You will be happy the minute you try. But you don't try.

I'm not writing what I'm supposed to.
Fuck that ten page piece of uninformed self indulgent bullshit.
Tonight while listening to my "old masters" i realized that the feelings they remind me of, the twinge i feel in my heart when i hear them shout those words and bang out those chords, it's not a longing for a place or time that's come and gone. I don't want to ever be back there again. What i feel, what my soul craves is that feeling i had called passion. I was overcome with passion and inspiration and the love and amazement that comes along with the newness of a situation or a place. I found inspiration in a town that i lived in for 18 years. I made better art then than i have made since. I've let my mind fall into the routine my body has fallen into and it's killing it. I've forgotten what it's like to wonder and then experiment. Why don't i carry that machine around my shoulder any more? How can i call myself something that i don't even enjoy doing. Everything becomes a chore when nothing is a choice. And that's how i feel right now. I'm tired of running around. I'm tired of being so fucking tired. You speak these words of spirit and anarchy to me but when will we carry them out? Between work and sleep and school and driving. Fuck that shit! I'm sick of having to make time to live my life. Let's just fucking do it. Show me who you used to be and i'll do the same. Teach me, take me somewhere i see every day and show it to me in a way that i've never seen before. I know you can do it. Just be yourself. Let's burn this fucking city too the ground baby. Lets suck the life right out of it. And we'll leave it for dead and let the wind blow us on westward where new life has already begun without us. This place is old, but has no history. I'm getting older than i realize. I didn't even notice. I still feel like I'm going to do all those things i want to when i grow up. Well, i'm fucking grown. I want to live again. I want to be carried by music and words and inspired and write my own words. I want to speak from my own fucking mouth and see with my camera lens.
Let's scream. Lets fight and kick and take it all down.
I haven't got the guts.

You're such a fuck up, she said

She told me that i have not laughed in a week. Since i was drunk. That would mean almost 168 hours without laughter. I think that's an overstatement.
She's losing me she tells me. She doesn't understand that i'm losing myself. She doesn't understand that she's not the victim.
What's wrong with me? I am dependent on a prescription drug to keep me functional. To keep me likable. To keep me where i can stand myself. That's what's wrong with me. And that is a big deal. She's losing me because i forget to take these pills. And then i act like i did before she knew i was alive. She wouldn't have liked me back then. It's been a long time since i've been sad. At least then i did soemthing with it. I can hear her talking now. Laughing with her family. I'm not laughing. How can i. This is put on me. It's all me.
I had a good day today. I was happy today. I'm not a man who emotes very well. I never have been. I don't know what i have to do to prove that i am happy. I'm much happier not having to prove it. You know, i know i lauhed today. I saw a kid throw up on himself at the fair. That's pretty damn funny. I laughed at that.
I'm sick of myself. I'm sick of the way i look, the way i talk,
and the way i don't care.
I hate the way it's so hard for me to write now.

But I don't hate this photo:

i been gone a long time.

my new job skills involve continuing to bend to the will of others, typing the word "SAMPLE", and sliding some imaginary and completely intangible bars back and forth in order to change a mixture of three colors, three wavelengths of light smashing into the back of screen, so that they mimic real life.
And we wonder why we're apathetic.
My time is spent sitting in front of this screen helping to mass produce some "artist's" metaphorical pile of shit to be consumed and then ignored by the masses.
It makes me sick. It makes me despondent.
And we wonder why we're apathetic.
My creativity refuses to be lost with age, it's just pushed back further and further into the back of my skull and deemed by my mind to be useless. I'm conditioned more and more each day. If it's not necessary for survival then it's wasted space.
I am closer and closer to becoming an orphan. I've grown up, i'm not around, so there had to be a replacement. "Fear is the heart of love". Oh God, is it true? It seems it can all be analyzed down to such.
I'm at work so much that i only have the urge to shit when i'm here. Like and dog, so is a human, we can only relieve ourselves where we feel at home and were we find our scent.
My heart still beats. Sometimes it beats loud enough to overcome the worryful noise that crowds my brain. At these times i find some passion. I build something. I love someone. I cry. I scream - at the windows and the speed. I can make it sound like i wrote those words.
I am writing words.
I used to stand for something, even if i didn't even know what the hell i was standing up for. I used to think i would grow up to become something special. I thought that i was different. Now i know that i am not unique. It really is true that i could be anyone on these streets. I could be anyone with my state of mind. My work, sleep, eat, staring state of mind.
That's all we do. Work. Worry. Stare. Talk. Worry. Work. Stare. Type.
If all this time moving my fingers could lead to something worth while. Or even something tangible. Some kind of magnum opus. But i've been practicing the wrong movements. Too much pushing, not enough dexterity. Who needs opposable thumbs when you got all these buttons set up so ergonomically.
My heart hurts, so i know that i'm still here. It gets lighter when i see my lover smile, that's how i know there's still hope.
My heart still rises and flutters when i feel the presence of my God. That's how i know that there is still hope.
There is still hope. THERE IS STILL HOPE. And hope always makes trying a little easier. And that's all i need to do is try. "There are days longer than nights".
They say good things come to those who wait, and i've been waiting and i've found that's bullshit. Good things come to those who deserve them, and waiting around for good, for creativity, for someone to slap me in the face and tell me to get up off of my self-pitying ass has just left me there for as long as i've been waiting.
my passion will overcome this apathy for life.
We can win, we just have to try.