The first, and hopefully not the last vlog. (Black and White)

Excuse the incoherent ramblings, what's a cluttered mind to do?

Man on the Moon (The Doctors part II.)

After receiving a Vegan Eating pamphlet and a series of HPV shots, I'm not terminal. The car ride home, was a different story. Decidedly, I'm come to self diagnosed myself with an inferiority complex that I keep ranting on about. Now for the ones on the outside of the white pickett fence, I am going to try to explain this as best as I can.
Imagine drowning in the most respectful way. Your last breath are on display, fogging up the window as the crowd cheers on. You've somehow wandered onto this stage, and now find yourself wondering the height of the fall. When you're not busy gasping for air you find yourself slipping under, as you grow tired of resisting. You see, I hold myself captive to these unattainable standards and unpickable roses. I want, I want, I want, yet I never have achieved the altitude to do so. I wish for strands even, of bleeding normalcy but any trace of well being I have ever been granted has taken euthanization; if not by myself than by the sewn seeds of you destructive fiends. Bent, rusted and incapable to feel, it's not to hard to minuscule when the view from the window is yesterday's grey. Don't reach for the stars, because if you miss you still land among the moon. And the moon my friend, the moon is alone. The moon is barren, and frigid and left to orbit in the black, it wallows in its own dark. When the stars come out, no light is shone, and even lesser is felt. The cratered surface, emotionless and unresponsive, mirrors the flat-line of my bedside electrocardiogram. There hasn't been a beat in a week, as I watch the meteor go by, rolling on a closed eye. In unsustainable temperatures, hope freezes to dust. Ashes to ashes dust from dust, watch your shoes at the site of the implosion.

Lay me down

I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow.  Now I don't fear vaccines, because let's face it, with the mind's ever-darkening and cynically cycled thoughts, I've injected worse into my body. What I have been doing though, is a bit of fantasizing. A Clockwork Orange and excessive sleeping hardly creates a barrier for the active mind. My thoughts have reduced to a roux of sinful scenarios I'd surely try on for size. Suppose the deterioration of the life and yearnings of my bones were as matte as tomorrow's eggshell sky.  The bells and whistles inside, the rust into blood as it begins to freeze over. With a terminal illness, I am free to retire unto my own gear's rot. I am going to let myself indulge in this truffled notion for only a few moments, but I will spend a lifetime is search of being comfortably numb. The act of termination itself is a windowless and dismal trench, weighted heavily of shakily written last words to carry across a message that will never truly be received. However, an end of great certainly is ventilated by a promise. Give me a reason to live, give me a reason to die. Living on borrowed time, I would have a painted excuse of why the cogs stopped spinning. There would be no light, illumination the bottom of Mariana's Trench, but that would only further salt my wounds, but whose to say I don't love the pain. The weakness would be my strength as the blackness slowly spread, taking me with it. If you can grant me this frailty, and the monstrosity, then open the doors because I've had this ticket my entire life. Strike a match, and just tell me when.

Sunday

I don't know why I haven't done this yet. 

In my alphabet soup of existence, it turns out today is Sunday. 

And Sunday, just happens to be the day PostSecret updates the Sunday secrets. 

Late into my nights of social introversy, I was a drifting 11 year old who stumbled upon this website, and instantly clung to it with everything I had. Which incidentally, wasn't much but a collection of mismatched colored pencils and an unfairly premature case of acne. The sole concept of this website is marinated in what I think to be a flavorful mix of anonymity and vulnerability, much like us 'confused youth', as according to the study at some redeemable university where everybody wears polos. 

Beings of whom's ankles are bound and tied of tiring secrecy, release such monsters unto intricately decorated postcards, and are sent to the author of the site, as feathered and colored exotic birds, shed of their cages and released on Sunday.

It's liberating to know that you're not alone, and as cliche as that sounds, this website does just that.

Because we all really truly are a bunch of conceited and albeit marvelous fucks.

http://www.postsecret.com/

I know you will click the link. You can thank me later.

^ an example of the gems you'll find there.

 

Curtain Call

Okay, I've simmered down.
Here we go.

I am utterly repulsed by all of you. Myself included, because I don't believe in hypocrites. Basted in ignorance, we walk around in infested skins, purged with battery acid and Starbucks. And everyday, we return to our cookie cutter houses and whiten teeth. With million dollar souls come million dollar smiles, so smile baby because the road to hell for us, is paved with diamonds. We've been raised on the taste of rose gold, infused with only the finest grade A cruelty. With even fingernails, polished to torturous perfection dig into the backs of the next one. Deep enough to harm, but not enough to kill. We stop at blood for the sake of the show. Because how fun is the murder scene if it's  all said and done before the popcorn? So bleach the whites of your eyes, until they shine like the pearls around your neck, because it's showtime.

Today is not good.

This post is a tad early today because I couldn't sleep, and I can tell I won't be able to for a long while. 

I can feel the cold as the blood in my body begins to freeze, and my bones are reduced to frigid and brittle cut-outs. And while I am being taken over by this repose that consumes me, I am not yet numb, still so very susceptible to pain. Rubbed raw from reality, the grip begins to loosen as I was always the kid who fell of the monkey bars. Helpless under the crushing weight of passing days, a quiet composure fractures. 

I don't even know what I'm thinking, I can't even get these words out right now.

I know what I'm trying to say, I just don't know how to say this. Or say anything at the moment. 

The razor edged tongues lash away at my insides, and vulture upon the rest of me. As I lay aside of the highway, my carcass on display for the passing cars lies about with eyes rolled back to the sky, watching for fate to toss over what's to become of this, what's to become of anything. I am consumed by the murk I begin to find inside myself, yet not surprised by it's presence as I have been rotting for ages. It's funny what the frail brushstrokes of an artist's hand can conceal, what concealer can hide, and what hider's can't seek. 

I really can't do this today, the words just aren't fitting together in my series of unfortunate events.

Just know, brittle bones shatter.  

Machinarum

Barred windows and shut doors. A glass casket and metal frames. It doesn't take much to be alone. It takes even less, to feel it. The chills from loneliness are much more below zero, and reverberate  deeper into the body because, unlike heartbreak, this can easily be accomplished all by oneself. When ingested, it merely sits in the back of your throat, with a coating of strange familiarity that I have become introduced unto. Often times I find myself staring at a blank screen of canvas, of wall, of nothing and wonder to myself if the blankets will ever be enough to warm of the lurking coldness I've cast. I don't have to be in a vestibule of confinement to feel lonely, often times it's with a room full of people. Yes, the piercing eyes and bared teeth smiles are quite assuring, to assure me that I have still managed to find a way to feel secluded when I am surrounded. Stapled, common logic does fiat veritas, as it is hard to enthrall much anymore when the system has manufactured you to be numb; when all that moves your rusted blood is a series of cogs and levers.

The Giant

It seems I've mentioned this figure before, but to be honest, I have no idea what was going on in my head at the time.
..The Giant? Yeah, I don't know either.
However, I have been eclipsed in a catalyst of though for a bit, and have come towards a few rugged scraps of realization. Here comes the piping hot bowl of metaphor soup again, because we all know how that's the only way I can function. I guess everyone has a giant, who just looks down upon them in pity; and severs the stems of any blossoms that bring even a remote ounce of joy into their lives. We are all held captive to the 1,000 foot man above us, (and no, I don't mean that in some archaic religion bullshit) and are only as bold as allowed. And just to show unto us that it will never be rose petals and chrysanthemum, we are brainwashed intravenous needles and sewage of the mind, sinking us deeper and darker into the mass hysteria we have conjured. None of the kids on the block lead life with a purpose anymore, but only abide the least harmful instrument of the torture chamber. But the way I see it is; these chalk dust lives we lead, I'd rather have ended by the foot of the superior in the midst of utmost defiance; in a blaze of open rebellion, as apposed to the gradual deterioration, sheltered under the Giant's shadow.

Sticks and stones

I still remember that I was 11. When I was 11, a woman named Wendy came into the classroom with 50 count watercolor paper and a giant, light blue book of Georgia O'Keefe. At the time, the least any of us cared about was the peppered surrealist artist, and more so of the mandarin oranges we had packed for snack time shortly after. Yet something from that day stuck with me. Something that's grown into this grotesquely adoration of mine. From the cool white surface, to the silent solitude, I find nothing more beautiful than bones. I love them to the point where everyday I wish they were protruding severely from my body. As the ivory arches are tearing the sewn threads of my chest, if the flimsy frame of my decaying body was held together by the the pearls of my skeletal structure, it will still never be enough. The pinpointed masses within of shape us, and offer the most beauteous quality of all. Skin and bones, bones as skin, let outward come within. I wish nothing more than to be reduced to the silver strands of it all.  

An Ode to Sonnets

It's about time you're fed something other than sloppily fastened paragraphs; not necessarily graceful, but at least it has structure.

                                          With crimson, with scarlets; they bleed, have bled

Strike through in beats, my hands; of an artist

A painting, my painting of words unsaid

lack breath, this masterpeice that I detest

Into abyss, I beg, let me regress

In my own dark pleasure I lay impaled

the dusk, she tempts me, too far to surpress

for at last I may sink; my ship has sailed

 In lust after sky, for my stars don’t shine

from the sun comes no warmth, what’s left to be?

set to erode, to darkness I confine

in riddance of self, in self I set free

Asked life unto grim, why we fear to die:

My tounge’s truth, yet your’s, a beautiful lie

Just wait for the anchor, to sink this ship

If there is anything more delicious than original sin, it could quite possibly be that some still try. We all know those few who are Mother Teresa in the public eye. Life, is a game of humility, and I'm sorry to say my friend, nobody comes out a victor. I have retired myself to the sidelines, to watch the last few of whom still believe all they need is a smile and their daily horoscope. I actually find it humorous that some cling to the thought that everything will in fact, be okay. Because in reality, it will never be okay. But it's not a matter of who comes out alive or not, it's whether or not you even survived at all. Which by the time you're tossed around a bit, and roughed up on the edges, won't even seem to be a priority. Now is the time to cleanse the wounds with the nearest hard liquor, and bite down on wood because who ever said 'it's only up from here', has never been to the abyss. However, I do see a spark of hope in the eyes of the virgins of the jaded, that assume their existence is even merely absorbed by the others. Care, is the stuff of Hallmark cards, and is only exuded when televised. This small flame however is quickly put out, as even the very notion of hope is blasphemous.  I've seen time and time again, ships, crash willingly and eagerly into shores, knowing that after the lighthouse, there's nothing to become of them. I have come to conclude, that nothing matters, and neither does anybody else. As much as we run to preach from mountaintops, just because deep down we all know that anything means nothing, when nobody can hear. In this beauteous shipwreck of life, the only one we would even consider saving is ourselves, but don't tell the others that. The small fraction of enlightened though, know to bring a sweater because in the darkest trench of the sea, it's freezing. 

Aisle 2, second shelf to the left

I have absolutely no idea what the fuck I'm doing. The words that come out of my mouth, or sentences that flow through my hands, are nothing more than stranded mix tapes or the residual of aged and dying thought processes. I don't think I'm witty, and I don't think I'm gifted, but all I know is I have enough sense on what is social taboo or what should be said, and I reject  it, and instead I project my own series of tasteful obscenities, in hopes of the long awaited corruption of the chaste slices of Wonderbread we identify as. Because how long can a person hide behind figures of speech, until they implode? If I were to bathe in pearls, and speak as if I was attending a perpetual cocktail party, my greatest achievement in life would be that I died; nonetheless my grave would be adorned with a petty salad of flowers. I am not afraid to say what I do because I refuse to put my head down quietly, and will not sit down in the pews, because if we govern a control unto our words, what's left to be said? I don't fear society or rejection anymore, and will go out blazing. Sadly, I do not feel the same notion for the most of you, of whom mild cordiality is all you have ever summoned up. In a delicately odd way, what I have feveriously produced is more private than public, because what really lurks behind the intricately woven metaphors and vaguely delicious comparisons? As a cry for help is best laid to rest on a bed of words, strewn unto moot ears. Now you may advance, and please do, stock up on your life time supply of white bread.

Catcher in the rye

Everybody has their irrational fears.

Mine, is being happy.

No, I don't mean I frown upon all of the goodness and Ryan Gosling in the world, but on a more sociopathical note. As we've all heard from massive flocks of elderly, what goes up must come down. And that's precisely what I fear most.

Coming down.

We breathe until we don't, we're happy until we're not. And the way I see it, is everything is, until it isn't. Honestly, what even is 'happiness'? Some fleeting emotion, and something I've learned to never put trust into. Something so papery thin just can't seem to support the weight of all the burdens of hope we cling to. Because things may be going all rose petals now, but I know that all flowers die. I so badly want to have even an ounce of the stuff, but as soon as I do I am reminded of the dangers of stark reality, because nobody wants to live in the real world. And as hard as we will ever try, there will always be that one thing that rips our heart out before us, and forces us to watch it beat, glistening red with desire in the light. Believe me, I want so badly to have the privilege to know that yes, I will be able to stick this one out, but it's not terribly long before around comes the giant to pick all of the flowers.

   

Life on the pedestal

We're a bunch of losers. Goldfish crackers and Ritalin. In a way, I find it to be pathetically funny. We are blinded by our ignorance to see that we are just as bad as the lies we eat and the lies we feed to the next, in hopes of some social accomplishment. I could quite possibly be the poster child to say our near meaningless existence is equivalent to the most corrosive acid I can think of. With precision-cut remarks, intoxicatingly sweet enough to dissolve to any cavity, sending a blinding pain to the root of the tooth, because we are all just so morally correct here up on the pedestal. Am I the only one who's skin begins to burn as they witness an oozing matching set of, "Oh my gosh, no you're so pretty!" *cue decibel melting shrill*. If I took anything away from the premiering years of our lives, it was in fact that if you're not soul-crushingly obedient to thy neighbor then you're going to hell, right? Well this only applies when there is a genuine adoration between two (like that happens anymore) not when they're just another kill above the mantle.

Rinse, but you won't be repeating

Injecting an already toxic mix of insomnia and anxiety, it's not like I was planning for sleep anyway.

So, I have to say I wasn't entirely surprised by violently waking up from an emotionally dense dream. Yet the subject of which, was a tad off from the usual 'monsters under the bed' spiel we are spoon fed at ages four to six. To keep things bluntly, through the darkened haze of the last undertones for my dream, suicide seemed to be the guest of honor. And not the self-righteous proclamation activism kind. While I will keep disclosed of whom the act pertained to, I feel this deserves a white girl blog post in itself. In a what may be socially unacceptable way, I believe nothing in existence does not contain even a minuscule ounce of beauty. Cast in a very lately, broadened shadow, there is an aspect of nobility in a dignified and sweetly macabre way. But we're all a bunch of sick fucks, so doesn't our youth allow of to admire this fleeting appreciation while we  still can? Even though this is still regarded as a controversial topic, but for us angsty vigilantes we set a few fires and watch them burn because controversy in our middle name, and we revel in defiance. But it is time to pay our respects to what an artist would call, the final masterpiece. I mean we work our whole lives up to death, so it has to mean something? And if your last ambition is to create the most breathtaking piece your life will ever amount to, then one should be allowed passionately create and destroy until a beautiful monstrosity of damage. Damage beyond repair, but not beyond the restless eyes; hungrily watching, of this messed up bunch. Yet, what comes to play darker cords is that the pigment of our dreams are induced by what was previously in the wash cycle of our tumbling, tangled and tormented minds.

And the crimson flows freely

We can't see it, but it's always there. But when it does rise to the surface, there is usually more behind it than broken capillaries. I may or may not have sliced my leg possibly shaving  with a hypothetical razor in my hypothetical shower this morning, but I have found that the bold redness has almost an alluring quality. Our blood, a dirty mix of our shame, beauty and all our ungrateful faults makes us the ingloriously glorified pathetic souls we claim to be. Nevertheless, the crimson flush signals we are alive, even if we choose not to believe so. Paths traced over, and over again, serve as reminders of something of an imminent inescapability. The blood that flows through us can host a range of emotion, making sure we feel every last possibly ounce of what happens to be being washed over us. Be it bliss, darkness, or most commonly despair, we are ensured vulnerability to it in the fullest extent. And because of this, we are forced into the most brutal corner of our existence.
 Yet in such a way, it is morbid how I find pain to be the most beautiful of all human emotion in awe of the hopeless power it hangs over us all; betrayed by the very blood in our veins.

Don't swallow any seaweed

If I've learned anything from watching an unhealthy amount of Netflix, is it's never like the movies. Death, is glamorized in quite a celebrious fashion. A handful of pills, mass produces the young, beautiful corpses of the cliche Hollywood cool kid today. Live fast, die young, don't eat, and above all always keep the Amitriptyline on the night table, right?  I mean, aren't we all worthless if we don't die with smiles plastered on? Close your eyes, and try not to swallow any seaweed on the way down, because that's what it's all about. If you're not dead yet, you're obviously a walking Jesus Christ himself.  So go preform some miracles and heal the blind and shit, because honey, we are all as ugly as we seem. In our headstone houses; the wasted away whites and diet coke heads, waiting for the next televised funeral of the size zeros. Now hurry, because those pills come in come in five new colors and cherry flavor too. Try not to make too much noise, but a spoon of sugar makes the cyanide go down much easier.