Precursor to the Lost Opportunity

A Predilection for mourning.

What could have and would have happened if I had not wasted or ... missed, I suppose I did the chance to ... do something. I open my eyes and see that all the time spent before was as if in a dream, events outside of my awareness pass me by. And yet, as in another dream, I awake again only to discover the layer of reality that I knew before was nothing more than another fabrication.

So something comes up - something that you can't avoid. But you want to. But your avoiding it isn't going to change the fact that it's here and that something ... is due. I live my life in a state of ... ignorance, choosing to set that fact aside in my mind. Not to deal with this fear that overrides pretty much most fears in my life. Loss beyond loss that I'm willing to concede. And I don't have the strength or character to face it. I'd like to say that if I had my pillar - my dream ... desire? It's not the right word, but I won't call it a thing. If I had this pillar to ... not to lean on. But to have by my side in case I did need that. Cause I can't do this. And I can't face up to it. But I have to - sooner that I'd like.

Death bothers me. My own is one - it's a concept that you ... that I wonder about every now and again. And when it comes to the realization that it's there. There is no choice. No subversion or diversion from this fatalistic moment, all I have is this sick feeling in my gut and as I stand up to this wall of my fear, I just turn and run. But in this zone of facing up to death, there are other walls that I can't stand up to. So it's a lot of running. A lot of hiding and in this hole where I am curled up right now, I feel sick and dirty. Tired. Angry and ... I want to leave and I keep getting sidetracked. I'm still in this hole. So I say I'll get out. And do something. But what if that fails and falls through? Fly across the bloody planet? For what? A hope? A vague impossibility? Is it all worth it just for that ... slimmest of chances - slimmer than survival in the black vaccum of space eventually to be pulled into the nothingness of a black hole.

It's not my death that I'm scared about, though I probably should be. It's living past the deaths of others. Or reaching my own ... time and knowing that I missed yet another opportunity to live beyond my wildest dreams. But it probably wasn't an opportunity - it was all in my head. I just never took the chance to look. Hiding in this little hole. The vomit drying around my ankles and tears caked on mud-covered cheeks.

Till the rain washes me clean and gives me the clarity to see past this moment's illusion.

This Deja Vu feels like Jamais Vu

I've wanted to use that for a while. Something to say, eh?

I kind of knew what Jamais Vu was, but now I have a clearer idea. So at least I can use it and know what the fuck I'm saying. Which isn't as usual as it should be. It gives me a chance to be a sycophant unto myself. Now HERE - not entirely sure if I'm saying what I intend to correctly. Possibly not, but there is intent beyond the ignorance. Intent of yarn spinning. Like a ball of blue and red thread. Sat upon a table of gold.

Communication is a stumbling block when you seem to lack the skills to ... use it? Is that right? Well that's how I feel. A recurring theme. Wanting to say something. But I don't. Because I'm ... scared? Is that it? I guess - well ... let's ponder over this - you can skip ahead if you don't want to see the psychological arithmetic in progress.

Taking this one example into question. What I want to say is ... I believe to be regarded as ludicrous. So, yeah, it is fear. Fear of being shot down when all I want to say is ... something that if I do, I ... yeah - simple enough. So do I let the fear in for 5 seconds, as Jack would, and then move on? Is it worth it? Or am I, once again, letting the fear control me?

The obsessive in me compels me to react. To move. To survive. And this is where I stand not knowing where I am to go. But I have to go, be somewhere - else I' m nowhere. And then I slip. My feet fall out from under me and wherever it was that I was going. Or being. I'm not there anymore cause I let it fall apart all over again. With that small window of opportunity (as dictated to me by the delusion), I miss. I err. And I land on a bed of broken glass. Shards that spike and poke and pierce and I bleed.

All I have to hide is this person that is I. To do so, there's gotta be segregation of the self. Division based on self-determination. The physical and all that must go with it for comfortable existence. The mental and this face of the bizarre, the ludicrous and the twisting and turning and ... conjuctions to no end.

And then there's the other face that I don't want to see. But I can't show any more than one. Because that shatters the illusion. And shatter it, I do. And clatter it goes upon the staircase of marble and granite. Cold and smooth under winter sun. Fuck off, you pretentious fuck.

I'm trying to say something, but I don't want to say it. It's about as simple as that. It hasn't changed and it isn't about to. So the ultimate solution to this problem would be to ... just fucking say it, no?

Till a step of the way falls to reveal the nothingness upon which we climb to the plains above.

Personal Preferences with regards to Worms

When Zed first met Cecilia, things were in flux to begin with. Her presence didn't exactly help though. All it really did was tip an already unstable set of scales. But she made Zed happy. Happier than he had ever been in his life. And happier than he would be for a very, very ... very long time. Between his parents' double suicide, foster homes, development of several drug dependancies and arising phobias, his life never quite achieved a state of "normality" ever again. If you were to look at it really carefully, she was the point of no return for Zed. Only he didn't ever know it - not when there was time, not when it was too late and certainly not when he went out to search for her again.

Oftentimes, he would compare himself to the Prince of Chaos, on his own quest to rescue the Princess of Dreams. He would dream of mounting a Frost Wyrm to avoid the eyes of the Duke and his minions. Not that his search for Cecilia faced any such obstacles. Well nothing so obvious and dramatic. All he faced was an ocean and his own mind.

But then Cecilia betrayed him. No, she didn't betray him. He wasn't sure. Countless nights had been spent and many more would still pass as the conflict raged in his mind. In between the bouts of fear and hope and love and something that bordered on hate, he replayed sketchy memories of his last days with her before her sudden departure. Before everything went completely pear shaped, as they say.

This is, this was Zed. He who loved Cecilia and didn't even know it. Or he thought that he might. But no, he couldn't possibly. Zed in white and grey and with a red belt.

Good luck Zed.

Till it rains on your parade.

Under the watch of Big Brother Sun's Little Brother Moon

So - I don't talk much about this reality that is mine to experience. Or do I? I don't know - I was perusing through some other blogs the other day - perhaps it was last night. I felt like a bit of a voyeur as I learned little details about their disjointed lives. Stories are now mangled and are a bit of a mess - a firefighter who enjoyed listening to Beethoven became a Single mother working as a struggling paralegal type person in New Mexico.

But ... a short while ago, I tried writing - a story of my own. But I couldn't. It felt so forced and fake to be doing so. To even attempt to contrive a tale. I used to have it in me to write all these different ideas down. Concepts. People. Situations of the most beautiful depth and built from the most painful memories. Betrayal, sadness funelling into hate and destruction. Joy and passion converted into holy moments of beauty. I don't have that in me. Not right now, I don't. And it really hurts me to even ... confront the possibility.

I was - well, I don't know how I got to the point, but a song ran through my head - Smash Mouth, I think the name of the track was "All Star" and it - I feel so old. To think of that track and think of a memory and a person and a time and a good feeling and how it's all gone. Walking through a dismal parking lot at night, you just want to kick down an innocent trash receptacle or throw a brick at something that will shatter into a million pieces. Like a virgin heart, eh? ;D

And there's the desire to not go to sleep. One just wants to stay awake as if something great might happen and things will be better. Cause once sleep settles in, then you're locked in for another day of this. Like those little toys with the penguins on the slide down and then the escalator locks their pegs in and takes them back to the top again. I feel like that penguin. Waiting in a queue amongst the other plastic penguins to go back up to the top. Only I don't want to get on this escalator and go through this all tomorrow. I want to fly and leave now. To something different - hopefully better.

Till next the word is whispered in my ear.

Modifying the Point of No Return

Audioslave kicks into gear with uncommon grace. I'm temporarily at peace as I battle the consciousness that tells me to shut the fuck up and go to sleep and the eyes that conspire to drag me down to the depths of lurid dreamscapes where murder, though fearful, is common and dogs and belgian spiders are my companions as I search for my one true love. Though I know where she is. And how to find her. Yet she continues to elude me, in life and in these so-called dreams.

A cup of fake tea in me, an evening of World War 2 drama rolling through my mind and fear of an uncertain future to drown in - this is where I stand, or sit, or swim. Depending on which metaphor and what state I choose to ... exist in. It's probably swimming. But I can't swim, so I'd drown. Which ... sets everything up as it should be. Well, supposedly I can swim - but I don't recall knowing how to and in any recent experience, my love for the sea and boats and the art of moving through water aside, when in something as basic as a pool, even my extra weight and blubber doesn't help in keeping me afloat.

The pictures inside and outside of my head haunt me. It's hard to focus sometimes with all these smiling faces in photographs looking at you. Beyond you. People that ... well, both distant and near. Though none of the people in the pictures around me are distant at all. Yet ... there's a lifeless quality to them. I just don't like em. Not a picture person, me. Cheeses quite a lot of folk off.

Are there "eventualities" that you know of? Ones that are closer than you want to admit. And yet you avoid them. Ignore the possibility. Waiting for that knock on the head when you turn and realize that it's far too late and the unimaginable has finally transpired. And what did you do whilst you still had time? You turned your back and trained yourself to believe that it wasn't so. It wasn't there. There isn't time. But I can't turn and face the horror that awaits. I pray, not to a god - I just ... pray to Hope, that I'll have the strength and courage to face it and the future that lies beyond that.

I think I've had enough of the 23 hr, 56 min day. I'm going to start a petition for shorter days. Fuck the sun and its tyrannical terms of controlling my days. I say let's do 12 hour days. And hours last about 43 minutes and 20 seconds. And ... well, wages and salaries stay the same or go up in equivalent so you're not earning less. That would be pleasant. Waking up in the morning. Getting to work, chilling, getting into the groove - oops, time to go home and boot up the rest of the world. Well ... perhaps that wouldn't work out. But I'm still going for a radical change of the system. The Sun is no better than a fucking Big Brother type dude. Always watching. His lap dog, the Moon, around when he isn't. And then when the Moon is taking a night's leak, there's still all the fucking billions of CCTV cameras that look like Stars that record your every move. Think about that while you chew on your dried morning coffee crumble.

Till time comes to a halt and they call my name. Out loud.

Is this everything you wanted?

Not really. In far too many ways. I return once more desiring as much as I do in these times to be heard. How many depressed people resort to this dreary anonymity in the vain wish of understanding by a stranger?

 

I realize that even though this may not be original or compelling reading, I must continue. I myself can't understand why people sometimes write such recondite tales in their blogs, yet I don't steer clear of the same pitfalls myself.

 

I feel guilty ... and rightly I should. This is why I want to run away ... though it's more of a run-to - towards the few things that give me faith. One of which is as vaporous as the ghost of Billy the Kid and the other as fragile as the foundations of the tower of Pisa. It's strong enough as it goes, but no one (meaning me) knows when it could just topple over under a previously unforseen strain. So I;m caught here, in a pool of my guilt and too scared too move out into the open lest I get stung with the poisons of consequence and reality.

 

Sometimes I don't quite know what to say. To people who matter. I mean, what do you say? I realize that my world is far smaller than that of most people, but then if I knew more folk, I'd feel more fear or more guilt. And it tastes like bile in the recesses of my mind from which I cannot expel it. I've played my own sick part in this play of events.

 

Obtuse, no?

 

But to be more cheerful. I will be. When I've moved past this and where I want to be instead of wasting this fleeting moments just yearning to be there. At least then I can learn if my desire was futile or not. Learn and grow.

 

Till the urge overwhelms the mind of me.

It's Official - I have the Brains of a Turnip

Was there ever any doubt?