Ha

I screamed into her mouth for her to stop.
The Swiss Alps were calling me
To turn over in my grave
As the swift grace from heaven denied me.
P-P-P-Pleasure
Eminated from the light of the devine
I fell to the floor
Consituents of the devoid operators
Lent me a hand.
(See
This is just my normal mind.
Everything is fake that I speak.
Triggers.
You're all just triggers
Poorly acting triggers.)

Spark. Spark.
Zap.
Electricity is fired off
And my fingers take the brunt of it.
Ice it down.
No.
Put spoons in my mouth.
One way or another,
I probably won't survive this madness.

Shocked!
I wish to show you my face.
But then
I'll just tell you.

There are eyes.
They are closed.
There is a mouth.
It is open.
(I hope you've formulated
Some great idea from this.
It will be the last time you see me)

Degrees of burn
Are seen from the inside.
Oh so superficial
Are the scars of the past.
The future holds the true path to a literal scathing.
No death will occur
(Well, later)
But it will be when you do not pass
Onto the other side.
When you find that there is no River Styx
For you to erase the past.
No Nirvanic fountain
That helps alleviate those that pained,
And start a new life.

A new life.
It is what we all wish for.
Hundreds of times over again each day,
And should the time of day be where
The sun shouts at you from high tide in the sky,
Please do not quiver.
There is no earthquake.
It is just me.
And the memory.

A

Jay-

Grow up on a street.
Water and blood pool together like brothers.
Sirens beat alarms to the punch
In the dead of night.
The night is dead.
Today,
This was the wrong street
On the wrong week
Wearing the wrong shirt
That had an array of too many hues of the wrong color.
A black Benz rolls up on your right,
Scratches and dents from chain link fences
That it met with a purpose.
Assumptions were made,
On their behalf
Not yours.

Lying on the floor of your beautiful city
The government buildings are astonishing from this angle.
The water next to you
Knows what you are going through,
As you and it mesh to become one.
You could scream,
Point at the Benz with rims full of "Them"'s
But now, you're mute,
As your voice has no purpose.

John-
He wakes up.
He wakes up and goes to work
To pay the bills.
He comes home;
Makes dinner and brushes his teeth.
He falls asleep.
He dreams,
Dreams of rosy lips and green gowns almost emerald,
Like her Olive eyes that never dart but
Glide
From side to lovely
Side.
She laughs, and so does he.
The sun sets,
In a glory of fire and extinguished flames,
And he wakes up.
He wakes up and goes to work
To pay the bills.
He comes home;
Makes dinner and brushes his teeth.
He falls asleep.
He dreams...
He wakes up.
He wakes up and goes to work
To pay the bills.
On the way,
He crosses a street.
He never looks twice.

Pigeons scatter,
People look-
He can't tell whether to breathe fast,
Or to hold---
A woman runs to him,
Screaming for the policia.
(She may save a life today)
Holding his head in her hands,
She finds it hard to look down at a dead man dying.
But she does.
(It will scar her for life)
He blinks.
The sun is eclipsed by her young flowing hair.
(His blood flows freely)
Her hair is black.
(He sees Saint Elmo's Fire in the sky)
She screams,
And for a split second
The sun is obscured and her eyes are a green that
He found as a child in the grasslands behind his house.
(His childhood is tainted red)
He smells lavender.
His eyes close.
He thinks he hears things,
Like footsteps running and the
Driver of the car exclaiming reasons
That aren't particularly important to John anymore.
He slides his hands into his pockets,
Looking for a phone to call his mom
And tell her he loves her.
But he forgot it today.
He dreams...

Don't HAve a Title YEt

Whispers inside the stationary vehicle
Are louder than the metallic movement surrounding us.
Spires rise to the sky
At variable heights.
Heat rises and falls
Circulating in the empty atmosphere.
A certain fury can be felt.
Lavender implosions swallow the world
On your left and right
Allowing drops of rose to spring forth from the ground.
Fire burns impressions from the past,
To create ideas of the present.
Emancipate your feelings of this placebo love.
Condensation on the inside
Lets you draw words of romance
That those on the outside
Will misinterpret.
But what will happen
When the engine turns off and the sun goes down
And the pedestrians leave
While only stars and streetlights alone illuminate our path?
Will an affirmation of us be discovered?
Or shall desire overcome it all,
And burn all the roses?
Even when these roses have never embraced snow.

Lines Written with Futile Hope

You are as real as the moonlight on my hand.
Doesn't it feel beautiful.
So sentimental,
But not enough.
Lamentation for the day that has passed,
The one that was young for a while,
But realized that it could last for so short a time.
A small while,
As the tides rushed the shore
And overwhelmed the coasts
Showing clouds of dying color
Through its liquescent window.
Time, minutes of sadly minute length,
Evacuates the clouds from the sky,
Defeats the bluebird's song and the
Evergreens' everlasting effervescence;
The presence within the atmosphere is now gone.

When Autumn comes today
Will it show colors?
Will the dying tree,
In it's last flourish for light and glory,
Refuse me the yellows and reds that would line these long streets,
As I keep the aqua-tainted ocean in eyesight?
Transitioning into a biting frost,
All I can see are the lines of smoke-entwined snow on the pavement,
And bare oaks of brown,
Swelling with the scent
Holding its breath
Until I pass, and then exhales.
Animals burrow into the gardens that don't provide,
Into homes that don't exist.

The day is broken,
While I sit among the pasture of leaves
Freshly matted down by my own steps.
I wish to mend it
But my fingers are decrepit and mangled
From brushing them through miles of wilted grass and lonely fences.
Healed just a bit,
I smile when the sun turns red.
So simple, it sprays a mist of rose within the sky.
But I turn to the Eastern shore,
With dejection fastened to the heart.
And hope for more.

Mr. Eliot

Why, Mr. Eliot,
Does my hand fail me when I write without meter?
It trembles like a distant hurricane
Close to shore.
Why am I inspired by rain beating upon my roof
By birds eclipsing the sun so gracefully
By love unfulfilled?
Take a portrait with me, sir.
You are long gone,
Dead years before I had seen lavender skies.
I am gone too
With each line I dedicate to your legacy
Creativity is invoked by many things,
But should the past be one?
Non-verbal seance,
The only sound is the candle's flicker,
My scratches at paper.
Each line I write makes me sicker.

The women, Mr. Eliot,
Why, the women come and go.
Boats rock to and fro
Drinking four glasses of chardonnay
Ruffle, rest, and call it a day.

Beg and plead to build a shrine.
I have no talent
I refuse to behold tradition.
For, Mr. Eliot, you refuse to listen.
Please be witness to the light above my head.
Spotlights in the blackened sky.

-She twists the rose in her naked hands.
We spread heavily across barren lands.
Angels swirl lightly over islands with lovely disposition.

I fall backwards
Hoping for someone to be there to save me.
Eyes above spy down upon us.
Wonder who I am.
Where I am going.
You cannot care why,
As streaks near the moon reverberate
While I try to envision what is not here.

First Poem by NMQ

Everyday he works.
Gets up early to do hard work.
goes home
He used to work hard at home too.
but back then at least he had his family
his wife, his child, his parents
Here, he might have a friend, a cousin, an acquaintance.
at home he wasn't alone
Here, he is surrounded by strangers everyday.
Secluded in his new environment.
His new life here full of shiny new things and his newly found friends
Are they just enough to fill the void, to erase the memories?
of his life when he used to work for a life he could enjoy with them

NOTITLE

Probably the longest poem ever. But yeah, I just wanted to write..


Into the well dives my wish
But the prospect of return is dim.
I threw it in upon a whim.
Hoping my misfortune would turn around.

With my nose to the ground
I hunt for the twists and turns of life.
Cut down our trees with a dull knife.
Tie them together. Call it a boat.

When the waves pick up, I hope we'll float.
But that's based on a hope and a prayer.
"I could predict this" Spoke the soothsayer.
The sky tonight, it has too many layers.

We could see, over looming towers and sky-bound skylights
Birds flying over head dive into the night.
Reds and Oranges; The dying sun dies out of sight
Leaving us standing in a field of green.

Leaves abound make rings around
Two souls lost. Lost in the middle.
Of a forest? A field of artificial greenery?
We look to the sky, and back to the earth, to find what it means.

Too many things are attempting to come full circle.
I am the lawyer in a trial,
And the suspect is full of undeniable denial
While I ask questions, prying at the truth.

"You and I, we are just youths!
We wish to seek the truth
Striking at the ground, making sound
Loving the other by claw and by tooth."

Primal desires overcome false mires,
Leaving our feet dripping wet from the dawn.
Speak of stupid passion and child-like desires
I retract and detract and sit down on the synthetic lawn.

Oh, the fireworks that do not explode.
A slow-motion, recurring episode of dramatics
Poetics and romantics. All is hopeless. All is lost.
I threw my last dime into the well. But more than that, imagine the cost.

My hands are numb. Maybe from the frost.
But the frozen tundra could not sway my mind.
Love is the last horizon to find.
But I am lost.

So when should I come back? How should I react?
My smile shall fall heavily among the bric-a-brac.
And so I detract. Into a shallow hole in the wall.
Waiting for an ever so distant call. Ever so distant.

I will never ask "What is it?" I will reply
With a whimper or a sigh. Something that will bring you nigh.
And I will pry. Sixty times with no results.
We shall depart amongst these solitary tumults.

On purpose, I will be lost in Delaware.
Somewhere far from here. Somewhere never near.
Probably the days will linger.
As I remember the days I embraced with the alto singer.

Monsters in my closet. In my car. In my launder.
Force me to sit and ponder.
Will this do me any good? Am I a runaway, or do I just wander?
I wander for wandering's sake. So I must return.

As the fire from the inferno burns
We takes turns. Jumping around. Feet never truly touching the ground.
But then the humor of it all
Become sadly pivotal.

She walks away. She walks away.
Becoming the greatest obstacle of the bunch.
We sit to lunch. The way she walks. The way she brushes her hair...
Again, makes me question. "Do I dare?"

But I don't. I won't.
She enters the door. I hold it open. "I'll take your coat."
Chivalry comes high to the forefront.
High upon my stallion, I forget about the hunt.

Sit down. Order. It is all so jovial.
Speaking talking, I listen. Interested in truth. Interested so.
My, does the day go. It goes and it goes.
Until it is night again. And we depart, my friend.

Marks on hands, simple tallies of love.
Or is it love? It's love. Wait?
The night does wane, and the hour becomes late.
My significance dies, along with the date.

Logic dictates the next maneuver. My rook guards the queen.
Sacrifice its life. But for what, I must ask? (And so does the rook)
By hook or crook, we'll survive it all.
I read it in a book. For we, Love in the time of Diphtheria.

The snow comes down. Cats and dogs hide away.
Blackness overcomes the house. Differentiate between the night and day.
But you need no coat. No blanket. Socks are an option.
I ask "Do you shiver?" and you reply how you may.

Younger and younger we are not getting.
Clocks have broken down. Worn down. Letting us forget
That which we must let.
We must let. I must let. I must let you go.

Bury me in the Sahara. Or in the depths of Africa.
I am Mr. Kurtz. I am dead.
I have floated to the bottom of the pool. Dense as lead.
Just do me a favor and paint our sunrise red.

Laugh away. For the rest of your life.
That is all I wish. That is the last coin flip.
Heads or tails. It doesn't matter. It never mattered.
My lips and teeth will miss you, among the chit and chatter.

The note said that you wished
(I quote the latter)

For a new day to come.
It said, lying upon my table,
That you lived within a fable
And that you wished to love someone.
That you hoped for a dream come true
This wouldn't last
Wounded, bound in a cast,
You didn't know what to do.
I ask who am I to mend this ruse?
The day is done. The night is cold.
Trivialities, they do grow old.
So to pain my mind, I ask, what's the use?

I fold the letter and hide it in my jacket
The cars on the street create a metallic racket
I look. I look for days. Drunk from wine, my balance swerves.
Lonely at this party, I drink more wine; eating hors d'oeuvres.

Gone are the days when we laughed. Laughed and cried.
Gone is when silence was all we replied.
Gone are memories which we promised we'd keep.
I'm in a pine box. You'll probably refuse to weep.

Violins, cellos, may you hear me out?
I do not know what you sing about.
Only chords of strain and softness strike me blind.
Rain pounds heavily upon my eyes. I am cast with doubt.

Struggle. Shout. I turn around and fall into a whimper.
The light dies near, I fear to say. To say I say with confidence.
As my dreams of a picket fence splinter gone.
We are strangers, here forever, now to hence.

And whence shall we leave again?
Beg my pardon. I must mean meet again.
Because this cannot happen twice. This cannot happen three times.
This has to cease. But I must ask when.

Thunder strikes this very house. I do not know how strong this roof is.
Earthquakes shake, take a toll on my foundation.
My foundation. The ground does shift.
I lift to heaven high with no elation.

Clouds take my sky. Commandeer the panorama.
Manipulate my scene from serene to what I deem sublime.
From a distance, your voice echoes.
But that is just the to-and-fro's of the cellos.

The sea must mellow out, one day, while I am still alive.
Birds flying over head, quit their gliding. Fall rather than dive.
Brick by lonely brick is taken from the foundation
Of my sea-side house. Atlantis is home to lovers before.

The picture's blurry. Your dress is green.
Life is not what it may seem. It isn't. It really isn't.
Specters are transparent, as so they appear.
I fear, that I'll stutter. I have failed. D-Dang.

Bang. And then we're bang to the beginning.
By my tally, I do believe you're winning.
Fooled me. I forgot it was a game.
Fooled me twice. You forgot I had a name. My name?

I don't remember either. Jay? Blake? Jake?
They're all the same. They wind up dead, or simply living.
Oh, darling, isn't it just so riveting?
When will the conclusion come? When will it come?

It comes sooner for some. Postponed for me.
As the sun goes down, I walk with glee.
The tree means nothing, in the larger picture of it all.
Slow down time. Please. Jack. Jose. Adderall.

Get me off this world. I'm dizzy. Busy. The days,
They come with ease. But knocked down twice,
It does suffice that I'm left with scarred knees,
And hollow chin. Throw the coin. I love these whims.

Struggle? Beaten down? You left this garden,
To love the plush and lavish lifestyle of the town.
You walk with them. She walks away. She walks away.
She has walked away. Everyone, this is parlay.

There is time. Oh, there is time. For visions.
And then revisions and decisions of those visions
Incisions. My heart divides from my soul like nuclear fission.
But alas I'm still alive. My eyes have mist. My eyes have mist.

Do you understand? I tried to explain the gist of it.
Hearts divide. Explosions in the sky. Words unspoken.
I throw a token. Deep abyss. "I love you dearly, miss."
Swing? Miss. Boxes. Letters. Dawn. Dive. Goodbye.

-------------------------------------------------------

New Title

Here is the poem where the new title comes from.

TS Eliot
The Hollow Men

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

A penny for the Old Guy

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

No! I am not Prince Hamlet

Last night, predating the last entry, a room mate of mine asked me a question that I actually was stumped by.

"You're pretty concerned with people. Even everyone as a whole. What about yourself?"

I was like "OHHH SHITTTT SON. You just became all doctorate therapist on me, by asking me how I feel."

But, it's a question that does evade me still. What is it that I hold dear about everyone else, while there is my personal being at stake. There are those that don't give two shits about others in the world, and then there are people like me, who probably think about others more than they contemplate about themselves.

What about me? What about me. A sentence and a question separated by a rising intonation.

I, for some odd, and probably stupid, reason, wonder why we, as a whole, don't care more. Why is it that we don't look at ourselves and ask "What is wrong about me?" Not everyone can be the hotness, the business, el primo guapo (For my spanish friends). We are human, and by rights, philosophically, we are err'd. So why not try to improve those errors?

I have a messy desk. I question if it's a negative or positive thing. If I deem it negative, I should do something about it. So I do.

But then, I suppose, there are people who believe that this messy desk is perfection, and that this desk cannot be further improved upon.

These people must believe, also, that they are penultimate perfection in other realms of living too. They cannot do wrong. These people are either hermits that believe society is not good enough, or unibombers who hate society for their problems they create upon them.

Who says I am right? They possibly can believe that they are err'd. But are these errors significant? Can people look at themselves and say that "I have a problem telling the truth to my significant other." "I can't love, because I have been trained to be manly." "I value money over people." Is anyone really able to face these truths?

Steps may be the best way to go. Gradual alterations of the self.

I alter myself. I still have faults. Everything is perpetually under a moral and ethical construction.

Yet, the question about myself has been evaded like people evading homeless people in San Francisco and Berkeley. The homeless ones that you can see from ways away that they smell.

Why do I care so much about THEM, rather than caring about myself?

Selflessness? Lack of consciousness for my personal well-being? Maybe I'm just a open hearted individual, aka hippy, that just loves everyone.
Dude.

No, that can't be it. I believe that people are naturally ignorant about personal strifes, so that's not it.

Maybe this will sum it up. A line from a poem.

"No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool...
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—"

My "honed" analytical skills can tell you that the speaker of the poem is saying that they are not a prince or a lord, but a simple man that helps increase the swelling of the progress (Shakespeare's plays had groups of people on-stage to display a court or town scene). He is faceless, unimportant, but part of the mass.

I guess what I'm saying is that I am just a person. Nothing more. A pessimist about my own future. So I care more about those around me, because they the ones that control my degree of happiness in my life.

And I try to do likewise.

Laughter covers up the sadness of our ends.

So what about myself?

I like basketball, people, and music.

Anything other than that,
I fade into the crowd, and you may never see me again.

Edit: 1 minute after.

I can sing "Tik Tok" by Kesha. All of it. That should define me. Tell you who I am. And if it doesn't, life, as we know it, is a big lie.

Don't Know.

I have always wondered what it means to actually do something with yourself.

They say "Boy, go and do something with your life"

Then I wonder what that something is. Are we supposed to get menial jobs, that you return home to your 1.5 kids and your wife that may or may not be addicted to valium and cheating on you with the pool boy? Should we go to college, only to arrive... Arrive being the operative word.

I feel as if just "doing" is so...pathetic isn't the word...meaningless. I think it's meaningless to just be at a level that you enjoy, and while being at that level, you stay there. I feel that people should strive to be more. Doesn't everyone want to improve themselves?

Of course not. There will be people who are satisfied with where they are.

I personally don't understand how they can live this way.

But then it boils down to whether you believe that there is a reason. Is there possibly a reason that we should live? Why don't we just kill ourselves in the bathtub listening to Tubthumping by Chumbawumba, throwing the radio in to our watery ending? This would skip straight to the answer, if there is a purpose. And then we'd deal from there.

However, if you do believe that life is worth living, and that the end can wait, why wait? Why should we wait. That was a statement more than it was a question, because the statement deems the mentality is more important than the questioning mind. There are people who, like a great philosopher said (Soc, Plat, Aris?) "The unobserved life is not worth living." There are those that live, and that is all. They exist, standing, sitting, doing what they are expected. Thinking what they feel everyone believes they believe.
But is this good enough? Shouldn't we ask everyday "Am I doing this right? Am I doing this, the word this being so ambiguous that I can't even fathom a single meaning of this, right?"

I personally ask myself everyday, when I wake up and when I fall asleep, "How can I make my life better today? What was it yesterday that I can improve upon, and what shall I do tomorrow in order to make sure that doesn't happen again?" If we are not striving upward, shall we linger?

But then, the question should be what is right? What makes my opinion more valid than those who, I say, just exist? That is true.

Take the example majority versus minority. If the majority values monetary assets as their false idol, and the minority values interpersonal relationships as their false idol, who is right? Who's idol is more real?
And the answer would be no one's, right?

In actuality, correct. But because the majority controls, they are 'right'. At this point, they dictate what it is we should believe. They believe that this designer bag is more fabulous than this one. This value is more important than that. You are more important than they.

In the end, though, what does it all mean? Just because the majority is right right now, does that mean that they are true (For lack of a better term)? If there is an eternal judge, would he say "YUP, you guessed that the D&G jacket that you got for 30% off that still cost you 350 dollars is right"?

But then, we're dealing on such a level of un-sureness that no one, even those that propose they know, don't know.

That's my problem. I want to know. Whenever someone says "Oh, it was nothing." I say "FCKINGTELLME". Because I feel that if I don't know, there will be something haunting. Something that will perpetuate to my demise. What if that something I don't know, winds up being the one thing that could have benefited me? Now, that's such a correolis effect theory that it's ludicrous to talk about.

We don't know, anything. And that I feel is where we all wind up winding up. Those who have faith, may say they know. They read a book about it all. But they don't know. There will be those that say that they know the universe was created by a bang, rather than a whimper. But they don't know.
I don't even know if I like the new cast on the real world because that one guy tried to prank the other dude, but wound up getting him sick. It's crazy how much we don't know in this world.

Edit:

Five minutes later.

This is a philosophy. So discuss. Or don't. Either way, if you have read this, I've made a mark. It can be so subconscious that you may never see it in your daily life, even a day in your life, but it's there. You'll sit there at your desk, or standing holding a cup of gin and juice (Laid back), with your mind on your money, and possibly money on your mind, and contemplate "What am I doing?" And just contemplating that made your life a little better, more substantial, more worthwhile, more real. From there, we can all work together to be able to say "Shit, I still don't know.... SHOT SHOT SHOT SHOT SHOT SHOTS."

New.

So instead of writing my essay due in 24 hours, I'm going to try and write a post (Since Rebecca said that she misses my interesting ones, and I haven't posted in forever)
Soooooo yeah...



-I feel as if I have nothing to write. There is much to say, that I could say, but when I ask my hands to write something of significance, to say something that will force people to contemplate, nothing can come.
I've had things happen in the last week, that I never thought could happen to me. Challenges that I've tried to face, but I think I've taken a chicken way out of it. I can't explain it, but to have two people, both who understand what's happening, both who can say with honesty how they feel, to turn out as (on my end) completely devastated as I felt, it just doesn't make sense to me.

But a lot of things don't make sense to me.

-I've been forced to think about life. On a grand scale, immediate scale, and personal scale. Where I'm going, in the sense of after I leave Irvine, and after I leave life itself. lulz, it's all so serious.

-Fred made comments using lines from Batman beyond. Using the joker as an example for a dating guideline on his part. I said he should go out on dates, and quote ONLY from the joker. See how far that gets him.
Not far.

-I wonder how people are doing. I took a nap today, and dreamed of people from middle school that moved away. It was weird. I saw them, and when I tried to talk to them, their words were muffled, muddled, and I couldn't hear them. I wonder if that means they are gone out of my life, or if they are trying to say something, but I can't understand. Crazy.

-I still think that what you learn under the stars and in night skies are much more important than what you can learn from a book or in a classroom.

-Class is good. Probably B's - B+'s. I've never gotten an A in I'm unsure how long. I think I can, if I really want to, but when I go to school, all I care about are the people I meet, and the days I have. What will become of those who get straight A's? They'll have lives. They'll do things. They'll go places. But I feel that if I miss out on the days I could have now, with people, that the seconds before I die, I'll remember it all, and smile. What will the people who studied for hours, sacrificing people over books; what will they have to say of themselves later? And when I say, say of themselves, I mean, what will they be able to say to themselves in terms of "Did I just waste my life on that?" Because in the end of it all, what does having a Masters mean, if you never mastered yourself?
Shitty pun. But it's done.

-I've had to question the concept of God a lot lately. Not my favorite topic, purely because everyone (my idea) has a different idea on who it is, and what happens. There is assumed an absolute truth (There are those that firmly believe this. As for me, I'm like 'ehh?'). But I think that if there is something out there, that God'll be chill as fuck. If I was made in his image (falling back on the Christian/Catholic concept ((No offense, I can't differentiate the difference between the two in terms of this concept))) I'm perfect as can be. If I am to meet God one day, I'll say "Sup?" And God'll say "Sup breh?" And we'll kick it, and do whatever it is all eternity. Chill shit.

-But then there's the possibility God doesn't exist. And then to that I say "Shoot." Because then that means, there is a rivalry in my mind. I hope that there is something that occurs after my life which allows me to remember all the people I've met along the way, and all the experiences I've had. That would be ideal, regardless of where it is, what it is, and who controls this fcking odd world.
But then there's the blank out of existence concept. This has caused me great fear in my life. To a stupid, utmost degree. I can't fathom it. Just not existing. I've heard people say it's peaceful to just not be. But then I think "Well, then you haven't lived a life worth remembering" Life is about the trauma and shit you go through. Given, I haven't lost a close family member or friend, so I'm not sure if that will change my mind. But I still have to say, why would anyone not want to be? Why would anyone not want to remember loves in their lives, or experiences laughing with a group of people, as you make jokes until three in the morning, and can't stop laughing, until someone says "Don't say anything else or I'll throw up" and everyone is quiet, and then you start laughing again because the silence makes you think of things funnier than you've thought of before, and your friend who said stop, starts dry heaving, and then we all get serious and go to sleep?
That's what I want to remember. That's why I live my life. So to say it gets erased, the second I shut my eyes from my inevitable death as I drown in ice cold water because I took a stroll one day in Seattle just to get out of the house, screaming for help, but I realize that there's no one around in between Seattle and Tacoma, and I try to control my hyperventilation as possible as I can, is just something I won't accept. I will have to accept it, of course, because it's not my choice, but:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Dylan Thomas


-I'm out of food.

-This has been a long ass post. Sorry. That's what happens when I neglect to post in a while.