View

I have an elliptical track, with snowscaped embroidering following the border between the center. To the right there is a lofty shack, modern aged look for all those construction workers who use to work with hands and now work with words and delegations. In the background I see a cascade of clear buildings, the windows being see through and the people inside being without privacy, but I suppose it could be liberating to know Big Brother is probably watching. I am Big Brother in this case. The cars and buses drive by, surrounded by light posts that don't tower like the ones I'm use to. And there is a bridge, a barren exiled portion of the landscape holding very little weight as the construction deters most from ever taking the path. The pringle shaped building holds in the background, like the lip of a whale going upward while the rest of the whale's body concaves in. I can imagine that whale smiling from this vantage point. I don't forget why I'm here. But its always nice to take note of whats there.

Odd man out

I have been the odd man out before. The deterioration begins in the pit of your stomach, while the rest of your insides begin to palpitate as you begin to question what exactly is wrong with you. I suppose if you have a slight tinge of moral fiber floating around that particular day, night, 3 am interruption, you will come to the conclusion that there is nothing, but such conclusion doesn't stop the disease. And while those labels we like to toss around and throw away and synthesize every time we get to push our kumbaya agenda, seem to be slowly deteriorating, that is not true it is only your stomach, growling less and less.

I have been the odd man out before. My stomach has been deteriorating. My insides create a stream vibration. And people have told me that my label doesn't exist, it does. Stitched at the cerebral cortex, so that you might have justification as to why you are accusing me of doing this, saying that, stealing a few petty t-shirts from your tacky collection of clothes.

I am the odd man out. Can you hear me struggle?

Losing Something

When you look for something and the shortness of breath begins to set in while, you curse God for placing such an inconvenience on you, a daunting task that which you did not even ask for; and those eyes, the pair owned by the Wicked Witch of the West, as she swoops in before Dorothy this time, regaining what was hers, but we all know who was meant to have it. You aren't on the side of meant because its apparent that she didn't get there before and you didn't hold onto it in the rush of things. Still, the distilling sentiments, either get released in a staccato supernova, bursting of the top, infuriation welding the doors of your reality into dribble. These things are never fun.

Teacher

It could be understood that the person who gives the spark to write is the person you are indebted to for the rest of your life. The issue with this understanding is that many people can start up your flame, after the extinguishing effects of actually living. So to say that I have a debt to this man is to say I have a debt to millions. The only way I can explain the profound effect he had on my writing is to liking his ignition to a miracle. The flames flew in a spouting fire, pouring out in the oxygen deprived barren land we call realistic college. Today I will write nothing in honor of him, but this. Think of this as an epitaph to a man who inspired me as a writer.

Think

I'm tired of people trying to do before they have even taken their baby steps. This goes for writers, tossing their bullshit metaphors and prose around the page in a mish mash that they would like to make people believe is true art. Nothing is farther from art. Their fruitless efforts are hidden in the subjective safety net so many artist like to hide in. Criticism was meant to be objective and bound in a temporary sense while praise was suppose to have a fleeting transparent nature, dissipating in each interpretation, all objective, while all being subjective in whole. So stop rushing yourself and let the writing come slowly, so that you might be able to understand what it is your doing. Otherwise you are but a fish, floundering on the platform, moving aimlessly due to ignorance of the water just a few inches to the left.

A song that defines a generation

Young boy, listen to that beat bang at the background, while they talk about that girl, stripping for dollars and respect, getting neither in the long run of things, but thats fine. And when the slow piano piece comes in and we regret everything we perpetuated with the previous action, the people around me, they drop the liters on the floor, watching that golden fountain spurt outward, lacing the ground with some sort of sacred connotation.

Its all beautiful to me, in some fucked up way because when you're now looking from a distance, watching the clashing chord symphony play before your eyes, you can finally figure things out. Clarity is a beautiful thing, thus the whole ordeal becomes beautiful in an existential way. But all of that is just flowery prose, dressed up for the intellectuals and so I write about the vivid memories of being inside the fray, feeling the world around me begin to deteriorate from the very talents that were sent to save them.

Why try

I try, to instill the tiny little pieces that someone brings up to me with life. A life that transfigures the landscape of this place, a barren landfill of disparity that people keep telling me won't change, can't change, well I know, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to stop trying. And maybe it will change, I would say like a little boy and perhaps I still live life like a little boy, believing in things I simply shouldn't, but god dammit if I have to spend another minute listening to the realist spurt their bullshit about what is fair and equal and utilitarian and how this logic curve and that one will help show the preferences of people, I'll just about lose faith in this. Intangible as it may be, and its pretty intangible, you can't touch it of course, unless you find yourself fallen on the ground, face in the grit, spitting out little spectacles of dust from your mouth so that you may get up again and trip and get up again and trip. It's quite disheartening. So that is why I try to keep being there as you get up, instilling in those spectacles a purpose, so that you will be able to transfigure the landscape and I, can finally smile at the point of it all.

Writing to live

This is my personal blog. I write here as an outlet. I don't expect anyone to read it. If you enjoy what I write feel free to tell me. If you have any criticism please feel free to express it through comments. I hope you enjoy my writing.