I had a long walk today. A car I was driving broke down and I had to walk to the owner's house to have them take care of it. The irony being that I wasn't driving my car as theirs is in better shape, and I didn't want to chance a breakdown.

It was a long walk. A very long walk. The kind of walk that eventually turns painful, the kind you have to sleep off.

I had time to think. I went through several emotions. Lonliness, abandonment, anger. Anger.

I thought about all of the people I had lost. People who were taken, people who disappeared.

People who disappeared.

I've been thinking about cutting my hair for a while now. I remember being in high school and having long hair, I set all these leaves on fire, set the whole field ablaze. There was this huge bonfire and I felt it was symbolic. Burning all of the failures of high school away, burning away who I was. Starting over from the ashes.

I had my hair cut the next day, as a symbol of my starting over. All of the dark sadness, all of the hatred. Every word hurled at me and every exclusion I had suffered had been soaked into those strands of black silk coming from my head. At least that's the way I thought at 16.

I never changed.

I had a similar thought during my walk. "Tomorrow I'll just wake up, cut my hair, get a new job and start over. Be someone else. Stop feeling like this and just live."

How do you do that? How do you take that one moment and stretch it over the ocean of identical, agonizing, pedestrian days? Just the anguish of the seconds passing is enough to bring me to my knees at times, let alone the endless torrent of time that lay ahead of me.

I just feel so hollow, so porcelain. Every single thing I was told about this world has proven to be untrue. Every lie that was built in front of me to make this vile tear stained orb seem livable has slowly unraveled.


Slowly I have come to realize that this world holds no substantial satisfaction for me. That these lies that have been told to me have molded me to want that fantasy world where I'll meet some bespectacled muse in an all night laundry who finds my writings touch her soul, who thinks in any way similar to how I think. That there really would be time to support myself and make art as well. That you grow up to do what you are suited to do, and not wasting away in food service or a filling station or have every last drop of anything resembling hope broken out of you with endless labor day after day.

That somehow, the things you love would somehow love you back, and that anything you would ever cherish would stay with you.

My days are without color. My food tastes like week old grease and ashes. I'm stuck in a world of single serving, disposable, microwave memories. A world where love is a job interview and anything you put out there of yourself that is real only drives everyone further from you. I'm surrounded by stone faced empty men and soulless harpies who can only love those devoid of a soul. Harpies who circle around the few real people left in this world as they drag their half alive bags of flesh across a desert of American Idol and Girls Gone Wild and "I love him but I'm not in love with him" and "She was a wonderful girl, if only she'd lose 20 pounds" and endless text messages because they can't stand to talk face to face on the off chance that they might look into each other's dead, soulless eyes and see a lifeless carbon copy of what they have become staring right back at them. A world where we go online and describe what our perfect person is like because we've forgotten what it feels like to touch the skin of someone don't know and that maybe, just maybe, if I focus on what I need in another person then I won't have to pay any attention to the money hungry , baby tee wearing, dressing on the side, "Oh my god is he crying?", forty year old pre-teen anorexic emotional vampire that I've become.

And so I become the outcast because I want someone who loves me for me and not for my ability to built a false personality that conforms to how i know their mind works and hide myself away for times when I am alone or with the occasional friend in a bar trying to scrub enough gin into my eyes so....

Forget it. I think it's a more productive use of my time to listen to Ric Ocasek and eat a few Oxycodone than to sit here and spew the vitriol out of what little there is left of my soul to the zero people that ever read this thing anyway.

The saddest thing at this moment is sitting here on the internet, talking away to no one and realizing this is exactly how I feel when I try to have a conversation with another human being.

Itsumo nando demo.