1457 - What the bleep, indeed... I don't know what exactly is wrong with me. I never have. I've had ideas, moments of insight, but never a solid answer to this question. Some tell me nothing is wrong with me, that I am fine the way I am, and while sweet the thought still makes me lower my head in anger. Right now I just feel that one emotion. Anger. Mostly with my mother, but also with myself. She leaves to get things done, then doesn't. She comes back, and excuses herself with her menstrual cycle before changing the topic to the clothes she bought herself while she was out. She has too much on her plate, more than she can handle, and she will not admit it. She tells me to work a full day, and gives me nothing to work on, as if I am to know perhaps what she needs and wants done to the house and property. So I spend the day trying to teach myself russian, and find that I cannot seem to get as far with the course each day as I would like. There comes a point where my mind simply refuses to continue working. Then I take what little materials she has given me to work with, and try my hand at building her a screen door. At first things are going well enough, except none of the materials fit the dimensions I gave her (not that she took the list I gave her along when she went to buy said materials) and while some are quite nice, some of the wood looks like shit, but then that's not my probem, is it? What is my problem is that I cannot complete the project alone in the fashion she wants it done, and she's too busy playing with her boy toy to come out and help. So at 1742 in the afternoon I'm sitting here just... livid. And at what? Why am I so angry? Am I angry because I can apparently measure something twice and end up with two completely different markings? Am I angry from dealing with my mother? Am I angry because I can't recall the cyrillic alphabet even halfway (I get to "yeh" and blank)? Or am I just angry because I'm in a situation I hate, in a life I am stagnating into the ground, seemingly unable to take steps that might actually make me a happier or at least better off person, living with a person who drives me up the fucking wall, and despise myself for the things in life I enjoy most? I don't know how to fix myself. As much as I am told only another can fix me if indeed I am broken, I do not believe in such solutions. Even death does not seem welcome to me, but neither does life. Part of me wants to hold my lover close in a vividly green field in some ubiquitous scottish valley, and part of me wants to be skinned alive and burned at the stake. Yet another part of me wants to skin others alive and burn them at the stake. And for all the time I've just spent flooding thoughts onto the screen, I'm left with...

2216 - People... Happy shiny fucking people... Current mood: Really fucking tired... Friday night. Chameleon's Cove. Open stage evening entertainment with people, music, spoken word. Friday night, and for the first time in weeks, I woke up and did the whole grooming shabang. Trimmed the beard and mustache. Washed the hair, conditioned with coconut oil so as to avoid my fabled "Einstein hair." Put on clean clothes not stained by dirt, dust, grease (from cooking heart stopping breakfasts... or as we say, "hearty") or ungodly amounts of dog hair. I polish and don my brown leather ten inch tall Corcoran jump boots. It's only when I get out that I realise the seclusion I live in. Arriving at the event, a senior's hall, I walk in and am greeted by the warm smile of a woman I barely know. I know she writes, and what writing of hers I have heard I much enjoy. I know her lad, the doorman, to be quite the guitar player, but nothing more. I look around, and despite the allmost empty rows of the distinct stackable chairs set around the makeshift stage of two folding tables, collapsed, I see and react to the fact that I am surrounded by... people. The reaction is instant, felt throughout my conciousness. I feel it in every part of my body. Every time I move, every time I shift or refocus attention to a different part of the body, I notice it ever more. Tension. Every muscle in my body flexed. The only way not to begin jerking around wildly and fall to the ground is to constantly reevaluate and equalise the muscular tension between opposing groups. I can feel myself trembling, and wonder, frightened, if anyone around me notices it too. I can't imagine my state of insecurity is entirely unnoticed, but uncomfortable enough as I allready am, I hardly wish anyone around me to recognise the fact that it is so profound in me to cause my entire body to shake, just a bit. You could look at me and know something was not right. Only if you touched me could you understand. The tension is so great it demands focus from the internal system caret, wich means that every time I switch focus to a particular subsystem, another is completely lost from conscious thought. Most noticaeably, this occurs in the facial musculature. Now and again I would notice that my eyes were not taking in as much light, leading to the realisation that I have been gradually squinting, and so on untill I attempt to progressively relax my entire face. This does not work. One of the performers asks all members of the audience to rise and introduce, shake hands and hug those next to us. As soon as I recognise the excercise, I hope deep within that the two sitting in front of me minding the metal lunchbox with the crude slit punched in the lid will not rise to the occasion. To both my delight and dismay, they do, and I find myself in an even greater battle with myself not to tremble, not to make some odd, unexpected sound, not to make blatantly overt my completely unhinged internal self. I smile, I shake, I hug, I smile, I shake I hug, I sit down and I wonder a) why does this scenario fuck so greatly with my head and b) what the flying fuck is wrong with me if I am the only one here apparently going through this. On the one hand I do have to recognise that I do not know I am alone in my little bout of sustained panic. I do know the writer before me is quite apparently nervous at the prospect of yet again sharing herself with an audience. I know there are more than likely others in the crowd feeling much the same. I do not know who is going through what; I barely know any of these people beyond a glance, a casual greeting, a polite smile. It seems so easy to imagine that the world around me is made up of people who know who they are, what they want, where they are going, if they are indeed going anywhere but right here in this very moment. I know this is not entirely accurate, but it seems so true, listening to her tales of irony and bliss, his hearty plucking at the strings, both filling my ears with a joy I'd wish to feel throughout but cannot. I wonder how it is that I make friends, that I keep them. I wonder what about me actually draws some peoples' positive attention. The women with whom I have shared love, the one fellow I played with long ago, the friends I have shared so many good times and better memories with. I see so much in myself that I hate so thoroughly, so little I enjoy about myself. I wonder if the friends I have made tonight will share with me their good times, their lives and memories. I wonder if it is really important to me. No, it is, I just don't yet truly understand why. I can't seem to narrow a need for companionship simply down to an inate and fundamental requirement to mate. Why is it all so important to me, and what all are the factors at work here that drag me down to such estranged depths of pathology? Why do I still tremble?

2051 - Clarity? Nah... Current mood: Feeling a need for justification... For the first time, I find myself in a position requiring some sort of outlined disposition on firearm policy. Being a born gun nut, having gained the wealth of my knowledge thereof from military and manufacturer's manuals, and more recently having more and more hands on experience, I realise I need to undertand for myself where I stand in order to better discuss such things with others. A lot of people feel one way, many another, and my friends span the spectrum from gun toting self deffense [activists] to gun weary pacifists. Where do I fit in to this picture, and why? A firearm is a tool designed to kill. It is a weapon. It they are used by the thousands every day to take lives. Now that we have a basis to work with, let's apply context: Ownership: I have a hard time with the idea of abolishing civilian gun ownership. There are many that say guns should not exist at all, and were it a possibility on the table I might give it due consideration myself, except that it does not address anything real. So many exist, so many are being made, and they have permeated our environment. They are, however, only a tool. A knife is a tool. A bow is a tool. A giant norse catapult is a tool. A fist, a foot, a knee is a tool. Taking away tools, or restricting their ownership to a select group, solves absolutely nothing. The real issue here is that there are people who at one time or another, for any number of reasons, either desire or feel it necissary for their or someone else's survival to take human life. Unless this is addressed, attempting to limit those who posses such tools will do little or nothing to actually reduce violent crime, conflict, terrorism, state agression, etc... That stated, I am for gun ownership, to the point that I see no effective use in gun control legislation. In fact, it is an interesting trend to notice in every country that has outlawed or severely restricted ownership, crimes committed with firearms have staedily and dramatically risen. This leads me to my next context- Self Deffense: I will never personally own a firearm, nor any weapon besides my own body (insofar as it can be called such) for personal deffense without a serious threat to my life, or potentially the lives of others. This case being extremely unlikely, chances are if I ever own one it will be for the simple purposes of learning a skill I feel the desire to learn, and for entertainment. Yes, making something go boom, boom, boom, and being able to see the holes where those little (or big) pieces of lead (and/or copper, steel, graphite, molly lubricant coating, etc...) when flying through the paper (and/or wood, steel plates, giant old rusty woks, etc...) in tight little groups makes me happy. Many will say that there is a constant threat, and ownership is a matter of preparedness. Feeling that way about training, I can't necissarily argue against the point fairly, but I can neither say I feel quite the same way, and I don't have any real justification for that. I don't feel the percieved threat to my life or those around me is great enough to justify the investment of money, training, and convincing my mum of the same thing. Even on my own I don't see it, and especially then if someone where to go to all that trouble to come into my home and take my life, unless I could deffend myself unarmed I might just let them have it with a "Bravo." Conflict (terrorism, state aggression, kids in schools, post offices...): I have no fucking idea where I stand on the above. I know that I believe people will continue killing people untill A) there are no more people to kill, or B) there is no one left who feels the need. Given the current populace statistics and geopolitical scene, I don't see these things comming to a hlt in my lifetime (you know, in that big crystal ball of mine). How do I feel about it? The intentional taking of life deeply saddens me. There does, however, come a point where I have to disconnect to save myself. Hard as I may try not to at times, I do still feel. I think it's fairly naive to say that all wars should simply be stopped, because again without dealing with the fundamental issues of why we engage in conflict on any and all levels (Bush pushing the big red button to the waitress smacking you for looking down her shirt) then nothing will truly change, but simply be easier for the rest of us to not feel bad about. Synopsis: I don't fucking know. I need sleep for once, and today I spent seven hours on the road to spend four hours with my psychotic family, and I'll be getting up tomorrow morning again to provide manual labour once more to the instructor from yesterday. For a nocturnal creature, this is getting old fast... If anyone has anything to say about the above, please don't hold back. I could use some feedback. Reminds me that I am still relatively sane.

1942 - My best friend has a first name, it's R-U-G-E-R... Current mood: Pain, anger, and a strange hint of satisfaction... So today I went out to the range and put some lead down. Made for a great morning, especially seeing as for the first time it was with an instructor. The fellow is the husband of a coworker of my mum's whom I've gotten to know little through helping out with outdoor duties around his place. Poor guy messed up his ankle a while back, so they've needed an extra pair of hands around their land, through wich we were able to connect on our mutual love of firearms. Turns out he's quite the enthusiast, unill recently owning five seperate M1911's, not counting additional barrels and slides for competiion use. When asked what experiance I had, I told him it was minimal, but I had some handle on shoulderarms and needed work more on handgun technique. So, we get to the range and he sets me up with a Ruger .22 (can't recall wich model specifically) and after a safety primer let's me go to. Within about fifteen minutes I had my ten shot groups down to two to three inches at about ten meters. Not terrible for a beginner. From there we moved up to a Colt M1911A1 with a 6 inch barrel and weighted compensator. The largest pistol round I'd yet fired was a 9mm (once from a Glock 17, once from a Berreta 92FS), so I was both excited and slightly weary of what had been reffered to me before by friends as a "handcannon." Then again, my one time with a 12 guage (Winchester 1300 Deffender with stockless pistol grip installed) I had no problems... Turned out to be entirely reasonable, though I did find my shots were going quite low and often to the left, wich so far I believe was mostly trigger control (the horizontal drift at least). It wasn't so much jerking, just getting used to the slightly heavier trigger pull and trying to manage recoil. The one piece of advice he gave me there was that untill I've got rounds where I want them not to worry about managing recoil; that'll come later. I did find relaxing my grip helped quite a bit, enough that I got one group of five rounds within probably six inches (I was having a hard time with it...) and one of those shots mostly inside the inch diameter circle. The only thing I enjoyed more was the opportunity to fire a rifle one of the guys at the range had brought along. It was a Norinco M14 with a newly installed Aimpoint M2 red dot sight he had brought to zero today. He let me fire five rounds through it, and I can only confirm that two of them hit the target. Largest rifle caliber I've fired was a 5.56x45mm/.223 from a target AR15, and it wasn't as heavy as this rifle. Standing unsuported, and trying to maintain stock weld while peeking up to see through the optic with allready tired arms (I was a little tense, I have to admit), I can't say I feel too bad about not consistantly hitting the 8.5x11 printout at 50 meters. I know I can hit consistant headshots on an NRA silhouette at that range with an AR (again standing unsupported, iron sights), so I know there's hope for me yet. All this to say that I had a great fucking morning. Great untill I got home. Home stressed me right back out. Aside rom some amasing conversations I've had with one or two close friends as of late, it;s the first time in a while I've really lit up about anything. That said, I only slept about 3 and a half hours last night, and coming to conspiracy theory again and a pacifistic mother who, while interested, also bares quite the unhappy glare at anything weapon related, especially firearms, kind of tapped me out. My energy used up at the range, it was all I could do to focus on the coversation I ended up having with Maria, wich fel like shit. I hate not being able to be present in a conversation, especially with her given the conversations we tend to have. Fellow aspiring intellectuals, you know? Now it's 1930, ish, and I haven't even been able to take a nap. My mind and body just won't relax, despite the exhaustion. The armchair political analist is staying for dinner, and as much as I love the guy, I need to be honest with him about this stuff, because I just can't be around it all the time. It's killing me more than I am. Hopefully I'll get to talk to Maria again later, and maybe even have the privacy to do so honestly and openly. If I'm really lucky, my mind might even have settled and relaxed a bit by then. Right. Once again, random blowing of wad into the ether complete, carry on...

0206 - An Exploration of Weakness Current mood: The smiley was an organ doner after all, it seems. I try to remember. It seems like there must have been a time, but it escapes me if it ever truly existed. I've never been able to see myself as a strong person. Certainly not tonight. Tonight, as ever other night, I feel broken and angry. Tonight I feel these to a poignance. Some know I went on an awkward sort of a date a little while back, and those who know this may also know I haven't spoken with the lass since. Not out of discontent with her, not out of malice or even an urge to tease. I neglected to contact her out of fear. Being someone with so little to offer, I couldn't imagine a legitimate reason to get in touch other than to say hello. I know I should have. I know this, you know this, we all know this. The more time that passed, the more I feared. I feared being borne forth as the shell I am. I feared rejection as every other person involved in interpersonal relationships fears. I feared she would get to know me. Tonight this fear has gotten me nowhere pretty. Tonight every muscle in my body is tense, refusing to relent from the barrage of a dychotomy; self loathing from the femoral tissue, anger from just under the shoulder blades. One I am accustomed to, to a degree at any rate, but the other is new. The other I have not felt for some time. It's been a while since I've really been angry at anyone else. Even the tantrum of a friend of a friend bares no competition here, and I'm left without even contemplating my right to that obscure emotion. She said she had nothing to say to me. Then she said she had put up with too much bullshit to do it again. Then she said she wanted a lad who'd respect her. While I understand the basis for these things, and I certainly take responsibility for my own lack of action, my mind still recoils at these words. The first statement is so overtly an ill considered attack that I see no worth in discusing it beyond to say that it provides an exhibit for a later point. The second statement indicates a preconceptualised relationship in her mental frame with serious discrepancies as compared to the reality of the circumstances. The last statement I can't help but believe based on the rest of her testimony claims root in a core misconception of that term as applied to the context of a relationship. Anyone unwilling to communicate openly and honestly will not be able to build any form of healthy relationship in this reality that we collectively create, and this item is so elementary it should not need iteration. Anyone unwilling to hear out another person and actually confront issues with a cunstructive sense of purpose should have at the very least the decency to stop talking about subjective constructs like respect and fairness. Anyone who is willing to condemn another based on an unwillingness or inability to fall into line with a gender role based procedural code is asking for trouble gift wraped with a bow. In the end, what upsets me most is that if she had even given me a moment to speak, she would have discovered that I was not seeking forgiveness, much less a continued romantic relationship. I know now I am not in any shape for such a relationship. It is fair to no one to create that set of expectations. She would not have discovered an avalanch of bullshit: a grand list of excuses and promises. What I would have offered her was my explanation of what happened and why, my remorse, and my hope for a continued friendship if at all possible. Why does it upset me to such a degree that she did not give me the chance to say my piece? Why is it so important to me for her to hear my words? Is it because I care about her? Is it because she is a part of my world? If there is nothing left between us, or nothing positive left between us, than why should the journey that got us there be so important to me? Is it just another measure of myself? I try to remember. I try to remember strength. I try to remember the sensation. I try to remember not feeling weak and alone and afraid. Every night I try. Tonight, again, I fail.

1207 - I am Jack's severed subclavian artery... Current mood: I have the smiley's heart in a jar... I wrote this last night in my journal, and for some reason feel a need to post it here. I suppose it has something to do with the comfort in knowing no one reads my babblings anymore. I'm not sure why that gives me comfort. Today I came to the realisation that I feel nothing good about my life. I've hatd myself for a long time now, as long as I can recall in fact. I remember when Maria asked me if there was anything I liked about myself. At the time I told her no, as it felt true at that moment. Later I began to wonder if it was indeed true, or if perhaps I simply hadn't thought it through. Looking at it again, however, I can't say as I feel any different. What in this world is truly important to any of us? What is the importance of survival? None of us wants to die, rather we fear it. Why must life go on? I read online someone joking about the proper way to handle a potential suicide being a full magazine and some privacy, and it made me wonder. Having considered suicide in the past, I can't help but wonder what might have happened if I'd had such an oportunity ten years ago; a single bullet to take it all away. Why a bullet? When I considered it in the past I was planning on using a knife, being the most ready means at my disposal. Nowadays I can't think I'd want to go any other way than by a small piece of lead cased in copper. Why is that? Because it's the romantic way, I guess. That and if done right, theoretically painless. Pain and fear are both the two biggest motivators and obstacles in my life. They are behind everything I do, as well as everything I don't. They are why I left Austin and why I'm not letting myself go back. Then again, is there good reason in going back? I went for Nicole, and to escape the life I had. When I got there I hid from the life I had there. I hid from the woman I moved all that way to be with. Now why would I do that? The one I love, the one I picked up and started anew for, the opportunity of a lifetime, and I sat there and let it all fall away. I've gone right back to square one. I live with my mother again, I have no money, and I spend my days finding ways to amuse myself and wishing it didn't hurt. Goodie. I wonder, have I done any good in my life? Some voice keeps saying of course I have, I've touched people, I've loved and helped, I've done things for Nicole and others. But the more I think about it, the more it feels like a load of bollucks. What do fleeting moments of joy amount to in the end? Is she a better person for it? Is Delia? How about Kim, or Maria, or even me? Have I grown at all in the past few years? Have I become a better person, and what does that even mean? Do I care anymore? After a short lifetime of trying to answer the questions, is it really still important to me? Should I just stop trying to figure it out, stop this vain effort to find something about myself I like and just find some mold to fit in to? Should I go to school on my grandparent's control money and get a degree in something I hate, just to have done something? What then? Huh... Perhaps become a philosopher?

I'l be cancellin my Myspace account at the end of the month, so for reasons beyond me I'm posting my blogs from that account here. I guess I like being able to look back on it all. Again, why I do not know. Still. These two entries are from 23 March of his year: 2119 - Fuck you. Fuck you right in the ear... Current mood: The little smiley is dead. Allright, here I am again. If you're wondering why I'm still revisiting this in the public forum, than you've allready heard enough and shouldn't be fucking reading in the first place. There's this friend of mine I have a bad habit of listening to, and she keeps telling me that I can not get through this on my own. The logical, reasonable side of my mind has taken a long walk this evening, apparently. Fuck help, proffessional or otherwise. I'm so fucking tired of relying on others to help me fix my stupid flaming little shit. I'm sick of seeking others to poke around in and somehow eventually repair my brain. At this point in my life I have a hard time believing there is anyone out there who can change my life besides (say it with me now...) ME. It's apparently a dark, pedantic and often seemingly pointless journey, but it's my fucking journey. It's my life. Who the fuck knows how to fix this if it isn't me? I don't want to hear that some gobshite who spent way too much on schooling to become an accute tool of the structural mold knows how my head works, because they've shown me this is not the case time and time again. Take your PhD and shove it so far up your ass you choke on it, I say. This is also the woman who kicked me out because of these issues. What a bastion of support to percieve when she tells me to seek proffesional help. God damn, dude, I'm not just alone any more. I'm not just depressed, and I'm not just feeling a bit helpless, I'm downright fuckin' pissed. Not speciffically at her, just in a very general sort of way. I want to see someone in pain. I want to see blood, sweat and tears. I want to open up the head of a picture-perfect baby seal with a wooden bat, if only for the slight percentile occurence of splintering and minor increase in weight. So why am I mad? The answer is I do not know. Or, more accurately, I'm mad because I still do not know. I'm mad because I look around and I see people with purpose. People with joy in their lives. People with friends, with lovers. I see people making music, performing in the theatre, travelling. I see people who know themselves, and I want them to spend a day inside my head. I want them to come inside and leave shaken to the core. I want them to remember. ----- 2145 - Feedback on that you know not... Current mood: I have the smiley's organs around here somewhere.. What do we know about death? What do we think about death? Here's what I'm looking for, people, I want to know everything you are willing to tell about death. Thoughts regarding your own impending dmise, personal experiences regarding deaths of others, etc., anything you have to offer. I'm in one of those moods, and looking for material to sate my mind...

For the third day in a row, it rains. Not just rain today, however; hail. It's hilarious to me how it jumps in the grass like popping corn, a sure sign that it has been far too long that I hav been gone south from here. Something tells me in the back of my mind that North Ossetia might be a lovely place for me someday, but that would be looking into an uncertain future I'm not yet ready to tackle. For now this place will do, and I have to admit that I do love being out of the city at times. Looking out the north window and knowing that the forrest I see stretches for a good 40 clicks before being broken by any road or property puts a smile on my face.

These days I find myself deprived even of what little creative juices I usually bare. I've been trying to formulate an entry, something interesting and entirely fictional, for days now. Nothing comes forth, nothing spawns out of that pool of primordial goop in my brain. So, instead, today I will post here something I once wrote in my journal on the topic of my at the time choice of career. It's interesting for me to come back and reread it now, having decided otherwise. Jesus tapdancing christ I was in a smaller state of mind then...

War is something that on an intellectual level I hate, deeply and truly. Strangely enough though, there is a part of me that yearns from deep down for combat. Killing is something that is simply vile, but when I think of my future I see myself in those woodland fatigues with a rifle in hand, and it scares me.

I am not a violent person, I do not relish destruction and I take no pleasure from the pain of others. I find it abhorent that there are those in the world who would kill for money, oil, religion or any other source of power, but I still plan to to work for one of them as a warrior; as a soldier. I want the experience of soldiery, the fraternal spirit, the proffessionalism of the work, the training, and the constant test of mettle.

Why can I not find an alternate line of work, one to challenge me and give me the personal satisfaction I seek? Why not take a different path that I can be proud of and not feel so conflicted about? When I see myself in uniform I am afraid, and yet somehow I feel a natural calm as if it where the natural path for me to take.

I've felt these things for as long as I can remember, and I can still remember so many recognising the warrior in me. Even my mother, wich gave me bit of a shudder. I allways had an interest in the military, and being some sort of man-o-war just seemed like the thing for me. It's not that I've never considered other paths, just that none other seemed as right.

Ugh... did I really just say right? The debate, my own personal war, or at least one of them, goes on. I guess that in the end it comes down to this: though I may allways be in conflit over the issue, I'll still do it. As a good friend recently told me, it is better to at least have more people int the military with conciences than not, and I think that makes me a pretty good candidate.

Tired. Angry. Alone. I feel like I've been having bunnies-in-spring-wallsocket sex all day, with none of the satisfaction. My muscles ache, and my heart refuses to decelerate. I woke up to a fifteen minute anthem of howling and barking from the two dogs in this house who refuse to relent given vocal directives, but are rendered silent by footsteps coming down the stairs. Given no history of violence or abuse, I find this curious and endlessly irritating, especially when wrenched awake from twisted nightmares allready startling. I haven't eaten today, but for the tall glass of milk to my immediate left. I've spent my day thusfar trying to build a door without the propper tools to do so, along a plan improvised by my mother instead of the detailed specifiction I wrote up for her. When I realised I had grown too frustrated to continue working on that, I picked up m mum's hand mower and went off to take a chunk out of the lawn. The sun is out, the blackflies are out, and the grass is clogging up the mower in agrevated protest. Thinking at first that continued motion might assuage at least the frustration of the little creatures nibbling on my body, I've come to the conclusion the very salt of my sweat draws them near. I find myself wishing it would draw something else hither, but then I'm too angered to be turned on, and have no nearby opportunity in any event for such a release. After getting a decent chunk of the overgrown meadow cut, the mower took a good 10-15 meter trip through the air, and after having lost perspiration, blood, various bits of skin and allmost all of my patience I took a trip inside to the sink. I read back through what I've writen here, and I wonder just what the hell I'm so infuriated over. What about the above is really so exasperating? My current thinking is that something is really building up inside. I miss being a part of a world. I miss being around people. I miss being touched. I miss being smiled at; being kissed. Oh how I long to feel a soft, moist pair of lips on my skin, on my shoulders and neck, on my back and my face. I miss being among my friends, instead of my mum's. I've been out into the world, and now I've come voluntarily back here, and I am keeping myself here. Becasue I don't believe I deserve or am capable of better? Perhaps. Today, instead of heting up the frying pan I've sat down to write. I see this as a good sign, if a small one. Who knows, perhaps if I keep this habit up I might begin to get somewhere, as opposed to my usual circular routine.

They watch, from across the room
Across the desk
Across the refrigerator
They watch from the wall
They watch every movement
Every action
They see

The photograph of my great grandmother
The picture of my ex and her dog
The image of the elephant on the tin
Of Raj Rub
They don't have to move to follow
They don't have to twist their necks to see

The picture on my destop
Johnny with his great knives
And spitefull grin
The masochism that lies hidden
Beneath the windows to the soul
The gates to the Self
Cerberus rolls in once more

The fabrication of my daily life
The postulations
The theories
The preconceptualised lifestyle
Like packaged meat at the grocer
I create the world from within
The world pixelated through my mental filters

The canvas feels heavy
Bullshit
Lies
Anger
Hate
Rage
My fingernails break and split
As I try to scratch and peel away the paint

The canvas is not the world
The canvas is my Self
The canvas is the world I did not create willingly
The canvas exits
If only within
The eyes see

The eyes of thousands
People
Animals
Characters from advertisements
And twisted little cartoons
They live, but only in the world I create
They see the civil war

They watch, and they wait
They wait for the outcome