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Punk in drublic.

Mushroom induced musings.

We are one. Sublime, beautiful, and completely unnecessary.

My existence is constantly getting in the way of my life.

To speculate on the fact that the ego does not exist is to conjure it.

I scream at reality "Wake Up!" and it can only answer "I am AWAKE!"

Don't trust your television.

story draft

Gregory took a hit of acid. It wasn't 1960's orange sunshine hippy acid. It wasn't dance party dubstep two free glowsticks acid. It wasn't a secret key to the center of the universe, it was just plain LSD-25 soaked into a square of all white blotter paper, odorless, with the alkaline taste of the aluminum foil it was kept in. He chewed it up into a paste, bits of it getting stuck between his teeth and in his molars. Jenny, who was also entertaining a hit in her mouth, passed him the joint. he moved the acid paper mache under his tongue and took one big hit, holding in a small cough as he felt the smoke alter his body chemistry, making him feel more relaxed. It wasn't enough to shake the nervousness, he had sweat beading up on his forehead, and he could feel the beginnings of perspiration stick his shirt to his skin. "I'm nervous," she said. He closed his eyes and exhaled the smoke through his nose, took a quick hit, and said while holding the smoke in, "relax, everything's gonna be all right." She turned to sit next to him on the bed, he handed her the joint and slid down so that their faces met.

But to understand the next thing he said to her, you need to understand what he was thinking at the time and that story began....

blah blah

Sometimes.

I think about you sometimes. On those humid mornings when people are waking up and I can't sleep. Or when I dig through the seat and find that stick of lip balm I should have thrown away two springs ago. I miss not having to say anything, or talking without worrying about much, or having regular sex. Maybe I knew it'd be over someday, but it never felt like the last time. Even when it was the last time, I remember the taste of beer and cigarettes and the smell of sheets and you. Sometimes between books or in boxes of old things I find you looking at me feverishly muttering into a glass of wine or playing your slightly out of tune guitar. Sometimes in convincing dreams my bed is not a cold crash landing, but a warm sanctuary from chaos. I don't miss you, and that scares me more than being alone.

draft

I stood there seeing the new piece in the gallery of the sky, so many came before it, but as the flaming clouds turned shades of a violent violet my heart unleashed itself and spilt out into my mind. I tried to hold on to one strand of thought but it was impossible in the tangle of moments in my memory. I saw the boy filled with emotion, speaking words with no defined definition but filled with absolute meaning as his body trembled from the inside out, seeking the meaning of his existence in this illogical world. I saw the old man whose beliefs in a God of righteousness and order stood firm as his family fell apart around him looking for a love he had castrated, put in a suit, and placed on display on Sunday morning, deaf, dumb, and blind to the concepts of giving and understanding. I saw her eyes, welled up as she told me she too wished she could lay in my arms, a week before chaos took her beyond my reach. I longed to call that long forgotten number that led to a voice mail message with that familiar voice that I will never hear again. I stepped inside to get away from the cold and passed a stranger in the mirror on my way up the stairs. I remembered the lack of tears as they lowered her into the ground, my heart callous and my shoulders strong, holding up the beliefs of others, as I slowly lost my own. My hand went instinctively to that spot on my knee, and I remembered there's a lighthouse in this storm. Sometimes I wonder if I really made it to land, or if I only caught a glimpse of the lighthouse as I was dashed against the rocks and sunk slowly to the bottom. I stepped into the room of chaos and peace, strewn with dirty and clean clothes and the paraphernalia of a man addicted to music. As the deficit in my atention grew I placed ink on paper, and I fel the pain of the ink in my skin, stepped out of the past and began filling the future with false hopes till I saw the futility of my own actions and tore the paper to pieces. I picked up my guitar and strummed at random chords and notes, scraping at vibrations that might say what my voice and pen could not. As my notes became louder and more frantic the doors of my consciousness opened I closed my eyes and my thoughts were overcome with sound and rhythm till I found silence in my soul. But this peace is not eternal and theres nothing worse than feeling alone but not weary. Someone crack my ribs open reach into my heart and pull out this madness.

My Truth,

I believe in you, and because I have learned to believe in others, I have begun to believe in myself. This is my first step in my path to a better me. I want so bad for others to believe in me, so I will start by believing in them.

To the half dozen people whom I have given this site's address, I believe in you.

To the rest of the world and all the human race.

I believe in your potential, inside of you there is the ability to change the world, not in some magic talent you were born with, but in a heart with the ability to stop fearing and start loving.

Not because you live it, but because you are capable of living it, I believe in you.

Ramblings.

It's been a handful of weeks since I decided to step out of the religious life.

I've decided my stance on a handful of issues.

Or at least I'm leaning towards certain ideas.

My perception of this world begins with myself. I have a seat of emotions, this is called the heart. An extremely jaded cynical atheist will tell you that this is just hormones in your brain.

I can see that approach making sense with anger or fear. I can see that coming into play with love in a physical sense. It's all survival of the fittest, I want to live, and I want to procreate.

But, I don' t think that's the whole story. There's one thing that I don't see in an animal that I can see in myself and people around me, the ability to create. Art, music, poetry, dance, you can say this is just a peacock showing it's feathers, and there are those that develop a skill just to be confident and get laid, but I believe that there is selfless expression that comes from the heart, and it doesn't have a natural source that we can tie to survival and instinct.

So what do we call this? Is this the soul? I don't know yet. Stephanie makes a valid argument about the idea of right and wrong, she says that guilt exists, therefore we know what right and wrong are. I don't know if that's true.

I feel like it's a nurture vs. nature type deal. I look at the moral values of other people my age, Some are extremely conservative while others don't give a fuck about anything or anybody but themselves. Then I look at their parents and it makes you want to accept the anecdotal evidence.

I would love to believe that I have a soul, and that I am inherently a good person, but I don't see that as true. It seems to me that fear and a desire to not take responsibility for my actions used to and normally would motivate me to take care of myself before taking care of others. I've learned through my experiences in life that when I take care of others I take care of myself, but not everyone realizes that, there are those that live and die motivated by fear their whole life.

So I have a heart, but i'm not sure if good and evil are even existent. For these to exist there would have to be a set standard in everyone's life of what good and bad are, and it's very obvious that there is no standard set. Maybe "don't hurt other people," but even then we have things like aboortion, and senses of justice where a man in texas shoots two men for trespassing into someone's house.

So how do you define good or evil if we can't decide amongst ourselves? So lets play the Karma card, or the God card. wel lI'm not too sure about that either. Karma would have to be based upon the idea that you do good, good things happen, you do bad, bad things happen. What goes around comes around. That's not always the case. I mean maybe you can get more satisfaction out of your life if you live at peace, but horrible things happen to good people daily, for no reason.

And God? I think the fact that energy and matter exist in general points towards the idea that there is some greater force that exists in this world that we don't know about, but where did anybdy get the idea that there is a clear concept of good and evil in this world and that God is its prime representative? If good exists, by definition evil must exist. And if God is the source of good, by definition he is the source of evil.

Good and evil are subjective at best. And God is not some great all powerful benevolent being. And if he is then our perception of good and evil are skewed and nothing makes sese anyways. I don't think God takes nearly as much interest into our lives as we pretend he does.

So that means, life, in essence, is meaningless. We assign value to things that are meaningless just like we kill over green paper that is money, but if we were all here without memories of the past in a big open field buck naked, we would not believe the same truths to be true as we do now.

So what about this destiny thing, if we have been set into a track to live a certain life, like we're acting out a play, like one big ugly painting, then what does that mean to us? Even if destiny exists, we can't pretend to know what we are destined for, so there's no use worrying about it, and there's no way to really know if it's there. And even if destiny did exist, by extension of life being meaningless, destiny is meaningless.

As you can see my thoughts here get a little disorganized because I'm stil lthinknig this out, but the part that scares me once I get here is, if life is meaningless, what's the point in living. Right now I keep myself going with the idea that there's so much I want to see, there's so much world to witness, so much life. But once I've seen it, or experienced things I'm curious about, why live? I don't know iff I disagree with suicide as muc has I used to. I think someone should think long and hard before they kill themselves. But I don't know if it's wrong to opt out. If there was no reason to be here in the first place, why go through the trouble of sticking around?

I mean, I guess if you had something to live for.