whatever, goodnight.

I'm not sure what it is about me, about her, but something just doesn't feel right. Like sometimes i feel like i'm completely settling for security when what i want is the extraordinary. I don't want to believe that my best days are behind me. I'd love to look forward to something.

Anything?

I want a story to tell. I feel like every time i sit down and write (to noone, mind you) all i'm doing is writing pathetic prose, skipping lines and adding italics for dramatic effect. I really don't have a story or method to my daily life. I have complaints and half-assed self realizations. I pretend that i'm a good writer, when I as far as i know, I can barely spell anymore.

Do i want to be a Lawyer? Do i want to be a teacher?

Am i smart enough for either, or am i just lazy enough to call it a "couldabeen"

whatever, goodnight.

wondering outloud the things i should be considering.?

I just drank two beers and i'm feeling talkative, but have noone to talk to. Lately i've been thinking about going to law school. I'm still determining my reasons for wanting to go, and I have no idea where to start. I dont know if it's just the desire to want to make more money (the more i find out about lawyerdom, the more i realize it's definitely NOT guaranteed prosperity), i dont know if its the desire to want to stay in school in complete avoidance of "real" life. I dont know if its the vain and shallow conceit that drives me to want to impress people with my occupation (but really, how often does one ask "what do you do?"). It's rare, and even if the question arised often, who the fuck cares? I'm not going to devote 3 more years of my education just for bragging rights?

I'd much sooner say to the question: "I'm a teacher, I'm a mechanic, i'm a nurse or a janitor for that matter, what does it matter? What i do to make money does not make me, me). It seems like too many people equate employment occupation with self justification. A person is not determined by the amount of money they earn, or by the seeming "importance" of their job.
A person is justified by the way they treat their friends, the way they treat their family, the way they treat their God. A person is only a person to other people.

That probably doesn't make sense, refer to line 2 of this blog for an explanation.

noone reads this, but that's ok. I love you.

a standstill

Somtimes, well, most of the time, I feel like my life isn't developing at the normal rate. I grew up with my parents, uncles and older acquaintances getting married at about the age I am now. They were buying houses, going to family dinners, and washing their cars on Saturdays. They were working during the week and shopping on the weekends, taking boating trips and vacations.

Where am I in relation to this?

Not close.

I'm going to school (barely passing), working a marginal job which pays me occasionally. I do live on my own, which is a boon to my own existence, but begrudgingly. I have a world of credit card and school loan debt which piles up faster than it is paid off. I want a ring on my finger, a silver-colored promise of security. A small, shining announcement of my station in life. I want to e responsible for my family, and have the means to do so successfully. I want to take my nephews out on the weekends (have none).

Life in comparison.. Is disappointing.

the warm red hate dripped from my lip as she pulled away.

"i cant do this anymore" she said, "i mean, i wont"

It's crazy to think that we've made it this far alone, i mean just us, i mean just me, what do i mean?

"you're going crazy, sean"

Is she talking anymore? I though only of the dripping, and the kinds of shoes she was wearing. She never wore those shoes anymore, but i think they compliment her pants well.

"Jesus, look at me"
At this point i was completely out of the conversation, sitcoms i barely watched were registering more this.

home is nowhere now.

I'm growing to understand that home is not a physical place, but a place with outstretched arms and smiling eyes that close when you kiss. Home is where you want to be warm.

It's hard when you don't really feel like home exists anymore. The place I grew up has grown up without me, leaving me to float awkwardly like a ping pong ball in a blow-test tube.

Home exists, but I can't find it.

We (I) live in an awkward period of time, where it seems like we are always transitivity. This job to that job, this future to that future, this person to the next, years of constant movement. These years of instabilty are causing us to distrust the stable, grounded lives available to us. We are so used to constant fluidity, that we can't really appreciate the steadfast. We get bored with people, bored with jobs, bored with daydreamed futures. It's crazy and I hope it ends soon.

I just want to be content.

a new day for an old me

A new day for an old me. First day at a new job brings back years of compound insecurities. Hopeful
hopeful
hopefully waiting for something to be made to happen.
I have to make things happen this time. 23 is far too old to depend on others. I want to type the most dramatic sentence available to me. But

its gone it looks like its all gone.

i still think about her. Is it hindsight or mindsight thats doing it this time. Am i making things better than they were? Or am i worse than i was?

Rhetorical \\one sidedconversation

that looks cool.


i love you God

Dramatics and embellishment

Clandestine indigo viewing
A shade misunderstood
She walks a brown planet with dirty dust writing fingertips
On dirty cars
And our dirty plan is now made known
New eyes newly dripping with salty sadness
As the warm hate drips from the corner
Of my mouth

To pretend is pretense
A sad charade filled with even sadder players
Whose eyes drip this salty sadness
Though their smiles smile syncopated
And regulated, though their masks mask madness
To appearances: lovely
Painting black skies blue
Feeling failure in forever, regards
The reality.
The reality of supposition is their weakness
A marriage of true minds finds
The fear of falling, failing finding
The fewer friends now to feel the forms of love
And bitter babies cry constantly for
As the selfish ones fall
With, then within, then withal
Then without.
The cycle continues and years creep by
The spider’s fingers crawl into
Old men’s eyes,
And the salty sadness dries

Always so plugged in.
Always so digital. My ears consumed by songs i've heard a hundred times before, words sung by rich entertainers bounce between my ears. The phone I talk on, the computer i type into, the car I drive.

How is it possible to be so disconnected while being more connected than ever?
The great irony of it all is that our instruments of communication are now existing to disinvolve those without the proper media. The greatest irony is that we are so much further apart now than we were.
The beginning of the end?
Don't be so apocalypctic, the digital age is upon us. The time is now. We are socially, intellectually and emotionally developing at twice the speed of time. Things are good, they tell me. They tell us, things are good.
Soon they will clone our pesky, problematic parts and we will be like new humans. With old souls, and old hearts and stale, sore faces that haven't reason to smile. Replacements of replacements.

The american way is becoming the way to be. The becoming way to be.