Nevermind...

I have the traveling itch, like a sailor called by the lonely sea, my secret mistress... Why has it been so long. Three gulls fly overhead and she's forgotten her desolate heart, trampled by the grinding gears of time.
Instability calls me coquettishly and I fall precariously towards her for a moment. But it cannot last. The sobering reality of responsibility is setting in...
Allentown is a cage, constricting in too many ways. I am bound by immovable chains to this festering, toxic swampland. The fight is futile, my enemy impervious and I am depleted.
I remember childhood dreams of success as defined by television... I was to be something, whatever that means... Something as defined by big bird or some other fucken puppet. I believed in it for a while. That if you work hard enough you will be successful... The American dream... A beautiful wife, a white picket fence, two and a half kids and a hummer... They were right, I have become something. Loathsome and grumpy.

Its not enough though is it? Its never enough, because with conquest as your mistress, you will be insatiable.
At what point does one reach this, "success."
It doesn't matter... You can probably never get there. I am certain you'll never, "win." The pangs that afflict you, cannot cease because there is always more to conquer, but there can always be less as well...

I suppose when it comes to it I am reasonably happy right now. Sara makes me really happy... I care for her in ways I promised myself I would never care for another human being. I can almost forget what heartache feels like for a moment and I am attempting to have some faith that good things can sometimes stay that way, as per her request.

I'm clean now...

I do miss head-clearing mushroom trips, that could detangle the mess of misfiring synapses in my head and make me appreciate things I should have already appreciated. I miss sauntering around the city with Sol, heckling poor unprepared hipster girls. I even miss sitting alone at delores park at night with a bottle wine, feeling sorry for myself.


Still I could have less...
I suppose I should be grateful. 1,2,3... go.

Drained

I'm feeling drained, emotionless... I'm watching from a distance as life passes by, moment by moment. Self important people always rushing to get there first, but I doubt any of them know where "there," even is. Its just a pointless rat race to a grave. You'll be stuffed in a hand crafted box, like it matters... Coated on the interior with soft plush cushions, like it matters... Then all the shit you gathered in your nest will be picked apart by your relatives and friends... None of it really mattered... It will probably be sold, your legacy forgotten over time, your impact wanning, assuming it ever mattered. Your home will be torn down carelessly and in its place a parking lot for a strip-mall and with you dead there are no barriers insurmountable to the politicians and businessmen and it will be hailed as a victory... More shitty jobs to sustain a shitty economy, selling useless crap to useless people and everybody thinks their part in the mess making mattered. You'll be hit by a car, or killed in a jealous rage, or you'll drown, you'll die in pain and maybe in that moment you'll see that it doesn't really matter. In a few moments you'll be gone, nobody cares, nobody waits... We'll sedate any residual feelings with pain pills, anxiety pills, sleeping pills, etc... or we'll fuck away the memory, those thoughts that would otherwise stay poignant... Those inconvenient what ifs... that unsettled remorse coagulating in your gut until no pills can satiate those thoughts... That guilt... its yours, maybe the only eternal legacy you can ever leave... That irreparable shrapnel wound from the war... To remind you of the shit.
Then theres a click...
The last thing you'll ever hear?
I guess you won't know until you let go. Now Pull...

My Pictures...

Here is my photography page
http://noleadersnomasters.blogspot.com/