Expecting support was overtly stupid.

There we go with that expectation thing again...

I think it's possible expectation is my biggest enemy and why my mind is so freaking over the place.

What would honestly happen if I just eliminated all expectation?
Is that such a horrible thing?

Both negative and positive.
And just accepted things 'as is'?

God I wish this would have clicked in my head years ago...I don't know how to go about breaking the ingrained sentiments I have...but God that would help...no expectations from friends, family, love, Jesus...anything.

That almost sounds like a healthy alternative to just investing in pure apathy.

I WAS in college at some point?
Right?

When was that?

My brain isn't working...I hope I still am not asleep...I just meant to take a very short nap...and it was only two hours...but...felt like years...

The thing that terrifies me the most about my dreams...much less my nightmares...isn't how realistic they are...but how realistic they FEEL.

I hate getting to this...place where I don't know if I've been talking to people or not...have had conversations.
God.
I'm a mess.

It has not been a pleasant twelve hours of freaking out...

If I live long enough to escape from here I am never returning willingly or alive.

God I freaking fell asleep.
That was the single most horrible and real nightmare I have had...I thought I freaking awake...and getting injections.


Seriously...are you trying to make a point or somethin?

I can't even process all of the elements of the nightmare...schools, military, injections, gunfire, people I know dying...

Jesus, enough already.
Please.

It was all profane laced lies anyway...right?
A bit of this...and that.
Heh, I'm a genius.

One of no sleep and a master of deceiving no one but myself.

Maybe this has all been one lie.

Every.

Last.

Word.

=)

I wish I would stop missing my grandmother.
The past is the past.
Why can I not let things go and just forget it already?
This...see this is what I'm talking about.
Ignoring, forgetting everything...it'll create a personal Hell.
But being numb in a personal Hell beats being vividly alive in one...and having every new day pour gasoline on the flames with new complications and new problems.

Why can't things just go back to being simple?
I haven't aged.
The very notion of me even considering being a father is mere madness.
I would be a unspeakably horribly person to actually want someone else to go through anything like what I'm going through right now.

Delusions, mad delusions.

"The Goat (Nervosa)" - Showbread

Explosively Explicit Rant

Trying is absolutely frivolous.
Pointless beyond reason.
Nothing here is going to last.
No connection or relationship is worth investment or trying.

But my nature be damned I cannot quit.
I want to throw up all of this emotion, I want to be rid of it.
I want to show my revulsion with feeling.
I want to die on the inside and never feel again.
I want to be numb to life.
I never want to breath again.
But I can't quit.

You won't let me.

I'm a child, spoiled child who wants to throw a tantrum.
I want to lay here in the mud and blood and the beer and weep.
Weep in shame for everything I am and everything that I am not.
I'm so insecure and I have to pain it in bright read letters on here so everyone can see it.

I'm weak, I'm sick.
Physically I just want to give up because it feels like I won't heal and I won't get better. I don't sleep, I can't and when I do it's nightmares...mentally I'm not here.
Emotionally I'm stretched beyond the snapping point and feel like the ground is just sliding out from under me and it's only a moment before I loose the rest of these.

I have to get out of this house...I'm afraid for my life, I can't focus...writing is this blob of complete crap...this isn't anything.
This is rubbish, this entire stupid blog is nothing.
I keep throwing myself at mirrors and cutting myself on them to just find I'm just Narcissus, following in love my own image and no one was there in the first place.

I'm sending words out to no one and the only person's time I'm wasting is my own.
It's not a letter in a bottle, it's an encyclopedia of hate locked inside my own prison, my own coffin.

Why am I trying?
Why am I fighting the inevitable?
All of this will fade.
Everyone.
No one will be here to stand with me.
I'll be fighting by myself, alone again.
Few people, a damn few people understand me.
Understand why I am trying to stand at all.
This isn't the movies, this ain't a game.
Few people care, few people see the truth.
No one wants to give up their comfort.
No one wants to sell everything to just buy a worthless piece of land with a single prized pearl in it.
No one is going to give up their life just so they can gain the eternal.
It's pointless.
I'm beyond being on another level, I'm just in another plane altogether.
This isn't just about ministry, it is about life itself.
The darkness that encroaches every aspect of life, people selling themselves short over mud pies when they have all of eternity within grasp.
People can't grasp the temporal, much less the true nature of life.

I'm not saying I know.
I just know enough to be dangerous.
I know that I don't know.
And God it is driving me mad.
I know Love, I've felt and seen it.
It terrifies me as much as I'm intoxicated by it.
I want freedom, I need freedom.
My mind will never shut off until everything crashes down forever.

People want a show.
They want emotion.
They paid good money to see me beg and that's why they are here.
People want to see those on the pedestals come crashing down.
They live vicariously the plastic screens and everyone says they want the happy ending but they pay to see lives crumble so we can all go back home to our nihilistic hell holes and stay there.
Apathy consumes because it is easier to pretend humans are just numbers, that unborn babies are mere collections of souls and the people being raped and murdered in fucking genocides are useless figures...uneducated people useless and not worth anything in the grand scheme.

I hate arrogance so much.
I hate my own the most.
I hate the scum I represent as ministry.
Religion is a sham.
Jesus is the life, the truth and only way that works...everything else is utter bullshit coined to help us ignore the suffering around us and so we can wash our hands of responsibility.

The more I read about how Jesus LOVES, the more I realize I am a selfish brat who doesn't care about anything besides laying here in this trash heap of my things. I say I want to change the world but I'm too much of a coward.

Martyrs, the ones who willingly embrace being beaten to death, starving themselves for others, giving their lives to the Truth (not those mislabeled dogmatic fools that are nothing more than blind idiots who blow themselves up because they are neurotically depressed and too scared to face the fact that life is complex, not simply black and white).

I don't want to suffer.
I complain, I'm frightened, I'm scared out of my mind and I can't help but swear because of how outraged and terrified I am.

I don't want comfort either.
I want to stew in this rage and let it overtake me.
I want to be the little child who lays down and cries while beating the floor because of how absolutely terrified I am.

I'm terrified of being right.
That Jesus is the Messiah who loves us all and my 'job' is to love people, build relationships and tell them that they are infinitely loved.

Being loved scares me, it's easier to be feared and hated than loved...love covers over a multitude of sins and means you can be redeemed from the cesspool you live in...it means you can't live in sin and pretend that life is black and white and a game.

I want to live in games, virtual settings, roleplays...these pretend worlds because I hate my reality so much...who I am.

I hate knowing the Father loves me so much Jesus died for my sins, rose again and loves me infinitely and holds nothing against me. I hate knowing it because I am created to love Him and love all of you and everyone else.

I'm supposed to love the religious, the conservative, the liberals, my ex-girlfriends, my friends, my family...and I would rather just put a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger than talk to most of these people because communicating is ripping my heart apart...trying to live in eternity and this world at the same time is ripping me to pieces and I can't function at all.

I cry and it doesn't help.
I ask for help.
I pray.
God I pray.
I'm more alone now than I was before.
The more I pray the more I feel the void.
Where did You go?
I had idols I don't want.
Just rip me out of reality.
Take me home, I want to go HOME please.
If You are more than a delusion, the makings of a sick mind...just help me push past this or take me away.
I can't breath.
It hurts so bad...please.

Empyreal.

If I actually try to finish reading Jame Joyce's "Ulysses" will someone please just fugging shoot me in the face?

Please?

"The Bell Jar" - Showbread

To be common place would be unique,
But we’re so obscure we’re incoherent,
Like tongueless vigilantes choking just to make you choke,
Rattling, rattling,
No nails to hold ideas in place, no expression on your face.

Music and her patrons are dead and irrelevant,
Like osteoporosis, she’s brittle she is broken.

Static comes through synthesizers, megaphones and drum machines,
Beauty sounds like smashed guitars,
And several references to feedback,
Rattling, rattling,
No surgery to save your life,
No promise everything’s all right.

Music and her patrons are dead and irrelevant,
Like osteoporosis she’s brittle and she is broken.

Languages must be organic because like flies they fall and die,
Music now sleeps with Latin and Aramaic,

It’s over, it’s over,
No more waiting for something to live for,
It’s over, it’s over,
Everything is dying and we want something more.

"Hallelujah" - Leonard Cohen

Despair

I'm so frustrated I want to punch myself in the face.
I have no idea what I'm doing or where I am going.
Money...money...money...
Why does everything come back to that?
Whatever happened to faith?
Am I just prone to making irrational stupid decisions until I die?

What is being an adult?
I don't get this.
I feel like I'm going to have a breakdown or a panic attack.
I don't want these strings, I hate money.
I want to just be cast away from this place.
But I just can't cut everything away because...

God.

What?

I just don't know.
Every time I make plans and try to do the right thing, stuff explodes.
I'm so freaking sick of it.
I try not to make plans and things fail.
I make plan and things fail.
Does it make sense why I'm frustrated?
I can't function, I suck at this stuff.
I wish I would stop hurting long enough so I could think straight.
I wish my stupid heart would stop functioning long enough for my brain to sever it with cold and accurate logic.

I want to hate everything but I can't because my heart bleeds with emotion and empathy for everyone around me.

I'm so weak, I'm so needy, just a child
just a child in need of your love.
And here we come
to this line again
and baby I don't know what to tell you.
Just pray things hold together
long enough,
just long enough
so we don't die
and in the meantime
maybe,
just maybe baby
we'll live long enough to see the sunrise.

Time Come, Time Gone, Time Alone

Time coming and going
speeding across the line
fleeting and flowing
with the sighs and groans
of people living and dying
as you sit here aching and crying
and I'm here waiting,
just waiting for the sun to come
and waiting for the moon to set
across the sky
and I sit here waiting
to share tea
with my bitter loneliness
and self imposed isolation
as I run from myself
and into the arms
of myself,
my love.

"Dragon Attack" - Queen

John Deacon is one of my biggest bass influences and this little known Queen song is one of my favorite bass lines ever. Just raw, aggressive and feels like it is going to blow you away.

Quote of the Day - Part Two:

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" - T.S. Elliot


S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . 110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old … 120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me. 125

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Quote of the Day:

"Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go."
-T.S. Elliot