the elusive cause for the gut in your gulliver

people
only chase
dreams.
their ideals,
and their
saviors.
you can look ahead,
to a future dimly
lit.
where fog has the
thickness of a cloud.
you can look behind you,
where clarity has became synonymous
with burden, and hope, loss.
You can look to your sides,
where all things becoming, become
undone or run headstrong into
the mist ahead.
Where you'd have to look
to grasp ahold of whatever peace
isn't fleeting or getting married (or
divorced; that which is broken refuses
repair while the harmony it once knew
has been discontinued).

ah, but no one is chasing you.
from your side, from behind,
from ahead,
no one is coming.

You want to be something more, to make yourself impervious to change and inscrutable to yourself. Forgo reality, and just build your own ship to sail across continents a la photographic moments you swear are far greater in beauty than the stillness of a kiss. If I never understand woman, I will profusely deflect blame. I don't see any fault in an honest presentation of my will and intentions. ANd i do not see any fault in wanting love to actually fucking last. It would appear that the minority is always in harms way like they were standing at the epicenter of a quaking intersection. Everything comes crashing in, and crashing, and crashing. Fighting each other with subversion and indignation, but not conscious enough of the hopelessness that should be the very fuel in our lungs that makes a bed a place to rest, not live. No fucking clue what the future holds for any of my friends, or the women I've wanted to be with for a lifetime. And its frightening as fuck. Its terrible to know that I've never been the one making the decision to let go. A million false starts. No apologies sent my way because everyone else knows better. Because apologies only lengthen the misery, by some unknown fucking standard. I call bullshit. If any closure is to be had, it would be as the result of understanding that there is no further potential, or at least no significant amount, worth pursuing. And how the fuck can that point be reached if I'm always kicked away and shoved right back down into this sinkhole of deprivation? But still I must remain nice. If I'm not kind, then what the fuck is the point of living any longer? Its a bigger waste of life than murder to remain bitter and hostile in regards to everyone all the time. One must at least try saying, about someone new or old, this person is less likely to hurt me than whoever first scarred us. We are such fools. Such fucking idiots to make the natural process of aging more difficult than it is.

"You wanna know what ruins us, just take a look at how we love." - some shitty poem of mines.

"Its getting tougher to say the right things." - Unbroken.

“Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.”
—

Sylvia Plath

On weed

If given the right to do that shit, tons of hipsters, pretentious 'free thinkers', and uptight-gone-liberated motherfcukers are going to hop in the weed van and smoke to their idiocy's content. Don't fucking care, don't care, don't care. Weed or alcohol or sex or casual love, people in this country are woeful for very obvious reasons that no one wants to acknowledge. You do as you wish, I'm not doing shit.

Was it entirely paranoid to suspect that all those stoppers, thingamajigs, and substances devised to prevent conception were intended not to liberate womankind from the biological and social penalties imposed on her natural passions but, rather, at the insidious design of capitalistic puritans, were supposed to technologize sex, to dilute its dark juices, to contain its wilder fires, to censor its sweet nastiness, to scrub it clean (clean as a laboratory autoclave, clean as a hospital bed), to order it uniform, to render it safe; to eliminate the risk of uncontrollable feelings, illogical commitments, and deep involvements (substituting for those risks the less mysterious, tamer risks of infection, hemorrhage, cancer, and hormone imbalance); yes, to make sexual love so secure and same and sanitary, so slick and frolicsome, so casual that it is not a manifestation of love at all, but a near anonymous, near autonomous, hedonistic scratching of a bunny itch, an itch far removed from any direct relation to the feverish enigmas of Life and Death, and a scratching programmed so that it would in no way interfere with the real purpose of human beings in a capitalistic, puritanical society, which is to produce goods and consume them?

Things the patriotic and cheerful constituents of this country unite in the name of

Parades (typically celebrating a team's victory or homosexuality)
Voting


uhhhhhh

I need one person: a wife. Beyond that, humanity can go fuck itself.

“We are as forlorn as children lost in the woods. When you stand in front of me and look at me, what do you know of the griefs that are in me and what do I know of yours. And if I were to cast myself down before you and weep and tell you, what more would you know about me than you know about Hell when someone tells you it is hot and dreadful? For that reason alone we human beings ought to stand before one another as reverently, as reflectively, as lovingly, as we would before the entrance to Hell”

Cry a little while, but not too long. a little while is good. too long is bad. you should never think of what is finished. Women always think of what is finished instead of what is beginning. It makes you sick.