masochist

masochism of the mind, emotional masochism, psychological self-harm. it all works.

no, there's nothing really wrong with me but at the same time there is. i can admit there's a problem with dwelling on emotionally damaging things, but what if they're not intrinsically damaging? what if only the twisted context of your life makes them that way?

what should be the happiest moments, the fondest memories, spoiled by the fact that there will never be any more. like seeing the sun, basking in it for a day and then being forced to live life in darkness. the memory of the sun becomes bitter until it's poison in your veins.

at the same time as you take your only solace in the memories, you wish they had never taken place. because feeling the caustic burn of the bane is better than feeling the nothingness of your void without it.

 it's not for some sick joy behind the pain but because letting go is too hard. and there's no guarantee it will even make us happy if we do.

all we hav left to us are the mementos of lives we half-remember living and the memory that life was once better.

it doesn't ever really make sense to dwell on them but that doesn't stop us.

greatness

we don't do great things anymore.

as humans, as a species, we have begun to lose our aspirations to become great, to rise above the fray and be known to all others as someone who did something of worth. that will be remembered. we have lost our belief that years from now, people will remember our names because of something that we created, that we said.

and why should we believe that we'll be remembered? as a collective, our attention doesn't span more than across a couple weeks. we are quick to forget and eager to move on. we don't like dwelling on things that make us stop in our tracks, that make us uncomfortable or, heaven forbid, that make us think. we prefer to delve into the swell of the internet and drown ourselves in the endless deeps of the frivolous drivel of reality tv and idle celebrity gossip.

we used to concern ourselves with things of import. we used to be honestly involved with the way our country was run and the state of our economy because at one time we felt that there was something that we could actually do about it.

there was a time where we strived to be more than ourselves, to think beyond what will come the next day. once, we read the works of our modest modern philosophers and saw how it applied to us, how the stories were our own. we began to recognize our folly and to make reparations.

but now, we look only to fill the time. to recycle the works of ages gone in order to make some abomination unworthy of actual existence. there are nuggets of gold among the rough, tiny lights that struggle to illuminate the heavy gloom. and in truth, we still read those stories, study those wisdoms that those before saw as greatness. but to us, they are the voices of the past, screaming at us. and so we drown out the noise. because it's only a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

we no longer believe that we can do great things because we don't see it happen anymore. we think they're a thing of the past and everyone tells us such achievements exist only there. but no one dictates our own destiny but ourselves. no one can tell us we can't do something.

but still, we don't do great things anymore. and it's our own fault.

madness

sometimes insanity doesn't really exist. just normal people with normal thoughts, normal feelings. normal lives. but then, like a cancer, something changes and the normal becomes more than normal. and too much of anything can quickly turn to harm. it becomes too much.

interest turns to infatuation. infatuation turns to obsession. obsession turns to madness.

it spins in a vicious cycle of letting go and embracing, holding on to the insignificant and remembering the tiny moments of peace. refusing to let them go and then hating them for leaving you. leaving you so alone.

it's the turn of a coin, tumbling through the air, always falling, but never caught. 

it seems so sad to think of it, so unfortunate a state. pity for the mad ones. 

then i realize.

i've been mad all along.

chaos

elements of randomness dominate much of our lives. the universe relentlessly fills existence with tiny choices that accumulate to the most immense and daunting of decisions. at those moments, everything that lies in the past of our lives has culminated to that one instant where the decision presents itself. who we were has determined who we are and in kind who we will be, but none of those people ever being truly the same.

the organic nature of the universe forms around each of the choices of every single person in the world, the fluid tendency to shift and warp making every person invariably connected with every other person in existence, spanning even across time. we all affect each other, most often without realizing it and entirely ignorant of how far a single touch really goes. 

and in turn the universe reaches out to touch us back. the constants work to keep our lives spinning as they should, as they have before or at times it will let us taste a new life to see how much further we can go, how much more we can be.

we are most richly rewarded when we give in to the forces beyond ourselves, when we turn our lives over to luck or chance, chaos or faith. when we give our lives to the turn of a coin or the raging seas around us or to God, we are given opportunities to be more than ourselves, to be a part of something greater.

the universe is perfectly crafted, the minute components like clockwork, ebbing and turning in perfect harmony. 

it's funny how often we forget that...

Ghosts

we follow footsteps in life, treading the paths of ones already far gone.

we follow hoping to know them, thinking by some measure that we may walk their journey for ourselves. we try to know the ghosts to whom these prints belong. but we're chasing echoes. those whose paths we trek are long dead, they live with the face of of another and have gone on so far. we follow strangers.

they have gone on so far from me, these ghosts i once knew. i desperately try to follow the way they once went, but that path is theirs and gone with them and never will i trod upon it. i will never again see my ghosts. no matter how far or long i echo behind them i will never ever catch up.

so i trudge through winter snow with only the mementos of another life and the memory that i once lived.

abnormality

some people are weird.

but that's actually very acceptable by my standards. in my eyes, those who fall into the middle of the spectrum of insanity are granted their small oddities to separate them from the mundane unremarkables and the extreme crazies. they're set up to stand apart and show others how the world could be.

besides, they're more fun.

treasures

there exist in life a few, rare moments of pure joy, perfect happiness.

it's in these moments we relish more than any other. these instances become sacred, shards of time trozen in memory, pure and untouched by any corruption of world and circumstance.

perhaps the most precious are the memories of a loved one. the treasure that is the touch of an angel.

the rarest memories are the ones rife with complex emotion and interaction; those filled with the comfort that defies the hurt and the innocence that pushes past jaded thought.

it's in these moments that we could live.

moments that either define or destory us.

revival

so i might have had another epiphany some time ago: i have never been consistant with my blogging-ness.

should it have been a surprise that i found myself unable to resume my activity online for a matter of weeks? i suppose not.

but regardless, i hope my resolve proves... well, consistant.

here goes nothing

open

i used to be the hero of this story
but then i woke up from your spell
the fairy tale is over
the magic is gone
i needed you most
in broken heart and broken mind
i can't fathom how
but it was then you walked away from me

i've fallen short of my former glory
and i've been trapped in this hell
this agony i can't cover
cause i am alone
i've been lost
seeking the path i cannot find
i need you now
this isn't how it was supposed to be

i opened my eyes
and found this strange, new world around me
i didn't realize
that you had left me alone

what i don't say, you won't know
what you don't know can't hurt you
so many things have changed
too many questions
not enough answers

why can't things be the same?
why do you keep calling my name?
why won't you open your eyes?

just open your eyes

please open your eyes

i need you to open your eyes

unmasked

there are times when we are given the rare opportunity to know extraordinary people. some of them are those that we wouldn't give a second glance if we were to pass them on the street. they appear to be jaded, introverted, surly, altogether unlikable. the type of people we usually try to avoid. or sometimes people who seem to be very together, who are unbelievable by anyone's standards and who can make us feel inadequate at times.

but when we take a chance on them and decide to extend our boundaries and go beyond our comfort zone, we come to know these people. and the more time we spend with them, the more we come to realize who it is they really are, that they're amazing.

given time, we learn their stories, the things that made them who they are and their reasons of certain things. but even after years, we might never know everything about them. but we don't really have to.

because we love them anyway, regardless of time and circumstance.

they're the ones that stay with us.

wonder

to see the world in a strange new way, to view reality through rose-colored glasses. lenses that do not obstruct or distort but allow a newfound perception. to look through the eyes of another and see what they see. to know the world of a friend or loved one. we cannot truly experience life as they would.

but when they open their hearts and their minds to the world, they show the color of their soul. we see the world through their eyes and we rediscover the beauty in things that had been lost to us.

even a glimpse into another's mind can draw you deep into a strange, wonderful place. and it can fill you with hope. it gives you the resolve to endure through the night so that you might awake to the dawn. strength is bestowed to believe in a new day.

to see this world through strange eyes and rose-colored glasses.

reminiscence

an overwhelming wave of nostalgia often washes over me as i reach an end. the conclusion of a season or year. when time spent with loved ones begins to wind down. the finish of a day, a week a month. reflection following these ends is, more often than not, filled with the sorrow and regret that i did not make anything more of the time than i did.

but i have come to terms that this feeling is inevitable, it has always come and will continue to do so forever more.

but more than that, i have also come to know that another emotion that always accompanies my nostalgia: hope. it is the guiding light that leads me through the darkness of my remorse to the new dawn. a brand new day awaits following every night filled with grief. a chance to do better and realize the dreams you dreamed the sleep before.

wake

there are dreams that cannot be forgotten.

these shades of a life we could have. that we might have had. we witness these incredible visions of things that have not come to pass, things that could seem only to exist in an idyllic reality. but in the moment, it feels possible. it feels real.

our dreams make us happy, happier than we could think to be in the waking present. the euphoria they have the ability to create is unparalleled. but when we awake, our worlds collide and the illusions are shattered.

but the unravelling of our dreams to separate them from reality is necessary to test their strength. to root out the weak and demonstrate which ones have a will to survive. which ones have the ardor and power to enter the world of reality.

they leave their mark, willing themselves into our conscoiusness. there they burrow, creating a longing, a hollow within our souls. but the emptiness is a wound that can only be healed by that which caused it: the dream. and when it is filled, we are whole again.

our dreams are what make us human. dreams give us vitality. dreams give us hope.

dreams are the chance to make our deepest desires come to pass.

i dream to be woken up.

forgotten

why is it, that at many points throughout our daily lives, we enounter the most remarkable individuals and receive opportunities to be enthralled by them, by their wisdom, their kindness, their beauty, and yet we say nothing of it, letting their splendor go seemingly unnoticed? is it simply because we believe they are aware of it, that they are reminded of it so many times each and every day? does it ever occur to us that this might not be the case, that these beautiful aspects of those around us are taken for granted, unappreciated and ignored?

what difficulty is it to go an extra step and let these complimentary thoughts become realized as words? why can we not let them know they are precious to us?

why is it i cannot convey what it is i want to say?

rant

i observe the world through critical eyes, watching the destructive forces of the media tear apart our pastimes, interests and entertainment. it is difficult to imagine a future where our creative forces have been strengthened and given the power to build worlds that are not filled with hollow shades of the latest dying trend, allowed to compose unrestrained by the binding idiocy of the modern age.

regrettably, much of my creation is due to the work of others, inspiration always capable of being traced to its root, the source of its birth. in fact, a great deal of my works begin as a nearly identical copy of the original template, only slight details altered within the whole.

but through a fair deal of effort and natural evolution, these ideas seemingly take on lives of their own, developing and shifting ways i would have never before thought possible. but i believe that they, in similitude of myself, are dissatisfied with the shallow echoes that fill our reality, yearning for more, a freedom from these shackles of the world.

but our generation seems to be fueled solely by rebellion. their lives are steered by it; they are possessed of radical notions, simply desirous of defiance. this robs them of individual thought, always being swayed into the contrary by others.

but there are others who choose to stand alone, to persist in being unfettered by the raging machines around them.

my faith in the world is lost but it remains with those chosen few who still retain a will to create and resolve to fight. should they remain diligent and steadfast, they will be those who craft the future, the forerunners who raise the coming generation. and that gives me hope.

mirrors

when i go home at the day's end

there is a test i must pass

a reflection of what my life has amounted to

reminiscence on what i have done

there is but one question to be answered

"what will he think,

this man in the glass?"

would he be pleased?

would he approve of things i had done?

what would he say,

the man in the glass?

could he speak with pride about me?

when the sun has set

there is no one but he and i

this man who follows me about

watching my every move

it is he i must live with

and he alone, this man in the glass

before i can sleep

there is one final test i must pass

when i see him, the man in the glass

can i look him in the eye?

gemini

there are times in our lives where we encounter others who are nearly a reflection of ourselves. they may be warped into forms completely separate from our own, a different gender or diverse abilities and interests, and sometimes this makes them difficult to recognize. but i believe that regardless of what may come, nothing can stop us from crossing paths with these remarkable individuals.


i think i've had the incredibly fortunate experience of chancing upon several of these people, those who are like twins to me, and spending a great deal of time with them. they have helped me grow, and continue to shape me.

but there are times where i feel that these, my twins, are more alien to me than most others. they, who i feel can read my thoughts at times, have become persons unknown to me. we are strangers with an intricate knowledge of each other.

and then, moments pass where i feel as if we were born of elements from the same soul, crafted to be one and the same but split apart through the tests of life. it is in these instances i relish, reveling in the sweet poetry born of them. they show me it is as if we were at one time utterly identical but time and trial had taken its toll, changing us, but not breaking us. we still match, joining together in perfect harmony, but we have shifted into a symphony rather than remaining clones of one another. parts of us accent others, and some negate each other, uniting to create a masterpiece of prodigious proportions.

but then the elegance fades and we return to our illusory world, believing that what existed is unattainable and, even if we had achieved it, it would be beyond the realm of possibility to accomplish it again.

i reject the chimerical existence given to me and challenge the fallacious reality that surrounds us. i choose more.

i choose rapture.

complexity

for some time now, i have participated in the fruitless and futile endeavor led by men to understand our counterpart species: women. these intricate creatures have the most extravegant thought processes, capable of racing through a variety of topics in just a short amount of time.

i must admit, i have spent time behind enemy lines, so to speak. so much in fact that i've somehow formed a splinter sect that cannot be categorized either as male or female. i simply stand alone.

as a maverick, i have been allowed to delve into this deep, malicious sea of swirling, grim thoughts and endless feminine confusion. these stormy waters are treacherous, and I have found they have been plaguing women for many years. i admire them for their daring perdurance, but their tenacity seems to be capable of going only so far.

our modern world has inflicted a canker of inadequacy on them, and it grows as a rot in their minds. the corrosive words that surround them are as a shroud of darkness, threatening to destroy. and there are instances where the contention is too much to bear and surrender becomes an attractive option.

but i implore you to endure. the night is always darkest before the dawn. there is always hope, always the promise of the coming light. we must suffer trials and hardships in our lives before we can partake of the sweet fruit borne of them.

our women are incredible. they fight an unjust battle and, at times, they fight it alone. and that is more commendable than any other achievement i find conceivable. this is my tribute to them.

oddity

a strange revelation: people actually read my blog? i can't say i appreciate the pressure when i am told that some have come to the absurd conclusion that they find it intriguing, but let it be noted i am most definitely grateful for the support.

something else i find curious is that i only have a vague recollection of writing anything on this page. most of it seems as if it were crafted from nothingness, or simply summoned by an unknown entity.

whoever it is, this creature who lurks in the shadows, i hope that it lingers for a bit longer.

envy

i cannot tell a lie, i've always been jealous of my sister's easy way with words. in whatever writings she conjures up, there exists a magnificence that i eternally attempt to imitate and i will evermore fall short of her splendor.

but nevertheless, i will strive to scale this massive mount of brilliance, if only in the hope that i will ascend high enough to barely glimpse the radiance of her works. it is a vain hope, but it is what anchors me to this endeavor of creation within the bounds of script, an essay of poetic prose.

however, i fear that this aspiration is my undoing. my method of soaring language and words lathered in embellishment is a repellant, chasing away any who might stumble upon what i have written.

without a guide in this sphere of thought, i will continue in my loquacious manner, if only to continue writing for my own purposes.