So then

This is what it feels like to be no one's ideal. TO be perfect to, more or less for, no one at all. To be good, but not good enough. Awful. I'd hoped I'd feel otherwise, or have felt more, by now.

The worst part about romance is that so much of it is conditioned. The statute of instincts and human intelligence naturally give way to more than enough reasons to love someone and enjoy a lifetime with them without all the fuckery that is bought and displayed whimsically in the name of love.

At one point someone from the audience yelled out jokingly, "Play something happy!" to which Nick glibly responded, "I don't do happy songs. I do angry and I do sad. That's what I do."

What to do, what to do

Hope for us.

you
there
standing around like
the figment of
some preteen's too-intensely
idealized
imagination.
Let it go,
let it all go.
THe only remains of it
exist between
the same ears
that recorded her every word.
Let it go.
The beating beasts beneath
our chests are an endangered
species.
So let it go.
We are all alike but we are not
the same.
A cesspool of excuses
is what we dig our bitter little hands
into for relief,
though nothing of aid can be said
when you prefer a grave to a hospital bed.
So let it go.
Because a bruise is no less a shield than a scab is.
Once injured you're not more likely to be
had
than those who inexperience
has given naivety.
So let it go.
Let it go.
It ends on its own, but only
if you believe it should.
Emotions have the lung capacity
of spaceships.
I know.
But let it go.
Its worth letting go.
They, he, she, everyone who has
Stolen pieces of the lifetime you belong in
is worth letting go of.
So let it go.
Affection is our only remaining importance in this
configured torture.
So give it to someone who needs it.
And let it go.
You are their holocausts,
their hollow causes,
their extremities of perseverance,
and their mistakes.
You are like them,
you are similar to all who have suffered,
but you are not them.
So let it go.
Who wonders for any other reason than
to wander from the present?
We all do.
So let it go.
Wander only from that which has left you.
Bind not to what will not even
look you in the eye to say thank you
or fuck you.
Let it go.
Give in to the notion
of a continuation,
undetermined, but inevitable,
if you
let it go.

Shit just got real fucking sexist in here

Women will never understand men. And men will never be able to draw the self-portrait women keep tucked away beneath their dreamy hope. I mostly blame the latter on the former. A man's bound to be honest because it is a man's world if for no other reason than because men are so prone to contributing damage to the world to preserve their own comfort, security, and pleasure. The most bitter of women understand this, and have probably felt it ruin a part of them. The most foolish of women are to blame for all the personality types of femininity; optimistic women and pessimistic women are all variants of the ideal happy woman. The majority of men just want something beautiful to look at that won't leave, and who better to stick around than a trophy wife who doesn't believe in widespread misery?

Who is more prone to leave than a woman who feels there's always something better where she isn't and running from what is will turn her 'what if's' into 'what perfectly is'?

Sexism has its roots buried within us and it will take decades and generations of unadulterated honesty to bring not only an end to sexism, but a beginning to peace. I don't think people in love with an appreciative and reciprocating opposite start wars or give up on all that is living.

I think sexism sheds an at times unbearable light on why we are entirely to blame for the pain we each feel.

This all of course predicates that love truly is the only counterproductive force capable of fighting our progression towards a misanthropic world of isolation and misery. It is also preceded by the assumption that love is valuable or is at least part of our purpose in remaining alive. For the disbelievers of this supposition, I ask what is empty about love? Is the very fact that we are fragile enough to deconstruct bones and tissue just by time's continuity not reason enough to hold on to someone and seek only to make their life fulfilling and enjoyable? Exactly what are we if alone? Isolation and loneliness can really suck the joy out of life and though it is preferable, by me even, to heartbreak or any other type of disappointment, it should not appear beguiling enough to treat people like shit. Especially people who have committed no harm to you.

I extrapolate from that to then present our truth: we are bound for pain, but we must soften each blow with love. Both women and men must be honest as shit. ANd we mustn't allow our mortality, and all the impossibly avoided aesthetic deterioration, mislead our efforts made towards happiness. The relationship of man to women, I believe, is one of the most prevalent determinants of what the future will hold.

Disappointment is something very peculiar to me. I've never been unsure about being disappointed. I've felt confused about being happy, depressed, and content, but never disappointed. I've always been certain that I've been let down and that it has felt like something tied an anchor to my mind.

What I find unique about it is that just prior to being disappointed, I may have the capacity to imagine what is about to happen, and some times I may be more sure of it than others. But once it occurs, I'm suddenly changed in a way. And then I feel like shit or whatever.

But the same change is achievable by doing more than you believe you can do. By disregarding your own limitations. Once you do so, you have grown exponentially in just a few moments or for however long it takes to overcome a fear of yours.

I'd like to think this gives me and anyone reading more hope than anything else. Hope itself is only validated once we have achieved something anyway.

Ken Mode - Likeliness is against you

Completely devoid of colour, she peers down upon us. Winds rise and fall; with human voices as leaves….chattering and falling, piling like corpses. Searching for answers to questions you can't even define. Observation proves to be both a gift and a curse. Filled with a sense of confusion, an empty feeling in the pit of your stomach. This void has no satisfaction, and it reminds me of this fact every night. They make me sick. And the pain of it refuses to cease. Nothing is ever done. Picking life apart before it can be lived. Each situation dissected and dismissed. Left cold and redundant, trapped within this self-propelled cycle; motivated by fear. And likeliness is against you.

Self expression is the new entertainment. - Arianna Huffington

Pride and cowardice versus humility and courage. A wounded helper or a wounded hurter. - Cornel West