world, meet rachel - my favorite character to date.

Jack got me to obsess over it, before any offer had even been made. The maybe’s and the might not’s had me fighting for air within seconds. “Maybe he wanted to fuck, but maybe not. He might not be thinking what I’m thinking. Maybe this is a bad idea, I might not know what I’m getting myself into.” All good reasons to listen to the voice in my head, and ignore the one in my vagina. Doubt seldom leads anyone to follow through with greater conviction, but my vagina is very persuasive. Hesitation itself is only a distortion of reality created to allow fear to dominate your decision, without guilt. A perfect self-delusion accepted in a way that seems entirely reasonable. Rational even. “Trust your instincts,” they say. “If it feels wrong, don’t do it.” Such perfect sheep nip, to keep the herds up to morally acceptable standards. Not the wolves though. I want to cross lines, I want to give in and succumb to the sexual tension’s demands. He’s rich, and good looking, has a myriad of pussy available to him at anytime, is exactly 30 years older than me, and I want him. It takes exactly one more sip of beer to convince myself, that the attraction is mutual, lock fear back into it’s lonely little corner, risk it all, and roll the fuckin’ dice.

the children of time.

Mondays are the faded but rational ones, making schedules and cleaning up. They are the voices of reason, but still give in to Tuesdays who are already overdosing on anarchy. They always ends up alone, their laughter turning to Wednesdays' tears, who have never really stopped crying. They don't say much at all. Thursdays sometimes hum just to break the silence, and can read more from rare smiles than useless words. Those two are in love. Fridays always cling desperately to vices and wait for Saturdays' company to hold each other tightly until their wasted delirium fades. But Sundays... Sundays know they're the end. Still, they close their eyes, and pretend it's all just beginning again. Sundays imagine their own world.

when I'm hurting...

When my fingers tremble as I type, I know the words I want will not run straight or easy. When my thoughts constantly elude me, hidden in some unknown corners of this bitter maze. When my entries get scarce here, and the raindrops don’t write themselves to any seemingly coherent points. When my emotions have been choked breathless and dried out. When I’ve felt too much of everything, to know what anything feels like anymore. When it’s so fucked up and down and in and out and backwards and upside down all at once. When the world turns slowly, but we all keep rushing. When there are crumpled tear-stained tissues overflowing every trashcan. When the fire is too hot to touch. When every song sounds like a heartache. When my dreams are just black and it feels worse than the nightmares. When everything is never as it seems.

the drunken ramble poet.

Well, I wrote the following ..."almost poem" last night in bed... and with no wireless yet, had to promise myself I would post it today.

I’d forgotten how great it feels to be measured on a level deeper than just appearance. Maybe not much deeper, but still a change. After a reawakening prompted by double vodka cranberry’s and a “highly” involved psycho self-analysis… I can feel my life slipping into a once-known territory that now seems entirely unfamiliar. I am hesitant about how to act… and grasping desperately at the hope that I won’t have to act at all. Anymore. The hope that my nature will rise to the surface, and this new world will see more than the last. More than my skin colour, chewed nails and nervous fidgeting. I know how to wear the masks, and play the part to perfection… but I don’t want to anymore. Always so cool, so aloof and rambunctious.. yet my eyes are blurred. They remain fixed on the horizon. You can think you know all there is to know about me after 5 minutes alone, but everything you know is wrong. If I could look away for just a moment, and let the mask slip….

There are a hundred thoughts I chase away every night. A thousand doubts, and a million memories. All of my tomorrows start here. Amidst the patience that doesn’t wait, but ends... and the pain that doesn’t hurt, but heals. It doesn’t matter how dark the sky is… because the stars are always there… even when you can’t see them. I wish I could tell you all my secrets… but my eyes are losing the battle against gravity, and the sandman is steadily trudging along in the distance. It is 1:24 am, and I am snuggling under this poufy marshmallow duvet, and drifting into the sleepy kingdom of the unconscious. G’night world. I kinda love you… even when I hate you.

the end of the beginning.

From a 3 year summer of excessive staring and the wonderland of the ex-pat elite... to a 3 month springtime of the straight, successive and solitary. Yes, it’s finally time to claw my way out of the rabbit hole, and leave behind the security blanket that is daddy’s thick wallet and guilty conscious. Unfortunately… I very much enjoyed not having to worry about bills or bank accounts… and am not relishing in my analysis of what I know is about to happen. I’m going to get this done right the first time and throw my entire life into a money funnel. I’m going to find a job I like that can lead to one I would love, and work ridiculous hours just to smile at a piece of paper with a slightly higher number on it every two weeks. I’m going to write my little ass off, and get this novel finished. I’m going to sideline with web content articles, and video editing. I’m going to make youtube videos again, to distract idle hands and thoughts. I’m going to quit drinking again, cook at home and wear out my library card. I’m going to do anything and everything I possibly can, and attack every opportunity with feverish persistence. This is one of those rare moments when I have disallowed myself the option of failing. It’s quite an amazing feeling to have an unwavering purpose, yet amazingly disheartening to know it’s such a shallow one.


Sometimes the right thing and the hardest thing… are the same.

siesmo caos.

A dark tirade is coming. I can feel the poison trickling it's way through my mind. It's because I notice the mirrors more now… always reflecting an imperfect world. A whole civilization melting away into the meaningless. Work, buy, spend, pay. A beautiful circle of nothing. Just like the zero key.

0

I’m waiting. For the silence to end. I’m waiting for all of us to wake up and scream at what we had become. The moral compass is not broken.. but stolen, and realigned. Now I can’t tell if those are angels or devils burning below me.

blame humanity.

The human race is not evolving. We still have the same damn questions that have always been around. Why are we here? Why do things matter? What is life? What is time? What is death? Sure, we can talk to each other through little internet cages, and fly to the moon and all those other brilliant technological advances in the scientific part of who we are… but what about the other parts? There has to be more than science, and it seems like no matter how much we can make from rocks, trees, tools and industry… there is never any change in what we really understand philosophically. Why aren’t there research facilities all over the world spending billions on answering the oldest questions ever known? Instead, the money is used to build guns, to kill others, to make more money, to make more guns, to kill more people. Anyone else see something wrong in this pattern? Why do all governments seem to have one of two mantras: 1) Keep them sick and scared and always living for the future. Buy now, spend your whole life paying later! Glorify the stretch limo Superclass, and sell the ultimate and impossible dreams of endless money, power and fame. Or 2) Keep them poor and starving so you can eat your meals served on golden plates and greed your way to an excessive and beautiful life. Corrupt everything and die with fat pockets in a suffering world. Why is religion still the best answer we can guess at, and why are we so adamant to prove we’re already right, that we call it “faith” and say it’s a miracle?
Why aren’t more of us… asking why?

THIS, is the human race. You, me, us… collectively fucking the world (and each other) into something I’m ashamed to think we consider intelligent life. So satisfied with nothing of substance. So distracted, and apathetic. So quick to follow the one eyed man… but the world’s not blind… just blindfolded. We sink deep into our perfectly lethargic furniture, stare blankly at a big black hole where brains go to die for a few hours, microwave dinner and say with a smile… “Gee… this is nice.” It’s not nice. Having big shiny toys and a big shiny life… is not enough. I’m going to go so far as to say… fuck science. Fuck science for creating the means to build the “things” in life that have no purpose except to be better than the other guys. No conclusion. No happy ending. No moral to the story. This is our world… and we hold all blame for the way it’s turned out.

just write.

I decided I wanted to try the 5-min brain splatter, and flared a little of my own style into it by writing it freehand – and now typing it up (unedited) for you to read.

It’s harder to write on paper. The motions carried out with more intent and precision. Each letter a shape instead of all poke’s and clicks. “There’s art in there somewhere,” she thinks, squinting at her fifth grade scrawl in the fading remains of daylight. The ash from her cigarette drops on the page. It’s a second-class choice Marlboro Red (there were no Menthols left, except the half butts stashed in the overflowing crab shaped ashtray). “Maybe I smoke too much.” She sighs, takes another long slow drag and kills it. Time to focus on the page. A harder task than you might imagine… fighting off the Furies of sleep. Maybe this is one of those moments when sleep is just less important. When reality is better than your dreams. She's had a few of those lately, although the dreams are not much to compare to. No monsters or zombies or anything oversized and slimy… just situations. The kind that her dream self doesn’t know how to react to. Everything all foggy and dark. No stars in the black pit of a sky, no faces on the surrounding strangers. Something good and pure is sparkling in the distance… but it’s out of reach. Always out of reach. Nothing ends, or begins… it just is. Stuck in some fucked up limbo. The insignificant details are usually all that can be remembered. Specifics left locked in her subconscious, where she wants them. So she can still wake up and tell herself “It’s just a dream.” It’s not logical, and even maybe a little destructive to seek meaning in nightmares, but they say fear is powerful right? So she'd like to believe that understanding whatever micro-pieces she can get her hands on – helps her understand herself too. Of courseshe would have to go all deep and broody on you – but it’s dark, she's tired and starting to see the appeal of rocking the lonelygirl08 name with pride. Only now, after turning the page, does she realize she never set a timer. Oh well, she's done anyways. Time limits are over-rated.

RAID the cockroach ninja.

Cockroaches are nasty little things, and around these tropical cities, not so little. Try as I might, (or might not) my room is never truly spotless, so they come around at night, click-click-clicking their creepy crawly legs across the dark wood floor. I can’t sleep very well when my eardrums are overflowing with the scurrying of something very alive and very disgusting. Something that also happens to be very near. So today, I fumigated that shit. It was a truly spirited adventure that started without a professional gas mask or expensive chemicals… but with RAID cockroach killer. I moved all my essentials to the empty room next door and set up headquarters. I crushed up corn chips as bait and laid them out in the dark abysmal corners of my now infested living space. Then… I waited. I waited so hard, and so impressively. When darkness came I tugged on jeans, runners and a hoodie, crept through the door… and clutched my RAID can out in front of me. I was a cockroach killing ninja. Armed with deep courage and seething vengeance… I fogged those buggers like it was my one true mission in life. With art, style, grace, and minimal girl shrieks, I stomped and sprayed and stomped and sprayed my way to glory. Just when I was beginning to think it was all over, my ninja sense tingled… and there, zig zagging his way out from the crack in the floor.. was a hulking beast of a creature. This was to be my finest moment. The war to end all wars. That is… until I realized the cockroach left in front of me was, quite literally, insane. Now, I’m not sure what’s actually in those Raid bottles… but someone somewhere at their research facilities has a twisted sense of humor. That ugly bug suddenly seemed a whole lot smaller as he ran back and forth on the same line, paused, jumped around, and continued his endless desperate journey to nowhere. There was no rhythm to his clicking, no intelligence in the flailing direction of his antennas. This was one very crazy, and very poisoned cockroach. I, of course, being the evil soul that I am… giggled at the helpless soul struggling below me, raised my shoe up high… and ended it all with one fatal crunch. Us ninjas have a job to do, and we will achieve it without mercy or compassion.

more circles.

I imagine knowledge sometimes... as a circle. Inside, I'm safe. Surrounded by everything I know, or think I know about... and it's all slowly expanding everyday, but there is no limit. The potential growth is infinite, and that scares me a little bit. The non-understanding of an overflowing world. Risky misadventures waiting in the dark somewhere to leap on me.  I don't pretend to know everything and never will, but in the case of an online, completely publicized blog.. I will write lil tidbits from the very center of my safety circle.  - Me.