The intangible horrors I desperately tried to ignore have corrupted me. I’ve changed. And every word I’ve ever thought, everything I wish I’ve ever dreamt, gone.
Just like that.
And it’s a damn shame.
The want, the need, the insatiable thirst for understanding was quenched by ignorance and intoxication.
Those wants, those needs, are gone. Those loves, and those dreams were whisked away with one drop, expelling my mind from my body.
As I dip my pen in the inkwell of regret I wish that I didn’t have to.
Threading myself within an illusion of pleasure, it’s like I was gliding a needle so that it seamlessly followed the cadence of the night before, flowing through each fissure, through each opening of sorrow. The copious and bountiful amounts of domestic contraband left my mouth as fast as it left my stomach, and faster than it did when it left the bottle.
In the morning, my head erupted in penance for the night before, and my body naturally felt cold, unfamiliar, and uncomfortable. With the call of caffeine pounding against the walls of my mind, navigating back to the sweet warmth of home was more of a challenge when clouded with confusion.
Through the almighty power and strength of an irresponsible and ignorant teenager, I lifted one leg after the other to reach-from what i can remember-the climax of my story. My bed.
The roof shook and roared at me with irritation. Dust and remnants crumbling over my helmet, shining over the sun leaking through the broken window. I could hear someone yelling overhead, but I didn’t care, my orders were safe. To stay. Here. I could hear the screams again, of both man-made munitions and of whom I trained with.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I thought to myself, I mean I know it’s honorable and someone has to do it, but, this? No one should be experiencing this. This was Hell. This was exhilarating. All of it. The constant feeling of stress, the dirt and grime layering my body. It used to make my head hurt. Now it calls to me, and it scares me. Killing is just another job. Carrying a rifle is just another extension, another limb of my body.
What have they made me?
They tell me I should pride myself to be one of many. But they never told me I’d be a machine. They told me I’d have a better life back at home. But would I want to go back? After experiencing all this? This is terrifying. This is lovely.
Will this life I chose end up killing me?
At times. I hope.
At times, I wish I could go home.
There are angels in my attic
I hear them bumping in the night
They are blind to this world
If they saw
They would cry
The sky now lay black
Illumination now on ground
The stars have fallen
My world has flipped
Upside down
My rhyme book would flood tumblr if I copy and pasted.
Thank god I have time, my thirst for writing can now be sanctioned by my own hand, not a stupid class.
When faced with the adversity of death, I stand with fear, gilded and masked by bravery.
I plunge this empty shell farther and farther
Down this horrid abomination of a path
Too tired to produce
Too restless to sleep
I wish my body went where my mind goes.
exclusively for my writing.
Journal 3/12/12
Today was harsh. I was crafting a story within my mind last night, and I think I’ve found my world. I need to start writing songs again, I miss it a lot. I wish I knew how to sleep, I go up and honestly lay in my bed until 1:30. I wish a lot of things. I’m not afraid of the things lurking in the dark and in the back of my mind anymore. And it scares me. I ask myself, why am I no longer afraid? Maybe because I realize there are other things scarier in the world now, or maybe it’s because I’m more afraid of seeing the sunlight of the next day. I seriously have to stop setting myself up for failure.
I really want Ron Paul to win, but it’s obviously not going to happen. Although his ideas are smart, and extremely advisable, they aren’t fresh, and if anything they’re more from an independent standpoint like George Washington or some other forefather like that. That’s one of the reasons why political journalism bothers me, and another reason why our political system bothers me. The GOP sucks, Romney is extremely silver-tongued and Obama is losing support.
I don’t really like democrats, their thinking focuses too hard on government control. Then again, I don’t really like republicans either. All just a bunch of rich, pious, assholes. If anything my liberalism makes me a democrat, by my thoughts of self-earning and control make me a republican. Fuck this system why did they have to make it this way?
There’s a world of idiots out there. It scares me.
I wonder what would’ve happened if I ended thoughts last year.
Journal 3/11/12
Finished the 2nd part of the Curse Worker’s series last night. It’s good, but what troubles me is that I don’t like the fact that it usually doesn’t end with a happy ending(for the 1st and 2nd part). It leaves with a twist, a cliff hanger, and a bad ending. I mean, I love that because it’s so different, BUT COME ON!! I want feel-good feelings at the end of a book, not a what-the-fuck-why-did-this-happen-god-dammit feeling.
Besides that, I’m listening to The Root’s album, Undun, which is beautiful. A lot of people trash rap and hip hop. But let’s be real here, you’re trashing the surface and what it has become. It’s like you’re making fun of somebody for how they dress or how they look.
Judge a surface, and you’ll never discover the real beauty of someone or something’s roots.
If you don’t know yet, The Roots is a trans-genre, a beautiful blend of funk, jazz, and rap. They’ve been together since ‘74, and have used real instruments since then. My friends have also been introducing me into a bunch of new music I’ve been unaware of, such as Bright Eyes, and Arcade Fire. Thank god for that, I can finally trust a different side of the spectrum.
