Between reasons for it, and whatever else, I just don't.
Maybe someday my life will change and I will find faith again,
who knows what's in store for them?

But don't label me.
Don't label anything.
Don't say all atheists are pricks because one time there was one
shouting about how your savior didn't exist and Mary wasn't a virgin.
That guy was a prick, yes.
But don't label us when there are christians picketing soldiers burials.
Don't label us when there are muslims blowing up buildings.
Don't label us when there are catholics molesting children.
Don't label for a group, but label for a man.

If here I stand, and tell you that your whole life, your faith, your everything
were completely false and truly disgusting. Then label me as a prick, and intolerant.

But here I do stand. Accepting you, as I want to be accepted in return.
We don't believe the same things, I can't help what I don't believe.
Sometimes I'd like to believe, but I cannot seem to make that step.
Sometimes I envy you for believing when sometimes I'd like to think I try.
But I don't believe. Whether you like that or not, that's how it is.
No one is similar, and religion should never be a disconnect between people.

You and I should be connected by our differences.
We should learn from one another, and rejoice.
But we won't, because you think things about me,
things that aren't true. Just as people labeled
similarly to myself treat you.
But don't label groups as you do individuals.

I'm sorry we're not the same colour.
I'm sorry we don't have the same eyes,
the same nose,
the same teeth,
the same hair,
the same fingers,
the same toes,
the same DNA,
I'm sorry I don't think the way you do.
But I like you for all those differences.
I like learning about you,
I like your eyes that aren't mine,
your nose that isn't mine,
your teeth that aren't mine,
your hair that isn't mine,
your fingers that aren't mine,
your toes that aren't mine,
your DNA that isn't mine,
I like every single one of the thoughts
and opinions that we don't share.
I like that you give me perspective as a human being,
and make me consider things that I otherwise would not.

I like that we're different,
and I wouldn't have it any other way.

rival of relevance.

I don't want a procedural drowning. Or a relative kaleidoscope of lobotomies enacted upon this noggin.
However I feel like I am a walking, talking, breathing, coughing lobotomy of self and wealth of health.
An ulcer of attentive emotion, waiting to send ripples of pain moaning through your body.

Fascism is a schism of realism. Gristle bristle missile whistle tinsel etc.
Goodnight world. Thank you for a little abuse now and then. It gives respective. Goodnight.

the nether of a feather, as you don't read on right?

anxiety attacks me, I don't know what I'd do with with without it.
it keeps me aware of my werebear in yonder lair or some shit, I don't know.

what if I dreamed? not nightmare'd, but dreamt normally like others do.
saw the kind of things most others see, but through my own eyes,
brilliant white weddings in warm green snow atop a floating islet of steel,
instead of a torn-tattered-barbed suckerpunch in the lung that has me
vomiting flicks and flakes of steel all over some organic mess that is
probably a clever analogy for my sense of self or something.
who knows, my nightmares get weird and fucked up, and the doctors I've
seen say it's all PTSD, anxiety, and depression. which I typically
refuse medication for constantly, because why would I accept medication
from someone that's obviously heavily medicated themselves?

taking a sidebar, might I say that psychiatrists do need to have life
experience as a requirement, but do they need to self test the product?

anyway, this isn't to say I never ever have good dreams. hell, in the
past few weeks I've had two or three, which is impressive.
two of them ended in a soul-warming kiss, which still make me feel
good inside to some extent you know? you know, you know?
well maybe you don't, or do know, but that's not important anyway.

sure I'm depressed right now.
actually I was depressed before too, and stressed, and oppressed and
other -essed's.

sure I'm depressed.
but since I was depressed before, this is recurring. I have a couple of
new reasons to be so, but that's not all that important I don't think.
well.. it is important to me, but not for negative reasons I guess.

wells are truly terrifying, aren't they? maybe not as you'd think,
but say you could see what I do right now, maybe you'd agree? maybe not.
I guarantee this post isn't going to have much for anyone that's trying
for any semblance of sanity. just the opposite, in fact, my dear Watsoroo.

but really, I want to dream like dreams that are described to me. I want
to wake up with more smiles than sighs.

I want optimism, I've never really had that.
well, I have.. but not really when it counts.
I'm plenty optimistic when I'm happy, content.
otherwise I'm pessimistic and cynical,
I'm engrossed in the worst possible scenario,
the realistically worst possible scenario.
I live and breathe it, because when things
can go wrong, they tend to go wrong, all the way.

I'm scared right now, because I don't know if I
should be optimistic or pessimistic, if I have
any reason to be anything other than whatever I must.
I'm scared right now, because I think it's the normal
emotion anyone else would use to handle this situation.
this situation being everything, everything bearing over
me, and almost asking for what I do hang onto for happiness.

I'm pathetic, I know so. I expect happiness to dry up, and
when it does I dwell on every single reason why. not just the
obvious reasons, but EVERYTHING that would make me unhappy,
and that makes me moreso, and probably the reason I'm depressed.
I could fix this. I am fixing this. I am stronger than I think.
or so I'd like to think, right?
right, I'd like to think that.
I'm sad about things that happened up to three years ago,
six years, seven years, eight years. etc.
because dad never taught me what you do after you hold it in.
probably because dad didn't know what to do next either.
I think I feel more comfortable typing this knowing that the
people I wouldn't want to read this, won't. anyone that would,
probably won't, probably gave up partway through. partway is nice.
I like partway.
actually I'd give up partway too. partway being at the beginning.
if you read this far, you must really like me.
how's that feel? to know you like me enough to read this far.
must feel.. life confirming somehow? I wouldn't know, but I
want my nonsleeping dreams to come true.
can you do that, mister/miss-reader-person?
doubt it. you don't even know a fraction of my dreams.
or the ones I most want to come true. even a little.

but one dream is, I want to smile, right now.
simple enough, I think.

Luckless for now

Pfffwhat the fuck?
Time for an exorcism of emotion. I think at some point I'll go through this blog and reclaim random groups of words for lyrics, if I'm lucky. We'll see, we'll see, we'll see, right? I've been thinking a lot today, a lot about a lot of things.
Like.. Why I'm depressed. Sure, the past few days have sucked, and felt pretty shitty. But I don't know why I'm THIS depressed about it. Not that those things aren't worth this amount of depression or anything like that, just that.. I haven't felt this depressed in a while, and I was thinking there should be more to it than just the past couple of days.
And I finally realized that it's just shit catching up to me. Even the stupid crap from a year ago that sucked, I held back those feelings and let them mould a statue of discontent within me, and over the past couple of days that statue has cracked and crumbled into rubble. I'm even letting myself get upset over crap that happened up to three years ago, how stupid is that? I was sure I was over that shit.
But it seems I'm not, if I'm still upset over it I must not be. I'd like to be though, so I'm going to work on myself. I can't just sit back and let everyone else live their life while I let mine hold me back. I'm not about to toss around foolish words about "reinventing myself" etc like most people do, because I like who I am. I'm not stupid or fickle enough to throw away what makes me, me.
But I'm going to work through my personal pit of shit until it's all cleaned up and taken care of. I'm going to reduce the baggage my soul heaves about, until I can breathe freely.

I don't know what else to put in this blog.. But I hope things change soon, I hope I get what little luck I had a week ago back in hand sometime in the near future.
Because I was lucky a week ago. Very much so.

We'll see.

Eyes that don't cry, scribbled on a thousand pages.
Sometimes wondering if it'd better if this heart would stop, if it'd be better to march autonomously through life without smile or frown.
Proof of my existence has already been wiped from that notebook, and it hurts a little. I'm confused and cautious, my expression must be carefully blank.

Breathing cold air is best after all, I tell myself, as I fidget in a snowy field. A scene that runs rampant through my idle mind, as I click clack cluck my way through a shitty cellphone diary, and empty out all my thoughts there so I don't have to carry them around.
Yet I can't seem to empty myself to match how empty I feel, no matter how many words are clicked, clacked, or even clucked. I can't rid myself of this heart that feels so stupidly whenever I dare to breathe tropically.
I hate this, right? This not heartache, or whatever it is. Whatever it needs to be.

Oh if my heart could write songs so blankly, so I could wrap my fingers around a fretboard and flitter flutter out words that might help empty my soul of it's perpetual need to emote.
I want to express myself fully. I want to stand in front of a crowd so massive and overtaking that I can't even consider it human. To let my nervousness melt before a buzzing of humanity, an idea that appeals to me while one on one interviews and small gatherings terrify me.
Rippling gunshots through suicidal slashers, my heart was never really whole with all the dazed father figures, all the intoxicated blisters of transistors. I don't know how to pour every syllable of myself out onto a sheet of paper, or a box of internet. I just know that I want to try try try try try try try to type my way out of a lonely coma.
Coma, coma coma coma, coma. I wonder if the comatose feel.
I'd take physically comatose over emotionally comatose any day, I'd like to think. But I have no way of knowing that's true.

Nightmares cannot be expressed.

Subtlety is a way of life almost, sometimes always almost. I don't know what to do, because my insecurity, my fear is gripping me. It squeezes my throat shut, and leaves me to gasp in wonderment what anything is supposed to be. Should I crawl back into an emotional coma, or try to fight it out this time? Does it matter? Will it matter? Who cares.

I want to be a robot, living life autonomously.

I want, I want, I want life.

I'm not sure if two weeks is enough to feel this way, or if just opening my heart up to someone for two weeks is what's making me this scared and hopeful, and unsure.
But I think this is what I get, for being me.
Maybe it's life's way of saying "This is what you get, for shutting me out for so long. Grow up."

At least when you move on, I'll know it's possible.
It's nice to have some forewarning.

My brain keeps buzzing, I'm just trying to empty it all out onto this thing. I don't really know what's what, or what isn't what. I wish I had money for college, but I don't really want to go. I wish, I wish, I wish.
I don't really know what I want from life anymore, actually. Well, I do..

I wish I could express myself.
Through art, through music, through you.
I'll figure myself out somehow, right?
Or will I just keep click, clack, clucking my way through nonsensicals and hope it ends somewhere not as lonely as at feels right now.

We'll see.

Pseudo-blogging.

Perpetual writers block.

What makes a blog good? Just filling it with bits and pieces of yourself until it's a morbid stew of thought and rot? Purveying opinion whether it's wise or not? Shelling out your very identity to an unimaginable number of strangers, despite the fact that the number of people that will likely read any of it may be counted on one hand?
What makes a good blog. Blog good. Chopped liver.

Hi ho silver, affronting society with a chest so bare, a glare so rare.
Religion is touchy, like politics.

I have a judgmental friend or two.

I think I would be more into this blog thing if it were more like a chronicling of adventures, which I'm not having too many of. Like discussing day to day goings on in Rome, cuisine in Moscow, the city lights of Tokyo kinda thing.

What if I had a job this time next week? Three months of unemployment is definitely three months too many, and I have to have a job by the end of the month. Something working with computers, selling technological doohickies, or writing would be best, but I'm settling for a department store jockey, or if that doesn't work out, a fast food peon.

I aim to go to a technical school to either study graphic design or something technical. I don't have enough talent in cooking or music to make it out to those directions, although I could work in a studio if I set my mind to it. But that's a goal that remains further off if it ever comes to fruition at all.

And yet again, my blog succeeds in becoming a unneccessary jumble of grumbling gloopity boop.
Whatever shall I do about this? I don't think I'll do anything, I think I'll just bear with it, and while I may not be chronicling super-exciting-foreign adventures, I can temporarily make due with chronicling a pseudo-neurotic mess of pseudo-intelligent garbage. Pseudo-ly.

PS, at least ninety percent of the time I name the blog after I finish writing it.

PPS, at least 90% of the time I type out words instead of using the #'s.

PPPS, post post post script seems a little redundantly pre-stuttered.