Dismay

Hello, Stranger.

I've seen your face before, though what it hides, I no longer know. Nor want to know.

I make no claims to your predilection, your desires, or your needs. I have no interest in your ambitions or accomplishments. All you have that piques my interest, is a subtle ripple in my web.
You are animate in your examinations, and you have such vigour when you think you're right.

But imagine the future, that burning, bright end of times. And imagine yourself in it. Will you bask? Or will you burn? Are you assured in your position, or will you jostle, fight, and rave?

Do you see yourself there? Or are you like me, and see everyone else as they shall be, but our own lot, strangely missing?

What is it that you see, Stranger? And does it dismay you?

22

So I turned 22 today while sitting in the tech room at work.
By all accounts is was a fairly mediocre day, though I am happy to be home now.

I'm trying to think of the proper colloquialism for how I'm feeling right now.

"Man, my dogs are barking."

"Fuck, I'm fucking tired as fuck."

"Hair on a bobbin, old bunt. Hair on a bobbin."

Relief

There is, perhaps, nothing and no one that can reach me here.

There's but three things in this place.
There's the Sun, and it sits before me.
There's the Sea, and she sits beneath me.
There's the Sky, and he floats above me.

This is invariably where I end up, when I'm not paying attention, and I float away.
I sit, a tiny island adrift and between three grand and endless things. And upon my lap sits a book that writes, and sometimes I write in.
Many times, I will open it. Many times, I can feel my innards recoil at what I read.
Sometimes, I'm afraid to open the book. It's the lens through which reality is bent. There are times when I can make it seem straight and true. And others, it warps, grows wide, grows distorted.

Sometimes, I will sit and draw in the book. The lines never come together coherently, but then again, neither has anything we've ever made.

And there is, in this place, now four things. For when I leave, the book remains.
It grows ever longer, and in this place, it becomes as a feeling does - beginning small and spreading outwards.

It grows, basking in the sun. Bathing in the sea. Witnessing the sky.
And it is like me when I write in it. Asleep, but somewhere else.

Disappointment

I'm tired. And perhaps a little drunk, as I write this.
Maybe it's the only way I will write, when my inhibitions have fled, and all sense of my world has disappeared, and only the fundamental truths remain.

I'm disappointed by the way things have turned out. I've worked so hard with my goals. None of them have come to fruition. I have no idea where I'm going, and I have no idea who's going to be there when the final curtain-call comes, and I'm to fall on someone else, or never rise again.

I honestly think that I'll be alone when that dire call comes. I'd like to think I'm alright with that, and given a few hours sleep and the daylight, I probably will be. But right now, I'm not. I'm not alright with the fact that I can't count on anyone to be there when I need it. I'm not alright with the notion of self-confidence, when we're in a social society that's built around human interaction. Without it, there would be no relationships, no marriage. There'd be no love. Everything would be... just business as usual.

And this is, by and large, all I see. My eyes are crossed when nobody's looking, and I'll often zone out and just find myself in a different place. It's not a good place, nor a bad place. It's a place in my mind where I go when I'm just tired of reality, tired of everything people are putting up to avoid being realized. Avoid being revealed for the shallow husks that they really are.

I'd like to imagine it as a place where things are honest, but even then, it's not. It's just a place to pass the time. All the time it'll be until finally, I won't have to imagine that everyone's lying and I can honestly trust people again. It'll probably never happen, but even then I have no way of knowing.

I've tried very hard to become all that I've wanted to be. But in the end, I'm asking myself what the point was. I could be nice, or I could be rotten. The distinction is paper-thin, and really, nobody cares one way or the other, provided they get everything from me what they expected.

Perhaps that's it then. Perhaps what I'm looking for is someone like me. Someone who's looking for nothing. And eventually stumbles upon everything.

Please, a doctor or a bed; I care not which

I'm amazed by quackery.

But even moreso by individuals' willingness to buy into it wholesale.
Lord help me if I develop a serious medical situation and I'm left to be treated by the new-age homeopaths and "old-medicine specialists."
Very likely, I'd be stuffed with Thyme and bathed in authentic sea-salts, while simultaneously being pin-cushioned with wooden spikes to "release my body's healing energies."

Or worse yet, I'd be deemed a vessel for malignant possession, and subject to exorcism by a three-ring circus.

Given how most people have exactly zero understanding of how the body works, I'm extremely hesitant to use or endorse any means of naturopathic/homeopathic/old-medicine remedies. There's absolutely nothing magical about how the body functions and heals itself. We've been building our understanding of medicine for more than a millennia now, and for it all to be tossed on the wayside thanks to a miserable mistrust of doctors is, for lack of a better word, madness.

So, on the account to preempt any forthcoming medical advice, if you're not a doctor - and by that I mean a real doctor, not some loony-fuck in a white coat, kindly close your mouth and spare me this misery. If I'm ill, I'd like to see either a doctor, or a bed. I care not which, but nothing else either, if you please.

I am, Mr. President, I am

They had the presidential debate on the multitude of TV's we have at work. I seem to be falling ill, as the statements issuing from Obama and McCain came across as just a series of muddled monotones; their only differentiating features a change of pitch and reverb.

"Wah, wahwahwah, wah wah wah," says Obama.

"Waah. Wahwahwahwahwah, wah wah," replies McCain.

I scratch my head, which at this point feels like a fishbowl replete with carp.

"So, what do you think Geoff? Do I detect a rant coming on?" says one of my co-workers, winking slyly.

"I think... I think it's time for me to be going home," I reply, deflecting the notion. I could rant. I could fucking spit, but really. This isn't the time for my diatribes. I'd rather just say "Hey, I did my part. Whatever else happens, fuck it and see."

And then I will look on perplexed, as people begin manically fucking everything in sight. So it goes.

Giclée

You will love me, because I make you pretty pictures.

But you will hate me, because I never share any with you.
Share, share.
And fair's fair.

Give me something.
And I'll compare.



p.s. - I've decided that instead of restricting how many of my posts are visible, I'm going to utilize a door instead. If you don't like what you're reading, the door is there. Use it.

Melancholy

I've been hearing about it a lot lately.

I know too many people who've had dreams since they were a kid, and since that childhood, they've been told to set their goals to make their dreams into reality.

It's such a goddamn farce. It sickens me to see this happening. So many people are imagining the way things should be, and then they're forlorn because they're not. They thought it was as easy as going to work for 40 hours a week, and suddenly, everything would come together.

Nothing's ever so simple. I mean, I've walked down the same path. I went to start my career almost two years ago this day. I walked away from that career a year later, never to return. I had thrown away my life savings, my life at home, and eventually, my health, on some crazy gamble that I might be able to create something worthwhile through a sheer exertion of effort.

It wasn't so simple. But still nobody has the heart to tell that to the generations that are coming after us.

Our grandparents left us a world bereft of unity, our parents, one bereft of hope. Now we're stealing from our children a world with any meaning.

I can imagine that in 10 or 20 years time, the largest medical pandemic in North America will be a psychological one. It's not a stretch to say there's a whole generation of young adults right now who've just... given up.

And it's only going to get worse.

Bite Marks

In case you've not noticed yet, I'm not you, nor do I want to be.

It's been a long week. And it's only Tuesday, bordering on Wednesday. Fancy that.
It's been a long week, largely because I've continually been shoved from one pigeon-hole to the next. Like a bad pair of shoes, or perhaps a poorly-advised orphan, I've been filling a lot of roles. I'm a jack-of-all-trades by nature, so I'm alright with that.

What I'm not alright with, however, is expectation. Not since I was a child have I held any high aspirations. I'm content to dabble and dribble and get my fingers into all sorts of pies. But I've never been ambitious, nor skilled, enough to be the master of any particular domain.

So you can imagine my frustration when said masters of their domains are crawling up my ass when I'm not meeting their high expectations. It's old hat, I know. But I feel the need to gripe on this particular evening because it's overly warm, and I'm bored.

I'm up to my eyeballs with people who see everything through themselves. We were constantly taught as kids to explore perspectives. It's not at all hard to imagine now that prejudices are rampant because, like every other lesson we were taught as kids, this one was conveniently discarded.

Drama, drama.

And so. I am not you.