Sunday, September 21, 2014

Welcome to Now.

Life is not perfect, it's actually the furthest thing from perfection. Life is a convoluted slide show of things that have happened and places that you have been. It's full of disparate experiences and difficult lessons learned; unfinished business and secrets you wish will never be uncovered. It's everything or nothing, depending on how you look at it. Life doesn't have expectations or a definition, just a long series of asterisk's followed with references at the bottom of the page explaining exactly what you mean and what you've been through. What you live is the trials and the tribulations. The arguments and the apologizing. The break ups and the make ups. The I love you's and I hate you's and I'm sorry's and the I mean it this time's. What you live is ups and downs, wrongs and rights. Being alive is believing you have failed several times over, again and again, only to finally realize that all of your mistakes and missteps have given you the opportunity to succeed. People always say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but that isn't necessarily true. What kills you are the chances that you didn't take and the decisions that you didn't make because you were too afraid of that oblivion of the unknown. What kills you is having reservations about becoming something different because you have become too comfortable with settling for what is, no longer aspiring for what could be. It will be slow and sweet, and a diluted perception will make it seem tragically appropriate. But it isn't. Life is about being stronger before something kills you, before anything makes you feel dead inside. What should make you stronger is the irreproachable ability to change when you aren't exactly sure what to believe in, but are positive that the one thing that you can believe in is you. It makes you stronger to be able to laugh, to cry, to feel vulnerable, to feel special, to feel hardship, to just feel.
We are all here to just feel. Whether it's something, everything, or trying to momentarily feel nothing at all. The greatest mistake in life would be not to allow yourself to be hurt, confused, anxious, or angry, because as a result you would never be able to understand love, dedication, peace, or happiness. My goal is to leave a mark somewhere on this earth, even if it's just an affectionate smirk on someone's face when they remember me or reminisce on a precious time that we had. That's all we can really ask for, posterity taking a longing glance at a photograph or a piece of writing and feeling somehow inspired, nostalgic, or having that bittersweet pang of wishing that you were still around to enjoy the frozen moments. We are merely transient beings in this world, desperately attempting to become eternal, hopelessly chasing immortality. And there is nothing wrong with that. There is nothing wrong with dreaming beyond our means or dreaming bigger than what other people believe that we are. The reality of dreaming little equates to the actuality of being infinitely smaller than the possibilities that exist. People say that you shouldn't validate yourself through others, but ironically there are many times that others can teach you how to see the validity of yourself. The results of that are immeasurable. Life isn't perfect, but live it. Just live it.

Sunday, May 2, 2010


Everyone has their own perception of mortality, no matter the degree of idealism or optimism they possess. Since the beginning of time, self-proclaimed philosophers have forced out theories and hypotheses; all those books they make you read in AP English or Introduction to Life Studies about why we’re here. About fate, about destiny, about any convoluted reason that we exist. Somewhere amidst the four centuries of the Renaissance we evolved into romantics, engulfed with the idea that humans live for love. From generation to generation since, we have inherited the incredibly impractical conception that our purpose in life is to find true love. “True” love: a coined term invented for the sake of classifying one love from another; as if one love should be more important than another. But reality nearly always contradicts what we distinguish as truth, as true, as love. Like God, love is a faith, a hope, something that we have been programmed to believe in as a justification for our existence, when in fact, there is no reason. No more reason than for a stray cat, a spider, a sewer rat, a tadpole, a goldfish. And there is no problem with that; no cause for a reconnaissance mission to discover some sort of rationale. Philosophers, they talk in circles, and the greatest aspect of their profession, unlike that of an accountant or a chemist, is that no one can prove them wrong. You cannot incorrectly answer a question that has none at all. Love, well, it isn’t forever, no matter what it seems; and we spend entirely too much time dwelling on the idea that it is. Fixated on the thought that it is singular and discriminate, when love is everywhere. We need it. We want it. We feel it. Sometimes we fear it. And other times we embrace it. But we don’t live for it. Mortality is nothing more than a timeline, and on a long enough timeline, everyone dies, everyone is forgotten. Don’t live today thinking there is only one person to take you through tomorrow. But even if you find someone that you think can, remember there will always be a next day. A next love. Another love. Like us, even the best of things don’t last forever.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Marrying my Dog...

It’s the acceptance of affection that keeps our blood flowing; allows us to entertain the miniscule points in a conversation where an eyebrow lifts or an eyelash bats. People will continue to argue our purpose upon this world; whether it is love, laughter, or hope, when it is really only understanding. Daily, we are fighting so hard for a concept which is so simple; maintaining these frozen moments of true intimacy captured in oversized gulps of air. We teach each other to express love in the overwhelming black void of fate, and the unknown; the place of retirement where no one can speak. And yet, we are silent. I love you. I love you not. I am completely wasting your time.

Somehow cowardice begins to overtake courage and redefine opportunity as an occasion that can be recaptured, when it cannot. Human nature has become a vain attempt to establish emotional prowess when the actuality still remains a wounded vulnerability. The heart feeds upon a connection between neurons, all biology and scientific hypotheses that we transform into valid emotions with indescribable consequences. We want love. We want butterflies and elevated heartbeats. You seek the ideal romance in the same manner you search for the ideal pocketbook. The blouse. That which makes you complete.

And yet, the banners and the brand names; and the impossible gains. No, they don’t fill the gaps or eccentricities. We lose faith in the firing of neurons, and become attached for the simple reason that they’re there. You can’t dawdle in a daydream, and you can’t dance around a nightmare. But the person who sees what you want isn’t yet there.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Role Playing

There are times you wish to pluck yourself out of your own life, similar to grabbing the remote control and changing the channel when a sitcom is too boring, confusing, out of control, or when the made-for-TV movie becomes utterly terrifying. Maybe the picture is scrambled or you can see nothing but static.

And so you vie with yourself for the ideal vantage point; simply observing from the outside-in, withdrawn at a safe distance. You desperately need to see yourself as a character instead of the ill-fated antagonist of your own life. It’s an enticing notion to be a star, a villain, or a hero, when there are no strings attached. Thirty minutes. Sixty minutes. One hundred twenty minutes. The credits roll and you change costumes, transform personas; attain a new back story and a fresh handful of tragic flaws.

Unfortunately, no, in reality this is impossible. Instead, you’re left sunk into the couch cushions, curled up into a trembling little ball and trying to watch the frightening parts through your fingers; or fighting back tears during those sad scenes so that no one will be the wiser. Absolutely helpless in watching your own desolation and the heartbreaking scenes where people usually empathize, sniffle, and hold each other. Don’t worry. Everything will be okay. Everything is fine.

You have to develop this willing suspension of disbelief to make it through the occasions when all elements are appearing to fall into pieces. Sharp and serrated, all points, corners and edges. You get kicked enough when you’re down and you either have to end the show or create a turning point in the plotline. Everyone loves the underdog and they worship the martyr. Sometimes it’s important to remember that the underdog may get beat and broken, but the martyr always dies.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

The Dreamer

People live to dream dreams, whether big or small. It’s the sort of obligation that makes us human, and separates us from the beasts. The paradox of it all lies within the question of what defines humanity, an aspect of life which deems a species strong, capable, calculating, yet riddled with holes of weakness and vulnerability. These gaps in our confidence are filled with insecurities, doubts, and plugged closed with those indiscriminate pangs of guilt and the metaphorical corks of ridicule. It is a difficult and complex plight, that of the dreamer. One who seeks hard fought opportunities and seemingly impossible realizations. One who envisions the broad spectrum and the polar differential of reveries and nightmares. One who sees angels and demons so clearly within themselves.

There are accomplices to the dream, criminal in instinct, feeding from the promise of free prosperity and sheer hope; praying to a faux-martyr under the guise of faith. Intangible, invisible, indescribable, and yet somehow completely decipherable, is that whisper in the back of your brain that screams believe when your critics wants you to fail. When the co-conspirators urge you into the darkness with sweet voices and empty promises, meanwhile letting go of your hand one shaky finger at a time. Remaining in the light just close enough to see your shadowy figure in the distance without letting it disappear. Day turns to night turns to day, and the dreamer doesn’t truly sleep; like a vacant movie theater, the film reel still turning, click-click-clicking in the desolate room, images still flashing on the screen. No one to laugh, gasp or cry in the theater seats; creating short stories and building small relationships that no one will see.

No, the dreamer never sleeps, but for those frozen moments flashing in scattered illustrations of what may never be. And so eventually some of us let dreams go; they float away into the wind like grains of sand to collect on someone else’s doorstep like simple debris. But nothing is simple. Straightforward, uncomplicated, plain. These are nothing but the aftermath of the loss, a clean acceptance of what is instead of what can be. People live to dream dreams. But it’s a wonder what to latch onto once those dreams die.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Reminiscing on a Past Self...

I've officially become a neglectful and sporadic blogger, but hey, life happens. At any rate, I was randomly looking for a notebook the other day because I'm studying to be a bartender and needed something to write on. I have this massive collection of notebooks just because I have a mild OCD about writing on clean, crisp paper. This meaning that if I ever spill something on one notebook, or it gets wrinkled, ripped, etc, I have to get a new one. Don't judge me! So anyway, I came across this pile of old ones from around 2005-2006, back when I just graduated from college, before I fully became the cynical bundle of sarcasm that I am now. This was back when I called myself a poet and wanted to perform spoken word. I used to write down and date my thoughts all the time, even if I took up an entire page with just one sentence or phrase, like "I'm trapped in my own life," or "Carpe Omnious." Some of the writing was great, and other parts I couldn't even recognize as coming from myself, all full of faux-romanticism and idealism. Which was a blessing and a curse, because it was a great reminder of the fact that no matter what life gives you, you can't lose your passion. Hard years, hard hearts and hard times shouldn't take away the focus from what you set out to do in the first place; from who you are. So anyway, for anyone that cares, this is me, circa May 2006:

"The sun shines in short gasps of air,
And before the stars appeared I left you there
In the shadows,
Below clouds with ambitious desires,
Fires of a mind aflame, with a heart extinguishing love,
I have become the woman who I always believed I was
Before the mirror leaked the truth.
I bleed reality in choppy sentences and unfinished thoughts,
You recognize my face despite the cost
And the soft spoken, often overanalyzed prose
From a heart never broken, and never disturbed
Those, who have lived this, can only attempt to believe
How you tried to recover the un-shattered pieces.
Pick up those jagged shards, when no help is in need,
This misleading parallel of what was and will never again be;
Incognito in spirit and undercover within words
But, you see me,
You feel the hope beneath your ribcage,
Saved by the harvest of tomorrow, when everything is barren today.
This life is flourishing beneath ground,
Left with the question of who found whom in this tangled web of current infatuations,
All of the promising obsessions in the night,
But passionate whispers across phone lines don’t define facts,
Or make anything that’s wrong, right.
It doesn’t indicate romance
Unless you breathe me,
Speak me,
Love me,
Or leave me.
Have me for the person that you thought I was,
Just because.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Escape from Solitude

We waste so much time trying to feel numb when we don't, trying not to feel vulnerable when that state of mind is so far from the truth; trapped behind these glass walls hoping never to have to attach an emotion to the pin pricks and the hurdles, the pain, disappointment and lost expectations of success. You learn to wipe away tears to pretend that they don't exist, that they were never there, hiding in these false facades of strength, imposing, posing as impenetrable, and refusing to take leaps of faith. We are enveloped in fears of failure, intimacy, change, these transient variables that choke breaths away into shallow gulps of air, drowning in self doubt. There is a solid reason for the term easy, the word simple, and the mere concept of those quick and painless scenarios that no one will ever care to remember once they are over. I let myself be haunted by these frozen moments of imperfection which are so much more substantial and important than any one second when everything seemed roses. Holding onto, latching onto, grabbing onto, clutching onto anything in a quiet desperation to avoid letting go. Addictions develop from a rampant and collective refusal to accept those sparks flying between neurons in uncomfortable or unfamiliar patterns, nothing but physiological side effects and chemical reactions. And the seconds keep ticking away in metronome beats, oblivious, completely disrespecting the gross misconception that time will somehow proceed with caution while we stew in denial of our own reality. Somewhere along the line initiative became cloudy and misunderstood, disguising itself as haste or impulse, running off into the darkness with instinct when thrown into the face of opportunity. And so we lurk in the shadows or strive to never leave the sunshine, all the while remaining pale or overexposed, ignoring those gray spaces in between. Nightmares are still just dreams, just an imagination wandering the empty sidewalks of sleep, animating the unconscious; fleeting narratives so similar to the unfavorable thoughts and emotions whose acquaintance we try so hard not to make. I’m finished swirling in this pool of vanity and pride, exhaustingly treading water in the effort to stay afloat just long enough to escape being hurt. A body covered in scars tells a thousand tales; metaphorically as does a heart, a mind, a soul. It’s as if we are in actuality lost in the matrix, blinded by the pretty colors of self-deprecation, fabrication, and those little white lies we whisper in our minds. I’m finished fooling myself.