Inventor?

So honestly, this is… strange. I’ve started writing more of my thoughts down onto paper as oppose to typing them down on here, but I’ll see if I can’t cross the bridge by copying down something I wrote Tuesday (the 8th) and looking back to see if the theme of my writing snipets is seamless.

 

I’m realizing what it means to be sensual. I always thought that the word simply meant the sensation caused by sexuality, but I think that it’s the other way around now.
On the way home from Starbucks with my dad, I was listening to Chopin and trying to figure out how anything at all is relevant. It was raining in short bursts loudly onto the windshield, and I thought to myself, “Self, what if a hurricane so sudden as to give no warning just burst onto the Southern Coast and decimated the United States? Hell, what if some disaster just destoryed the entire population of people, of all animals even?”
I guess I might be looking for some hope or optimism in my intrinsic existentialist views. Everything just seems so futile, because destruction looms like a great falcon, waiting to wipe out its prey, being any progress and life what so ever, completely. I’m not surprised that Sylvia Plath killed herself by sticking her head in an oven: If I were to get to that point, I’d want my brain and its nihilistic eccentricities to be the first thing gone as well. I guess I’ve been having a lot of trouble with the conviction that, honestly, there just may be no point to life.

So instead, I started to not think, to simply feel. I don’t mean feel as in intuition – but my senses, the facets that our human prototypes all have in common. I’ve been to a lot of movies where aliens try to figure out a human’s capacity to “love”, but I think that’s bullshit – people don’t necessarily even fall in love with each other, but simply an ideal. I think that an extraterrestrial, if missing the ability, would be most puzzled by the Earthling’s ability towards sensation.
This all makes me question the consistency of “God’s creation theories”. We can feel for the same reason that animals can feel – because of our brains. but then how can plant life be related? There’s no missing link, no plant with a brain, nor animal with the plant’s ability to consume CO2 for life.
This realization makes me feel like there must be some sort of creator, and he’s clever as fuck. I think he’d even appreciate the thinkers who question his existence, because it proves that his creation has advanced thought to even that point. It rather makes sense if the human body is considered an allegory for the atom, the brain being the nucleus and our parts being the functioning organelles.

Shit – I think I just found God. Not in the sense of the Roman Catholic Deity, or really anything else. I believe in an Inventor, and in fact that’s what I’ll call him. This may even be a facade for me to identify with, thinking of myself with creative characteristics and reflecting it onto a divine surface, but this makes sense to me. It also gives me a reason for life: We are created merely to exist, and to pregress, not for some greater purpose. Not everything that happens is the Invertor’s will, but he has the power to change the world’s status and systems. I have no idea for origin, and I don’t really want to think of one – now that I have created some purpose for myself, I don’t want to lose it. Basically, it feels like we’ve all been dreamed up into existence, not a part of some master plan, but a mutation of a simple catalyst – I’ll see what I can do to keep this belief, but I’m forced to wonder if these are the same kind of inspirations where all the bigotry and prejudices of the current churches originated…

I wonder if I’m losing touch with reality at the moment, or if I’ve finally made contact

 

——

 

So a mere day or more later, I’ve lost that same feeling for a deignated “inventor” or “creator” – it’s just nice to think that there’s a plan to follow, instead of so much progress being made for the sake of progress. I’ve found some peace with the first little bit though – it has been easier to appreciate all manipulation of the senses and perception. Even those man made create such a stimulating, however pugnant, stimulation of these senses. So I no longer have some great person in the sky to call my Lord, but I do now have a goal as to life: to appreciate sensation. I try to experience things of the utmost beauty, and though it may seem selfish to try and gain these things as somehow personal in item (don’t even get me started on property and ownership ideas), what’s the point of something being made to exude beauty and progress if it’s not to be appreciated? If the colors of the world are vibrant even when there are no people to appreciate, is there still beauty? I think that beauty is really something that stimulates the senses the most most, as well as satisfying the mind by being of logical thought and birth.

Circle

There’s a great wealth of knowledge to be had at your local coffeeshop and diner:
Not the people, who glare at you for writing in a public place
Or holding an unlit cigarette to your lips,
Practicing for the Great Outdoors;
It’s only partially the music that isn’t always playing,
Making way for the dozen or so conversations to overhear.
I don’t like to use words like “Introspection” and other bullshit
Coming straight from a Psych text book.
I guess the word I would us is Condescension.
Not much better sounding,
But it seems to better personify the atmosphere.
That’s all I do here:
Sit, thinking of ways I can justify what I will do.
Chicken and the egg, right?
I shock, therefore I am.

It’s the thousands of fights in my head,
The conversations that will never really happen.
It’s better that way though,
Because I win ever one of them
To feed the ego of my dissension.
I know why I do the things that make me different,
And thusly,
I am set apart

The Circle of Fuckin’ Life.

5-Minute Break

There’s the sweet smell of dust and smoke,
A black sky,
And the harsh newness of reality.

Turning back to the steel snake
With a dry tongue on dryer lips,
Reason can take the backseat
For just a few more hours.

mistake? really?

i walk to a girl i’ve never met before. she’s sitting at a table with her headbuds in, some assortment of textbooks opened in front of her as she silently bobs along with the unheard music, dark brown hair pushed behind one ear and left shielding her face on the other. she holds a pen between her fingers at one end and between her teeth in the other, the writing instrument being rolled back and forth with those fingers, lazy and determined. she doesn’t look up as i sit across the table from her, she is too distracted by thoughts of what notes to write next. I look upside-down at the single sentence she has written and smile wistfully at her once I can recognize the question.

she sees me give her this understanding look, takes a single headbud out, and hmm?s at me curiously. i smile, point at her nearly bland paper, and answer, “I ask myself that all the time.” at this, she cocks an eyebrow and chuckles. She might have whipered aloud something along the lines of ok?, but I can’t tell for sure. so i look at her paper and read the question: Does anyone just love fall?

i stand up quickly, muttering some farewell to the girl i just met. it’s funny – i was sure the question was Does anyone just fall in love? Frankly, I think it’s much more important.

heroin(e)

the sounds of beauty, sobbing at the ground
to wipe away the broken gravestone’s gleam -
a trophy of a god-forsaken town
and tribute to the lonely lover’s dream.

to wipe away the broken gravestone’s gleam,
she tried to bring him back with cords of wine.
the tribute to the lonely lover’s dream:
a marker just behind, covered in grime.

she tried to bring him back with cords of wine,
with golden brown to fill a needle’s worth.
a marker just behind, covered in grime:
damned syringe before the gravestone’s earth.

the golden brown that fills a needle’s worth
is trophy of a god-forsaken town.
damned syringe begets the gravestone’s Earth,
the sounds of beauty, sobbing at the ground.

folder of long-lost memories

this is my answer to an assignment to make some sort of project (in my case a song) that reflects created reality and finding solace in slivers of truth. something tends to be lost without the music, but here the words are regardless.

come on in, have a seat, i hope you’re feeling well
i have so many things to tell you -
how you’ve changed,
how you’re wrong.
but let’s keep things light,
nothing too strong;
there are plenty of things to talk about
besides what a <dog> you’ve become

i was ready to file us under
my folder of long-lost memories,
a stupid relationship blunder
until you came back again.
so now i’m blocking your number
in the hopes that you might call anyway
and i can reply, “i’m sorry,
please don’t wreck me again.”

when you came, i was ready to fight,
to win at all costs.
my heart against yours, to seek and destroy,
but still you came in owning the place.
i know this time, if i let you in,
i can’t let you get very far
’cause i may have lost the battle,
but soon i’ll be losing the war

i suppose some thanks are due
for neuroses leading to thoughts
about love and death and popular things
to write silly songs about.
so i can’t risk you coming back,
no, i can’t afford to be happy -
if you break my concentration,
you will only break me again!

now, truth be told, it’s been some years, but
i know what happened
’cause i saw you dance and i saw your eyes
and i thought i saw you crying.
i know it’s easy to say if it’s not your fault then it’s mine,
so it must be your fault,
god, please let it be her fault now!

truth be told, it’s been some time,
but i still know what happened
’cause i saw you dance, i saw your eyes,
i know i saw you crying
it could be deadly to say if it’s not your fault then it’s mine,
so let it be your fault,
just say that it’s your fault now….

summer days…

this is something i wrote (and yes, did) back during august or so – i’m dating myself here

— 

I write this to pass time, in anticipation for mom to fall asleep, so I can again steal the car and sit at an empty booth in KD’s, the tips of my fingers gently touching above a cup of coffee on the table, eyes shooting back and forth to see if anyone’s noticing me, but there’s no real reason to. I don’t know why I continue this ritual, but I do….

It’s been just over a week since the program ended, my fifth and final summer, but I’ve already become something of a deviant. Getting high, hanging around with a girl that I find repugnant, but lonely enough so that when she asks what I want to do, I just close my eyes and pretend I’m happy, though it’s just so I don’t have to look at her gaping hole of a mouth and round face, hair dyed orange and chopped off so that it’s shorter than mine. But I put my face forward, and I nuzzle my nose next to hers. I can’t stand to move any closer because my stomach is turning against me, but she moves her face forward and I feel her rough tongue dart into my mouth like a probe, my meekly giving in. I know I won’t be able to stand it, but I keep my eyes shut and place my hand on her stomach, slowly going down…. barely inching, not with excitement, but because I’m scared of what I’m trying to do. As my fingers go farther and I feel the slightly rough patch of hair that I’ve been dreading, she grabs my hand and pulls it up back to her stomach.

“I like how you’re trying to sneak into my pants, asshole!” She says, slightly hysterical with disbelief and probably still from being stoned. Hysterical because this is the first time I’ve agreed to come with her for twilight kidnapping from my house. I lie there next to her, trying to think of a nice way to say that I’m ready to leave, there’s nothing left for me here, that as a person, she’s toxic. After a few minutes, I finally move my lips.

“It’s late, I should really be heading home.”

“Alright…. Are you sure? We could stay here…”

“Yeah, I’ve…. got to be somewhere in the morning, early. I have to drive my mom to and from a doctor’s appointment, they’re giving her a sedative…” It was true.

And I don’t remember the car ride very well, but well enough to know that I remembered it more than I did on the way to her house, still floating from the pipe in her dashboard. I know that we didn’t talk the way back, until right outside of my house.

“Hey, umm…. do you just want to sit here and, I don’t know, make out or something? Hehehe.” She lets off her high-pitched squeal of a giggle to try and make it seem like a joke, but her eyes are hopeful.

“No, I should just get inside… See you later.” And I slam shut her door.

I’m disgusting. I’m completely and totally enthralled by what I did, and what I almost did…. No amount of substance can justify my actions. All I want is for somebody to come and give a damn, without excuses for being there.