So You Want to Die?

There was a time in life when you were in control of it all, you were a promising young man, with the world in front of you. You commanded reality, and joy seeped through your pours, at a time where poor didn't matter, because you guided reality and steered it to your liking. Poor and potential, only temporary words to kickstart greatness to be unveiled.

You were in the driver's seat of endless potential, the word itself was a badge of honor, measured by the lazy description of "so much" by those who witnessed the flame you carried. The embers of control boiled your blood, everything was such a rush, every minute a celebration of what YOU would become, the promise of YOU rushing to blossom. How stupid we are in our youth, when we know it all.

One day colors became obscure, and potential became a dream of the past, a reflection of the days of youth, everything was a blur, or an enslaved thought, to what could have been and what never will be, and in these days you clutched to thy endless knowledge, and thy fire, and THY sense of worth.

You learned about the world, and how dark it could be, how wrong things were, and how you would change it all. You always wanted to put the pain on your back, to carry the burden so others never felt the pressure of sorrow and madness. At times, you prayed to any God who would listen, to let you, and all your strength carry the load, too proud and too strong to succumb to weakness and the like.

And when you fall short of your dreams and aspirations, the fairy tale of a child phenom who shakes mankind and resets the scale of right and wrong, you want to die, to put the empty and worthless to rest.

"Well I should kill myself?" You'll say, because the world is bitter, steeped in commercialism and "Pop", and all of the people, wasting space and wasting minds will not listen, and will not bow, to the prodigy of you, and the greatness you bestow. The mediocrity will sicken you, because in the land of legends, people fall short, and you realize you live in times of dullards and pawns, those begging to be slaughtered without any knowledge of self or the power of the mind.

And whoa is you, and all of your misery, dealing with the terrible nights in heated rooms and endless feasts. And pity yourself for the horrible nights you spend smoking pot or drinking away all the pain. How merciless this God must be for you to suffer intellectual nights describing the mentality of man the the music that perks his ears. What a miserable existence it is, driving cars and chasing girls, sparking nuanced religion and debating the economic fundamentals only the rich knew how to spell only a few generations ago.

And whoa is you poor soul, in your ability to connect to a stranger across the world in the blink of an eye, and the terrible moment when you realize you can learn an alien culture overnight, or teach yourself a language, or learn thousands of years of History through your ancestors eyes, and find any answer at the tip of your tongue with the click of a mouse.

So die, and die you should, because the world will not recognize you as a great thinker, as a Shepard among the aimless flocks, same in the flesh but empty in their souls. Who could bear a life where you are the only one who is right about everything and has seen it all? Oh misery! Medicate and die, die slowly, kill the pain and let it all turn black in a romantic and perfect moment.

Race to the place where the is no God, because he has been dis-proven, abandon free will for the comfort of darkness and the infinite knowledge you hold. Oh you will live on, because your mind is so great and the world to small, you are infinite, and you know it, but nobody else does, so walk in eternity and perfection through the welcoming of a bullet, or a rope, or the thin slit up the arm's river.

What a terrible life, and it must end. The soldiers and the sick, helpless rape victims and the children without parents or food, who have spent every day thirsting or hungering for a day to live and not slowly die, how easy they have it, and how hypocritical they are to stay alive. Prisoners of war who hold on the face of a girl or the promise of a fresh breath, how wickedly they deserve to live and you to die. How harsh this life has been to you, modern bastard.

The stories and the adventure, it is all so fake, it's all so unreal, and all that exists is pain then death, so face it, because you know this is right, because you know it to be true.

And they will all weep, and wonder what could be done. Thy father will never forgive himself and thy brother will live the rest of life in misery. How they deserve to wonder for their rest of their being what they could have done to change thy path and to better thy world. The aching heart of a mother decades later, crying for days and days, she will get over your death, until she doesn't, ever.

How important you must be to ruin the lives of those who love you, because you are so un-worshiped, by them. By God, how they deserve the live every day in the pain you feel, and question themselves like you question yourself. God dammit they deserve it don't they? They deserve the burden you created and the mess you leave, God dammit they deserve it all, because they cared for you the whole time, even though you didn't care for yourself.

So die, and die you should, you selfish lump, because you are afraid of trying to live, and taking the chance to be what you are, and what you were always meant to. We all die soon enough, but don't take your time, because if you do, you might be convinced life isn't so bad after all.

Solitude

There's a place unknown to most, and few seek, the comfortable breast of solitude; between the frosted mountains and mist laden hills of nowhere Ohio, or nowhere Wyoming, or Nowhere, Anywhere, something can be found or witnessed, if only for a moment. We change lives, change friends, and time, time we try to catch, or freeze, or understand, or change, but in this moment we let go. Lay down and roll in the grass, let go of describing the blades and dew and do, and be, and let everything around you be, as you only hope ultimately to left be and free.

The world will operate and turn and hurl into another time or another place, with or without you, so just for a moment let it run and stop the chewing or the spitting, let the irritation numb you, you will be soothed. In this moment do not tire, face it, live it, and do all your mind can to capture the time where vision is clear.

Drop the "I" or the "me" for one instant, and let a string of the ball unwind in your palm, some things cannot be described, regardless of the editor or deadline, the impression or message, be present in solitude. So many fears of loneliness, so many tries and cries for attention or witness to see what cannot be shared, only filtered through the fogged eyes of a restless heart.

There are events and actions, dreams and the like not meant for others, nor mentioned. The door is not infinitely open, so do not welcome others in, do not ask them to join, their presence will carry away the purity of the moment, so grasp and hold on as long as you can. It does not need to be written or understood or defined, this is absolute failure of a writer and redemption of a mind. We cry for something to reach down and touch us, to caress what ails us, but we run, hoping to find a commonality or a shelter from the unbeknownst workings of the very deity we beg to see. When the veil is lifted partially, we cower and hide, then peak our heads out again, hoping for the sensation to return.

Know this moment and bask in it's oddity, in the peculiar feeling of being alone, and bravely greet the message you were only meant to receive. Every day we ignore these moments, and try to explain them, or remember them, only to find they have moved on without us, but know that it was there in time, and so were you, then look ahead with wonder and patience for the next breath of life to pass through.

Pigs Off The Wing

Democrats, Republicans, Libertarians, Communists, Socialists, Tea-Party members, Working Families Party, Conservatives, Liberals, The Left, The Right. Anarcha-feminism, Mutualism, Platformism, Autonomism, Maoism, Marxist, Juche, Neoconservatism, Agrarianism, Monarchism, Fascism, Bioregionalism, Zapatismo, Agorism, Internationalism, Zionism, Theocracy, Dominionism,  Participism.

It's a Cluster-Fuckism. People can't even agree on definitions of their own socio-economic ideologies, let alone issues like legalization of guns, drugs, sex, books, words, hate, or anything else that attaches itself to personal freedom. Regardless of how morally correct one's individuality is, it's one of the few things we are born with, freedom in the absolute. Freedom to die at any moment, freedom to follow prophets, or the freedom to be the biggest piece of shit the world has ever known. From the moment we are born this natural freedom to merely exist is stripped away. We are taught the ways of the world by our parents, and as we become adults ourselves, we realize adults don't have all the answers simply because they are seasoned...they can seldom even provide one answer in it's absolute. We are indoctrinated through school, teachers, social norms, peers, television, etc. until reality becomes a constant onslaught of outside forces affecting and changing our minds. It's a constant assault and conditioning, with no end game. A $12 movie has been written, staffed, and conjured with the one goal of getting the consumer to buy that movie, but the symbolism, story-line and characters may damage a consumer permanently without intent. The human mind is fragile, it's something that after thousands of years of existence, we still can't comprehend, in many ways it is more alien to us, who control our own minds, than the depths of the ocean.

The volatility of modern political thought is not just a clash of civilizations or ideology, it's something more basic and not so fixable. We have dug ourselves into not just one hole, but many. We see pretty evident laws in nature that are explained by Science. We see in our daily lives that every action has a consequence, some good and some bad, but any action, puts something into motion. Our political moves domestically, our wars abroad and their affect on cultures we don't understand have all had lasting affects on this global society. Things have been put in motion without any real knowledge of what will happen as an ultimate consequence.
Our overly-complicated economic trickery has turned other nations into copycat economies, which have delineated so far from actual worth and trade, that the beautiful simplicity of economy and the merchant has now turned into an uncontrollable monster. Frankenstein economy.

I believe what we are seeing now across the world is a culmination of something we don't quite understand. We are almost instinctively dismantling society, all of the chaos, frustration, anger, corruption, all of it is reversing and destroying the post-industrial world. There are riots in Europe as their Euro collapses and entire countries are becoming enslaved to their debt. America is sinking into the ocean slowly, as the Middle East is in regional upheaval not seen since a post-Imperialist world of the 1960's. China and Russia only look unified in these times because they have been imprisoning political dissidents and making people disappear before it was the "hip" 21st Century thing to do.

We have lost ourselves as a people. Before the industrial era things were simpler, families were closer, we more actively survived the harsh nature of existence, there weren't people simply paid to do everything. What percent of this population do you think could go off, build a home, routinely make fire, hunt, garden, and fish to survive? Not just for a week or a day, as a way of life. We have turned ourselves into a helpless mound of flesh, that has everything and wants more, we pay no attention to things that matter in existence and dedicate all of our time to pop-culture and the lives of people we don't know, who generate money but do nothing great to move us forward as a people. It is unnatural, everything is so fake, and the frustration building is more than political differences, it's more than a jackass and a fatass arguing politics or red and blue. There is no Revolution, for that, there must be a majority in agreement, and that is nothing more than a myth these days. The only silent contract we seemingly agree to is self-destruction, and that is our Revolution. This is an upheaval of society, it's an overthrow of the shackles of Leviathan, and any government, any law, anything keeping us from tearing our world to pieces. To some, this may seem like a negative perspective, but to the Anarchist, it's quite uplifting.

.............Be? Cause. One is Guaranteed.

Coarse brick, painted over for a quick fix, but rust bleeds through the porous and forced adhesion, bound to crumble and be forgotten, touched for a moment and remembered for a life as the finger and thumb grind against grooves of original prints; the mind relaxes and all collapses without fear, without the sentimental grasp of memory or time.

Ask to be remembered and you shall, remembered as a jackal or jackass, a scornful beast or a lustful dud, a dude, crude, finding a rhyme for whatever it takes, committing a crime, raising the stakes, to matter. A lump of matter can't be forced to matter, it just is. Bouncing around, creating noises, gaining attention later unwanted, and judgement unneeded. With the right tone or clamor you could "make it", and good luck defining what it is you have made, because eventually, what matters, won't anymore.

Stop writing and read, stop talking and listen, stop fearing and bleed, stop listening and lead. Exist, feel pain, find comfort, let someone or something sooth you, because your anger and your whiskey won't release the tension of brick walls, cement mixed with sinew and grit. The cracks and pulls can take a break, the breaks and scars have built high enough, let them fall.

There is no point, no reason, no message meant to be combed through, and there doesn't always need to be, just let it be, just let it be. Breath, stretch, touch your surroundings, be present, just feel. It isn't always for entertainment, and there doesn't always need to be a point, there are enough points and words cluttering the air, so take it in, and let it do what it was meant to. It happens with or without explanation, or coaxing, or any of the other desperate attempts to let it be known. Breathe, the action itself is greater than the imperfect words you shuffle through to describe it. "But if I don't do it people won't see". You can lead the blind across a road no and again, but you can't restore their vision, hold their hand, take a few steps and walk away, especially when they aren't blind, but refuse to open their eyes.

Too much time wasted, looking at the screen, "what does it mean?" Someone will see, someone will say it was a waste of time, someone will be pleased, and someone else will try to figure out the writer while skipping over the words, good for them, it doesn't matter, it isn't even matter, just a blip, some imaginary way to showcase imagination, a .com version of paper that will fade even quicker.

Thoughts From the Mat.

It's dirty, painful, bloody, exhausting, and honest. The big wigs steep the canvass in lies and grime, their empty promises leak from crooked smirks, but beyond the paper, exists some of the purest elements of human emotion, physical development, and determination seen by mankind.

For a year, I hammered my wrists into place. "Und machine, und machine" I'd whisper over and over as I buried hooks into leather, I pulled myself through an aching body, constantly reminding myself the body is only my mind's machine to control. "Und machine, und machine, und machine" a brainwashing experiment, two words deafened skinned and broken knuckles, splintered fingers and swollen joints. I wore my most important human tools into blunt objects, purposefully callousing soft spots and banging fists against immovable objects, collecting scar tissue as a hobby.

There aren't too many places in reality where you find grins stained with blood, where the injured beg to continue, no matter how evident their defeat. In reality, when you don't like the way someone smirks it's unacceptable to saw off their teeth, but I found a place where that is encouraged. You hunt for weakness, prey on it, pray for it, frantically searching and prodding, looking for the right time to hurt whatever is in front of you. Someone may walk in one minute screaming "The champ is here!" and get mopped off the floor the next.

David and Goliath, dog fights, and chess matches, there's something for everyone. Some arrive with God, others with hate, and some just want to feed their babies, willing to sacrifice themselves to provide what some a mile down the road throw in the trash. Some are bored and curious, searching for a moment to feel alive, playing cards with Death as the Devil deals. For others, it is all they have ever known, the last or only chance to avoid the terrors of society, cold bars and dark hearts, feeding on the weak, an initiation where dreams are stomped out.

It's honest. It's a dance floor stained with tears and blood, covered by dust, where greats and fakes both trod fully exposed. You hear the echoes of champions, and stories from those who shook their hands or fell from their punishment. It's the realist thing, I have ever experienced, and I will never walk away.

Sorry Japan, You Just Got Roasted.

Japan. Overpopulation, typhoons, nuclear reactor disasters, atomic bomb catastrophe. Cramped hotels, people living on people, rejoicing in pollution and land slides, an island that abides by self destruction, a volcano eruption, children and slaves, whipped by sixteen hour days of study...it's cruddy, soaked in the bloody and muddy, gray skies, rainy days, and dead samurais. It's not bigotry it's imagery, painted by Panadas, rice, bamboo trees, and bad days with chemistry, it's misery.

Anime poisons, more Americans than a Blowfish Roll, comatose Ginger, shit's taken it's toll. Bunch of awkward kids, and two armed squids, shitting from their mouth, wasting time at Lids, with broke out faces, permanently sealed behind parent's places, tentacles reaching into spaces grasping for Yu Gi Oh cases, but finding dead air, bouncing foreheads off LG screens and the PlayStation's glare.

God must hate Japan, and I just can't blame him, he showed a old man there the path and he claimed that God shamed him, maimed him, the emotional wreck, cried out that Judo had trained him, but life had defamed his once noble craft, so you do the math, one steel sword and one pissed off Jap, he bent over sharp with his face in his lap, would have beheaded himself if he had crafted the trap. A small island of insanity, twisted vanity and strange talent, wait for the day a unicycle is valiant, and when a balancing act is worth the practice, anywhere else but the Fallen Circus of Axis.

For Better or Worse.

Truth is the most hidden, the most forbidden essence of all. Smells can be remembered, triggering waves of the past and all that came, or didn't, or may have twice, moments and conversations, connections and missed opportunities, or the right things to say, at the wrong times, at the most crucial hour and vulnerable breaths; death, and all that it opens, or closes waits...brakes busted, gears churning, a slide from the cliff into the inevitable, or the depths, of fear and love, opposing one another inside a bitter and dismal tango, where underdogs are real, losing battles most of the percent, only to make the one victory shine brighter than endless defeat, and impatient ascent.

Descent, into the cloudless days of gray and doubt, rhymes broken and found, strength sacrificed to be profound, to exist, or falsely claim being through sacrificial words, shunned feeling lost in the abyss of communication, a nation, divided by lines and the imagination of men assumed to be greater than those equal, living and working for different goals and tribulation, all to fall and rot in an unseen shadow, and fear of numb tranquility, forced confrontation, ground into the dirt and the common, where we will all lay together.

We shiver, we grasp, sometimes for air, or the secondary comfort of cotton lumps, remembering the people who broke the falls and supported the toll of life, a pillow cannot find you in your darkest days. Lay beside her, dine her, but do not love, as you may fright her, and all the comfort of clouds above will decide one day to shrug, a fall back to reality, but never beyond thyself and all the foundation missing from the first nail. Pale Ale, for a moment of clarity, and a morning of confusion, a gasp and sweat, last nights dream, a forgotten illusion, of what could have been or what could be, the aching rest of a full night of sleep.

Lost in an abortion, is the distortion, of reality, truth is fleeting from peers and sons, of those promised guidance by those whom are shunned. One day a prince, the next day a beggar, youth flutters away then dances in front, children someday, but tomorrow's a front, a game, a play, a feeling lost and found again, with every wrong emotion, or move, today's wife could be tomorrow's nightmare, and yesterday's love could be thy neighbor's bore, a whore, or the innocent girl next door, blossomed into perfection and left for dead twenty years or more, down the road where walkers are run over, by fast pace cars, of loud hums and rich bums, worried about the pedal without ever enjoying the ride.

Spit from beneath the wheels of the perceived stars are the scars, of those who tread lightly and patiently await, a fate which may never arrive. They trudge through the snow, and the bitter road, through chilling winds and endless loss, surviving on will, hope, and love, or warmth, or simply a sign from above, a wink or nod, praying to be told it is not all in vain. They walk over broken wills, and those who settled for fragmented rock, who lied then died, beaten to death by their own thoughts and failures, but if they just keep walking, they could discover comfort beyond their wildest dreams. They may be shot dead a step before the summit, only exclaiming and just for a moment, that it can be done.

The man on the road promises a safe arrival, and asks you to throw away your Bible, or whatever it is you grip closest to your heart, and for a safe return you will be showered in paper, when stacked high enough is like stone, shattering bone, severing the brain from the heart, and dreams from an eternal nightmare. You may only live once, and you may life forever, but you can never be certain, so drag on, walk alone if you must, but never be afraid to let another carry your forward, even if the last let you down, because easy paths are just an illusion, for the weak to be drawn in and finished quick. Break the line, do not fall before it, we all define, ourselves, and our steps will always stray from one another, and if they didn't, every step would lose it's meaning.

Never falter at the word of another, it's not a race but a trail, be aware, have the tortoise for dinner, and for breakfast, the hare, this leg's sinner could be the next one's saint...but walk on, you never know what awaits. You can only see what has failed but when you look down below, it is your feet you see...do you see?

It was once flat and had an end, and then it was round and you'd come back again, explanations of it all, through the thicket and the barriers, climb over the wall, never stop, never. Never itself it debated and proven, but the more you see, the more you see it's all woven, powers that be and powers unseen may stop your constant defeat in a moment, and inside the depths of the eyes of another, a story itself frozen forever, enthralled without meaning, it's a moment of truth, though the person holding that truth may run from their own, and on this day, you will know there was not one defeat, not one speck of remorse, and you will live forever, for better or worse.