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.

Pittsburgh and awkward syntax.

The smokestacks contrast the green and rise like enormous grey fingers stretching into the sky. Into the clouds they point, into the skies of employment. A blue collared horizon welcomes every one of us. Beckons our contributions. Some come for the human wilderness, some come for the opportunity.

I came just for the view.

I came to smell the sweaty skin of America. To shake the grease stained hands that tear and toil and to remember them who built this iron machine. Spinning gears and twisting chains break and bend the backs of labor. Faceless parts to an autonomous machine.. The very stability we so often overlook and demote. We owe our lives to these parts, these instruments. Human oversights.

mothers talk, talk about anything but thier children.
anything to detract from life. life at home.
a blurry-eyed, empty insistance staring through each conversation, each pained word wishing it was somewhere else.
I wish i was somewhere else too.

Mothers talk about houses, about cars about vacations.
never talking about the husbands or children inside them.
the mother's smile ends as quickly as it came
lips from down to up, from frown to fading.

mothers spend money, the ultimate excuse.
The ultimate conversation piece.
Mothers
empty vessel or just empty.

With a flicker of indifference and a small spark of genius, I framed the world with my fingers and called it mine. I called it hers, and we began ours. A traveling bunch we became, through stairs and stairs of buildings and buildings. We were looking for a dream which traveled faster than we could. Faster than I wanted to go. Rushing, rolling, pushing, pulling. The formless fingers of consequence pulled the strings of conscience tighter as we went. I wanted this broken reality, I brought us here. Where?
To where we are.

It started making more sense as we moved. The February air misted our faces and our cold stiff hands joined, a basket of white knuckles. A short-term promise of each other’s salvation. Through stores and stories, and endless visual conversation converging and reminding me that she was infinite. Dozens of figures passed on either side, dodging us, hands still holding, hoping and wanting at length to escape the cold.
A comfortable silence.

to buy or sell

The business of business.
Buy, sell, buy, buy. A leased life paid for in credit, owed to and owned by banks and plastics. People in charge of charging, redundance and repetition.
copies of copies; each less original, each less thier own. Monthly payments due and loans to cover loans. A metaphysical example of one's own choice. A trait virus running through the veins of cultures, an identity of deformity.

It's all ok because we dont know any better.

This

I hate getting so down, I hate writing about it and spiraling into a controlled spin of self-pity. It's like subconsciously i like being in this place. Looking up from below the water.

I can swim, but i wont.

Reflecting on this past year brings to mind the amazing things i've been lucky enough to be apart of.
Seriously.

In the past year, I have been to Europe and have seen places and people and things most people in this world would never dream of. I have seen most of the states, and again met amazing, interesting people I might never forget. I have been apart of a few bands who are destined for amazing levels of success. I have made, kept, and nourished friendships which will redefine my life. I have continued to grow a million dollar business, and remain self employed with amazing amounts of freedom and potential.

These are life shaping experiences, and I am astonished, and overwhelmed at the idea of having so much.
Thank you God.

Thank you so much.

The skin I never asked for.

every part of my life is misplaced.
Ive never felt consequences, so its easy to keep making mistakes. As long as everyone else gets hurt, I dont feel a thing. I haven't been honest with myself or anyone else in longer than i can remember. All i want is to tell someone everything, every problem, every lie, every excuse and have them love me for it or even hate me for it. I guess i just want to let this out. I dont deserve the air in my lungs. I promise you that.

Is this some kind of vauge incoherent catharsis? Is this some kind of death rattle, the sound i make when everything ends. I hope its peace. I hope it's white.

This is not some melodramatic cry for help, this is not a 1 dollar pleabargain. Im not going to kill myself, i swear. At least not physically.

Part of me does need to die.
Evolve.
Revolve.
Re-evolve.
lather, rinse, repeat.

I keep looking for someone to blame for myself. Looking for a reason, any reason, to see why i am the way i am. All of my family, friends everyone believes in my lies.
I think though, i am transparent. An apparition, a deadman looking from beyond death. All i want is to swim, but instead i see the sun from the bottom of the ocean. My breath is failing, and my heart is slowing, but i continue to sink.

An anchor of guilt will eventually drown me.

A final breath of my own water. A final breath of nothing of substance.
i hate this. i hate me.

Sometimes i wish God wasnt real. I wish i didnt know that in the depths of my soul, i am his, and i am a ungrateful son. An angry angel watching me as i squander everything. every opportunity, wasted.

hated.

unloved? Ungrateful, un-everything. I am what you never want to be.

badguy.

Sometimes i feel like the worst fucking person in the world.

its the truth.

trivial issues arent any longer.
the words are not leaping from my mouth as rapidly as i had hoped.

why am i so nonconfrontational.

we can't all be heroes.

I'm the badguy.

I continue to burn the rope though it dangles near enough to save me from the rising waters. The waves lapping at my salvations as my lungs fill with liquid.

I've heard you become comfortable in the beginning stages of hypothermia. If this is true I'm nearly asleep. Sleep brings the feeling of warm hate, and the icy pang of jealousy. A paradox only realized through the unreal.

Truth realized in truth.
I've lied mostly to myself, honestly.

The river rises and I think of ways to send my help home. I wish you didn't love me. This would be easier. Truth is, I might one day thank you. One day.

distrust, and the trappings of a modern man.

Euphemize my life, its what I’ve always done. Things aren't so bad.
so bad.

melodrama takes over, and the trappings of youthful disillusionment fade into adult incompetence. bound by English.
bound by grammatical syntax. i am no artist, and even words fall limp in my lap.
grammatical impotence?

enough of the phallic references.

I’ve been thinking.
I’ve been thinking.

Everyone wants so desperately to believe, or have someone believe they are special. we all want someone, almost anyone to recognize the talent we wish we had.
We want someone to see something in us that no one else does.
But, we do. We knew it was there all along, we've all cultivated some facet of our individuality so as to prompt praise and appreciation. we want to be known.

Even the most independent of us wants to be known.
If we could choose what we were to be known for, what would it be?

I think I want to be everything.

what's another word for empty?

a sea of discontent. a sea of good intention.

I think i can find something wrong with every situation. Not that i'm obsessed with negativity. Quite the opposite, i'm probably optimistic to the point of irrationality, but rose tinted goggles usually distort. I've lived in a fantasy world of protection for 22 years, and now that the veil is slowly being lifted, i'm confused. I just dont understand.

Sometimes, i just want to burn these sails and stop moving.
Just float for awhile. Somtimes i just want to stop everything.

It's easy to stop when you aren't going anywhere in the first place. It's getting harder to support my own weight anymore. Life is moving around me faster than it ever has, keeping up with the world is getting harder to do. Staying ahead of everyone is becoming impossible.

how can i keep up when i can't keep up with myself?

overdramatics

i hate choices.

i think maybe i would be better in some totalitarian, socialist, told-what-to-do society.

an underlying current of nothing or swim in this wake.

Validation through disconnection.
Leave me alone she says, leave me alone. This, supposedly is what we all want. Our higher purpose can be summed in these three words.
Leave me alone.

i want to believe more than i do. Take that how you want it. I’m just being honest.
Accidentally honest. An aspiration of the gods. To be honest, to be true to yourself first, is mans plaguing problem. The thorn we were born with.
bandages bleed through, and stitches lose suture.

in the end, we are held together by our own hands, by our own faults, by our own truths.
what is truth? truth will be discussed on a later date friends.
truth is what we want it to be to us.
validation is disconnection.
if we aren’t here, if we do not belong here, we cannot ever be right with this world.

i wish this made a scrap of sense.