Death Is A Word

2003-12-07T02:03:00.000-06:00

It's time this thing comes back from the gallows

i was walking i was walking
long my way, long my way

I was once a human. I once knew what it felt like, and I could feel it in my bones like burning ashes. I once knew how it felt when everything crashes. But I am dead.

but i am dead
i was walking i was walking
long my way, long my way.

Breathing in the air of the Forest, I begin to walk on my way. The road stretches on about me, but it is not a road. It is not a set path which I follow; it is not something that hollow. It is unset and unfound.

wandering round the most contary
i find the most often occurance to carry me
about my way.

over my dead body i walk today.
and tomorrow died
and tomorrow
died.

twirling dancing fingers
cut and blooded wishes
of something that is gone.
and tomorrow died
and tomorrow
died.

The eerie resplendence I find here is like a fog. I awoke beside my body, all alone in this forest. I could see my body on the ground, a sick contort of what was and is and could always and will always be. My eyes were wide open, they were beads. I wondered how I had died then.

over my dead body i walk today
in the haze, solemn hanged.

it's the rope round our heads
that's round our ways
not letting go what needn't fade.

my body's head is gone
and its heart has melted to clogs.
a heart is only a mechanical machine
it never breathes.

and my brain doesn't think
but it behaves.

Today I am a ghost; tomorrow I am gone. I can feel my body fading away in this forest right now as the sun touches my cold lips. I can feel my legs losing their feeling as all that is me goes away. I can feel my heart skipping beats in its chest. And most of all, I lean over my dead body and look in its eyes, and I see nothing. And I see nothing that ever was or will ever be.

i see waste
and blood that is not red
but rust.

like steel it is too much
and it will fade away.

and it
will fade
away.

How do I know that I died? I don't know. All I know is I can feel it. As I smell this air, and I breathe, and I see, everything is fading. I will be left alone in the past as the next day comes. This is the set day I will see my end. And I will be eaten away, and the memory of me gone like a dead planet all lone in the sky. I will be painted black with lies, and I will be showered with what it feels to not exist and never had existed.

the sun rose
it was beautiful
it touched on me but the warmth died soon
my body was lying there and it wouldn't move.

i bent over and tried to cry
but i soon realized that i couldn't
and i felt my chest for my heart
but it was not beating

and i looked round where i was
the forest, shadows and wicked
there was nothing here
but what was sickened.

my body was nothing at my touch
and my hands couldn't move it
they only went through.

Am I a ghost? Or just an image? Or was it all a dream? What is reality, and what is being alive? What does it all mean?

it is now midday
and the sun is where it should be
i have left my body and went wandering in the trees.
what i have seen in this forest shouldn't be seen.

it shouldn't
be
seen.

I left my body a long time ago. I couldn't stand looking at it any longer. Looking at my bloodied form, the red of it like rust. I couldn't stand it. My eyes were stones that would not move, and my hands were clinged on the mossy floor in a deathhold. There was nothing to see here but what was coming. And I couldn't stand seeing that.

my walking has led me to many sights i never want to see
and many things that surpise beyond description

there were other people wandering round
and they were groaning and it resounds.

And a new sound has come. It is loud and piercing. And it pierces my dying soul.

They are coming. The deleters of my existence. The ones unknown. And they come with death in their eyes, and something beyond that. They come with non-existence and dreamy distance.

They come with nothing. And they see to make nothing.

To be continued, for certain

2003-09-03T08:24:00.000-05:00

The Way We Walk When We Are Dead
The way we walk when we are dead
is as the world spins on our heads

and we as chesire cats dream
as the wooded within us scream

"Watch as I take off my head,"
and so the chesire cat takes off his neck
and there he walks when he is dead

when is the place where you were conceived
is it within you to forget to breathe
when is the place where you were achieved
is it within you to forget that you bleed

and there in the open fields
we as chesire cats dream
as the wooded within us scream

2003-08-14T12:59:00.000-05:00

Time I updated this thing, it has lots of potential

Well, now that I feel like I can go back into deep-thinking mode, I believe it's time to revamp and restart this thing; I like what I've already done here, so let's keep it going. I don't have much time at the moment, but I'll see what I can do.

When you look at a skull, all you can do is sigh. I look you eye-to-eye, and there's this glint I catch. Like some sailor staring at an empty sea. Or some lost and wandering man left to live on a lost island. An island that is cold.

You come here to the cemetary every night. You don't let up. It's like you live for death.

Often, I stand over you, put my arm so tightly around you. Try to embrace you. Love you like we used to.

"I love you," is often what I whisper in your ear, my lips moving smoothly away and out from each other. But all you do is stare on, a little cloud caught in your eye. Your dark hair just standing where it's at.

Often, I tell you of your wife you had. I whisper more into your ear as the breeze blows it to only your ears. Her name was Dinah, I tell you. "She died from a heart attack, when you were out working, remember?" I'll ask.

And you just continue to stare. Your eyes. Cold. Lost and wandering.

I hug you even closer. I continue to whisper in your ear, but you still only stare at her grave. And stare off into the distance, not even caring about what you have left there sitting in that tombstone.

Sometimes I scream at you. I get all angry and mad. I scream to God. Wondering, I pray to God. I ask him to fix you. But you are broken.

And so that is God's will. But I go sternly against it; it's not right. I want you to be my Grandpa. I want you to be that man that smiled like a son of a gun, and loved life for each and every breath. I want you to be you.

But you're broken. Like a wind-up toy that grows more creaky and labored in its age, you have caught that same disease. You only live to die. You only stare around this graveyard as I hug you and stare into your empty eyes.

To be continued, I guess

2003-06-17T02:59:00.000-05:00

Randomness Storyness

Gabe blew the cigar through his lips, right into Dana's face.

"So what do you want? Why are you here? "

Dana gave a small grimace, a very small pungence to his smoke. She hated smoke. Especially second hand smoke. So she played with him. "Well, I can tell you I'm not here to smoke two packs of second hand smoke." She gave him a smile. "So what does that leave, Gabe?"

Gabe just smirked at her, blowing another wind of smoke into her face, even stronger this time. "My my," he said, taking the cigar to his ashtray, gently and slowly smashing the cigar into nothing but an ash-bright, small stub. "Aren't we bitchy today, Dana." He took the cigar back from the ashtray, the flame still on the tip. "You seem so stressful. Don't you want a wiff? It's like throwing away all the sadness. The bitchiness."

"You know I don't smoke, Gabe." He looked at her face, into her brown, sparkling eyes.

"You don't? But I, ah, seem to remember you quite did."

It was true. Dana had been quite the smoker, but recently, she had stopped. She rubbed her head, feeling the withdrawl from the nicotine. "That's behind me now, or near there."

"Is it?" Gabe said. "Your eyes, the way they're moving all about my office. They seem nervous, twitchy. That explains the bitchiness. The withdrawls, huh?"

"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe it's just your fucking chain smoking, and the smell of this office."

Gabe turned from her, going to the window near his desk, putting his hands kindly behind him and grapsing them together. "Watch the potty mouth, dear." He paused, watching the traffic move outside his window like small, insignifigant bugs. "You know, it's a dog-eat-dog world. You give one thing away, and just like that, just like the turn of a coin, it all comes back to haunt you. It's as simple as, say, taking your life, and seeing what a coin it really is. Do you understand, Dana? Everything is eventual. It all happens as it goes, like these cars outside my window here, these dots of nothing."

She finally turned, looked at his folded, patient hands. Looked at his white, old man's balding head. She watched the small shadows of the cars passing, just dots. Just like he had said. "Cut the Einstein shit, Gabe."

He turned from the window, unfolding his hands roughly. Looking at her sternly. "Einstein shit, is it? Well, lady, let me tell you: it's true. It is a dog-eat-dog world."

"If it's not Einstein shit, then what is it? Your try at seducing me? It isn't working." With that, she gave him her winning grin. "So shall we cut the bullshitting?"

"If it must be so," Gabe said almost in a sigh. "But you know Dana, it takes an old man to know his bullshitting. It's almost like a game." He walked over to her. "Almost like a game."

2003-06-16T03:13:00.000-05:00

It's time I put something more in here...

Luckey you luckey you
Got a coin and a quarter
Worth ninety and love for two
Numismatic and ain't it through

I saw you I saw you
Luckey luckey luckey you
Saw the quarter go in the arm-man
Saw worth ninety and love for two saw it grew
Now it's worth a heed of gold
And I ain't got nothing like that
So you might as well know

By darlin' luckey you
Got a pricless and a hand
You know luckey you
You know what we have to do
Numismatic and translucent it goes through
And ain't it true
Luckey luckey you

The misspelling of "lucky" was purposeful. And, yes, of course I wrote it. It's not much, but something.

2003-06-03T19:34:00.000-05:00

Led Zeppelin-Ten Years Gone
Then, as it was, then again it will be
and though the course may change sometimes
rivers always reach the sea

Blind skies of fortune, each have separate ways
On the wings of maybe, downing birds of prey
Kinda makes me feel sometimes, didn't have to go
but as the eagle leaves the nest, he's got so far to go

Changes fill my time
Baby, that's alright with me
In the midst, I think of you and how it used to be

Did you ever really need somebody and really need 'em bad
Did you ever really want somebody, the best love you ever had
Do you ever remember me, baby, did it feel so good
'cause it was just the first time, and you knew you would

Do the eyes not sparkle, senses growing keen
Tasted love along the way, see your feathers preen
Kinda makes me feel sometimes, didn't have to go
We are eagles of one nest, the nest is in our soul

Vixen in my dreams, with great surprise to me
Never thought I'd see your face the way it used to be
Oh, darlin', oh, darlin', oh, oh darlin', hey-yeah, oh darlin'
I'm never gonna leave ya
Ten years gone, holdin' on, ten years gone/
I'm never gonna leave ya
Ten years gone, holdin' on, ten years gone
Ten years gone, holdin' on, ten years gone
Ten years gone, holdin' on, yeah, yeah
I said
Ten years gone, holdin' on, ten years gone
I said, I'm never, I'm never, I'm never, oh, woo, yeah, yeah

2003-05-27T14:34:00.000-05:00

And We're All Numb

And we're all
Numb
Such a strange
Numb

Don't leave me
Or else I'm all
Numb

For the hearts you break
Everytime you moan
I get off this ground
Or else I am on the floor
Numb

Such an angry--seething--
Numb
And it brings this spite to my mouth
As it touches me I am Cold
This is morbid--this is Cold
Such an angry--such a seething--
Numb

And it brings my knees to my blood
In my skull and to me until I can no longer
Love
Such an angry--such a dead--such a breathing of nothing--
Numb

And we're all numb
That girl I thought I wanted to know--
The one that I'm certain I know:
And he who doesn't even say a word:
Such as some--such might be me--
He is also
Numb

And it brings my breath to the River
Numb leads me over and dips me under
Somewhere between
This sacred silence and this sacred sleep
Disorder as I'm dipped down --
This causes my breathing to fall on my knees
Until I just can't:
No--no I can't
Can't breathe

And we're all numb
Such a Cold--such a cold:
Like the kiss of lips that are Frost
And Flowers that no longer breathe: they just accost
It accosts until it can no longer seem lost
Until it can say
We're all numb
Such a seething--such a bitter--
Such a spiteful
Numb

2003-05-24T17:29:00.000-05:00

Buried Alive

And God bless you all--
If there is a God

And Hades loves you all--
If he will ever leave his cold river
Leave it at all

When your hands go down
And your mind--when your mind
Eats your skull
Leave it--don't leave it--at all

And God bless you all--
If there is a God
Because I'm breathing
In my lips
Until it comes up in moss

For God blessed me never at all--
He loves me somehow; I've forgotten how
In this stone and tomb--this crack and womb
I'm breathing
In my lips
Until the moss touches
So God bless it all

In this ground--
Everything I know turns to dirt
As the sun turns to ground
And the moss comes and comes its way--
Comes down
God will bless you all
As my skull wails and calls

God bless you all--
If he is anything at all

But I--I am under here
My tomb is dank and cold
To be buried--to be alive
My entire body weeps
As it aches aside
I--I have been buried:
Buried alive

2003-05-20T10:27:00.000-05:00

Of the afterlife's long utter

death ( P ) Pronunciation Key (dth)
n.
The act of dying; termination of life.
The state of being dead.
The cause of dying: Drugs were the death of him.
A manner of dying: a heroine's death.
often Death A personification of the destroyer of life, usually represented as a skeleton holding a scythe.

Bloodshed; murder.
Execution.
Law. Civil death.
The termination or extinction of something: the death of imperialism.

Afterlife doesn't work in my mind. At all.

When you die you die. There's no getting around it. And death is the end of something. End. You know what end is, don't you? It's nothing afterwards. Nothing before. Nothing in the middle. Nothing on the side. Nothing to the edge. Nothing to feel. Nothing to care. Nothing to know. Nothing to think.

When something's dead, it doesn't know anything anymore.

It doesn't exist.

I believe that it's impossible to believe in something until you really see it. Until it's illustrated logically and certainly and percisely in your mind, your body. And physically.

We are such physical entities. We live for our emotions we breathe our emotions and we die for our emotions. We cling onto the ideal that everything will last forever and that everything will be remembered and that everything that begins has an end and that everything goes in some flow. Some rhyme. Some rythm.

Is this itself true?

We live so much for our emotions. We want to be accepted. We want to be known. We want someone to hold onto and hug in our arms. We want someone to kiss and love and make everything that hurts just an illusion. We want to live happy lives. We want to be known in society. We want to be known to something.

God is that something that we hold onto. God is that something that's always there looking at you when you're angry when you're mad when you're sad when you're hurting when you're thinking.

Without emotions there wouldn't be anything. No violence. No hate. No empathy. No love. No anything. Nothing.

It'd be like we were dead.

I don't think it's anyone's place to really believe in God and afterlife and heaven and hell. They can in their mind. In the core of their brain. Under emotional and hopeful places. But deep deep deep deep deep deep, so very deep down, there's a side of everyone. Even those that explicitly say that they believe in God, that they speak God's word. There's doubt. There's denial.

Hope really is a funny thing. It's something that's so unnamed.

Is hope God? Yes, it is in so many ways. Is God hope? Not to me.

When you die you don't breathe. You don't see. You don't know. All we know is that you die and that's all there is to it. How can anyone assume that you go to some imaginary illusion up in the sky, or down in the ground? It's my best guess as anyone's best guess in some ways.

Believe in what you want. Cling on to God and hope and something. It's better than dying alone and cold. It's better because you have emotions. You have memory. You have feeling.

Feeling is strong. It's the hope of emotion.

Believe in what you want. I say when you die it ends. It's as simple and as complex and as pronounced as that.

I don't even want to go to heaven if there is one. No one, in my opinion, would deserve to be there. God forgives. Hope forgives. But blood and wrongs don't oversee the rights. If God's perfect then he knows this

2003-05-16T21:26:00.000-05:00

*Is too lazy to type anything thought-provoking*

Achilles took his last stand
The green the sand
For the heavens and the Earth
This quiet place this floating city
Of the heavens and the Earth

There was a silent moment when they told us so
I turned to you smiling, my face quiet. "How can we say no?"
These arms these feet these bones
Those who claim they know
But the devil's in his hole

To the south and to the east
The pieces on the ground
And to sail away
To laugh so loud
To die and never be found
The sweet refrain

Wondering and wondering
One place to rest my head
The heavens from the Earth
For the mighty arms of Achilles' hands
For the mighty death of this land

I'm going to rain
For the mighty death of this land
For the mighty arms of Achilles' hands
For the heavens of the Earth
The ethereal and beatific hurt
I'm gonna rain

Achilles took his last stand
His arms his hands
This green Earth this land
For us for me
For you for thee
Achilles took his last stand

It's going to rain
Going to rain
Like stars and love
Gonna rain

As I turned to you you turned to me
All we said and all that's done
Gonna rain

When the mighty arms of Achilles hold
Of the heavens and the Earth
This city flying in twilight's birth
Achilles' last stand

What fun can be had
Live those dreams
The ones we've always had

And as you turn to me and touch me so
All I can say is, "How can we say no?"

2003-05-15T19:35:00.000-05:00

What new threats will the day bring?

What new threats shall the day bring
Sweet little time
Sweet little things
Is this what'll bring
A kiss for you
A kiss for me
I wish I knew what I need

I don't know what new threats the days'll bring
I can hear you speaking but it isn't me
Something sweet isn't always what it means
Kisses aren't always as lovely as it stings

I've got no money
Poor it seems
Need a job
Want to go get on with this thing
But I don't know what new threats the days'll bring
Something's cold and I can't breathe
I feel like I'm dead as rocks skipping the sea
I'm just going but it stops it seems

Don't know what threats'll come
I'm safe at the moment
But I could care less
Life's just nothing
Just distress

All I have is this press
Have my hands and this and less
Parents that care but say
I'm without something a bless
Thinking about the caress
Something that's good that's pressed

All I've got is these words on my tongue
Stutters and falls like a second lung
Can't remember the last time it's been
Can't remember what life's living for
All I've got is these words on my tongue
Kisses and syllables and hugs

Last time I talked it wasn't me
Was something that I'm digging
Some other corner in my mind
All I've got is still these words on my tongue
Of what threats the days'll bring
When this dies and when it sings
Last time I talked it wasn't me
My tongue moved and my teeth chattered
But white isn't snow and taste isn't true
Snow isn't falling and taste isn't hitting

My heart isn't here anymore
My mouth is everywhere
I'm lying in here
Snow isn't falling and taste isn't hitting
Last time I spoke
Last time I said
My tongue wasn't mine
My voice was dead
Teeth chattered like on tile
Something reflecting but I couldn't see
My heart isn't here anymore

2003-05-14T15:01:00.000-05:00

There Once Was A Man

There was once was a man. He once was a child. Once a baby. He'd grown up in a small town, rather reclusive. He'd told his Mom that he loved her, told his Dad that he loved him, too. He'd loved his dog, Spike, loved his house. Loved his school.

This is an ordinary man. Or is it? He loved so many things, but was it all in his head? Is he just a collection of millions of thoughts, living in a dream within a dream; something we call the real world? Is everything that he sees and touches and feels and wants and needs and loves and cares for and hates and spites and eats and tastes and sees, is it all just a dream? He was once a man, once knew what a man was.

He thought a man was strong. Thought he was built like steel, had a mind like that, too. He can't help but asking himself, though, can't help but tease it through his mind. Is it all a dream?

On one hand, yes, it is. Everything that he feels, touches, buys, loves, cares for, all of it's going to die someday. A dream is something that doesn't last forever. So is it all just a dream? On this one hand it is. Seeing as it doesn't even last for him, seeing as everything he ever does will, if not die with him, will die with humanity's death someplace in the future.

The future. That's where this man hadn't thought, hadn't cared. He'd become something like a man, after his dog Spike died, after he'd finally grown into society's shoes and puddled in its mud. He'd gotten his shoes all muddy and dirty, but he'd become something like a man in the process. He'd washed the shoes, cleaned them constantly.

Went to college. Got a job. Got a wife. Got a kid. Got money. He'd cleaned them over and over again in this profuse and sacrifical process. But he'd forgotten about the future, and its bumps and puddles.

When you try to jump over a big puddle, you know exactly what happens. You end someplace in the middle of it, fall into the depths of the puddle. Things happen that you didn't want to happen. Even as he was younger he'd slowly learned this.

He'd forgot about that, though. For, wasn't he now a man, sitting here in his house, the paper in his hand. His wife on his shoulder, and his kids living in his heart?

That paper. He'd read it everyday. Front and back. Was it really in his hand? Did it really say anything to him?

His wife. She was pretty, beautiful. She had blonde hair like the color of dull corn. Was she really on his shoulder, giving him stability?

His two kids. One named Ron, the other Troy. They both had blonde hair like the color of dull corn, too. Were they really living in his heart?

He had a job. Worked at an oil refinery. Managed a unit there.

He was happy. His kids were his heart; his wife was his shoulder; and the paper was really in his hand. It was really saying things to him, telling him about the world.

Was he really happy?

Everything really is in your head, everyone has to realize that once in their lives. His happiness was in his head. Like a dream, he was allowing it to happen; but, just like everything else, it can't last forever.

First it was his job. It was starting to get dull, boring, tedious. He was getting sick of it. He kept on going, though. He was a man. He knew what to do. A man always knows what to do. Plus he had to supply for his family. So he kept going. Waited it out.

Then it was his marriage. His wife began to have an affair, and he soon found out about it. Walked right in on her, found the man, Daaron Jones, right on top of his wife, naked. Daaron Jones was his boss.

He'd always liked Daaron, he was a good guy. Really was. But this hit home, and went right over the steel fence. Right over whatever was blocking his mind from tedium, and everything else.

He almost slapped Daaron then and there, but he held himself back. Told Daaron to get the hell out, get his damn clothes on. Daaron did just that, and, thankfully, he didn't see Daaron ever again. Or at least until he saw him again. But he doesn't want to remember that. He blocks it out.

Because it is all a dream. He controls it all, he can make it go whatever way it goes. Life is his to mold. A dream.

His dream was always to become a man like his Father was. Strong, tough, stoic. He wanted to be all of that.

Then the divorce hit. And he knew why his wife was doing it, too. The affair. It was still going on, he knew it enough. He'd only talk to Daaron nearly everyday, notice that smug grin on his face. Each and every time, he wanted to slap him, too. Wanted to show him what he deserved. Wanted to condone this passing of the fence. This steel fence. This man's fence.

He thought that his fence, this man's fence, was built of steel. Titanium, perhaps. Or some other strong alloy. But it wasn't.

When the divorce hit, he realized that. He realized it'd all been in his head. Realized he hadn't kept track of the future enough, fell too far into the past and present.

With one blink of an eye it'd all changed. And, if he would've realized it, and been a man. Been an actual man, then he could've stopped the way things were going.

Yeah. There was this man, this one I've been talking about. He's some John Doe out there. Some sad, depressed soul. Have you seen him since after his divorce? I haven't. He's disappeared.

Did he kill himself? I don't know. Did he quit his job? I don't know that, either. I know I would quit my job, though, under those terms that he'd gone under.

I think you've walked by someone like this. Yes I do. Just don't look hard enough, do you? Too shy. Just like me. Too shy.

He's out there somewhere, though. This man's out there somewhere.

2003-05-13T11:33:00.000-05:00

The Power of Music

You know what? Music is an amazing thing.

I listen to it whenever I can, whenever I get to. It's amazing what music can do.

Just think about it. Think about the last song you listened to, and what ran through your mind. Think about how the song sounded, how it altered your mood, how it made you feel angry. How it made you feel mad. How it made you feel happy; sad; apathetical; empathetical; antipathical; loving; cherishing. The list goes on.

When you first listen to a song, you don't know what it means. You stumble through it, slowly gaining some ground on it. You listen to the lyrics, listen to what it sounds like. Let it hit your ears.

But after listening to it enough, after knowing the song, it becomes your own. Like another part of your mind. And if you like the song enough, it'll stick in your head.

Also think about what runs through your head as you listen to a song. Whenever I listen to a song, millions of images run through my head. Millions. And I can focus on one, and just think about it. Or I can just sift through it forever, just thinking.

That's what I do all of the time as I'm listening to music. I think. Think about whatever flies into my mind from the song. I grab on to it.

I do this often, too. Daily. Every single day. I even listen to music as I'm writing, or I'm just doing nothing.

And, what's more, music is an escape for me. Just like writing. It lets me open up my wounds and actually get a glimpse of what they really are. It lets me just leave this Earth, this place, and go to where nothing can touch me or feel me. Where nothing matters and no one cares. A place where the world is what it isn't, and the everything of everything else is left behind.

It's kind of selfish in that way, I guess. But without writing, and without reading, and without music, I'd probably just rather die. They are what, at this point in my life, give my life some kind of meaning beyond just growing up and slowly learning how society thinks I'm supposed to waste my life away.

You can't have everything you want, and I don't want everything I want. I'm just glad that I have what I have. Music is one of those things that I have that's special to me, and that lets me become more than what I am. It lets me be myself for awhile, deep down In my head as I'm thinking. It lets me be that who that I'm trying to find. Perhaps only in part. But it does allow me to be something more. To feel something more. And to just be somewhere more.

Expressions of yourself mean everything. Depressions of yourself are like footprints in snow, they melt away. The die away. But as long as I have my expressions, my emotions, as long as I'm able to let music make me become more, as writing does, then as long as I'm alive, it'll die with me. At least I'll have that, if not more, by the time I die.

I just wish I could say that things are worth it in some way. Somehow. But I can't. At least I have something to make it feel like it's worth it, though.

2003-05-12T11:30:00.000-05:00

Who am I?

Really, who am I? I've been trying to answer that question a lot recently. Going over it in my mind, trying to find an answer.

I am Mitchell Grant Smith. Is that an answer? Not to me. That, that's simply a name, simply words.

Just like what Juliet said in Romeo and Juliet. A name means nothing. Someone else with my exact same name isn't the same person at all.

So then it's everything mentally, physically, and psychologically that's me. But even through that, that's hard to exactly say, too.

You see, there's so many different types of myself. There's the one that doesn't even care, that'd just rather sit in the corner and die. There's the one that wants desire, that wants everything.

There's the side of me that loves violence, that loves pain. And there's so many other different ones. Some of them are so strange I don't even think there's a word I could say to describe them.

Lately I've been the one that doesn't even care, the one that'd just rather sit in the corner and die. But the thing is, I guess I do care. At least for those I love. The ones I love are the ones that matter. Just knowing I care about them gives me a reason to live. Or does it?

I don't know. Things do matter on one hand, and, on another, they don't. I want to care for people, I want them to care for me back. I want to love people, and I want them to love me back, too. That's happening, yeah. But not with really many people.

And love is so twisted sometimes. Sometimes love feels more like anger than what it is. I don't know what love is. It's a word. That's all I know.

I want to know what I am deep down in all these different auras and moods of me. I want to know which one is prevalent. I want to know that life is worth living, and that yes, I'm going to die, but not without doing something great. Or making someone else great. Or just doing anything that will change something forever.

But that's the funny thing. Nothing lasts forever. It's been said a million times. And here we still are, abound, and nothing does last forever.

I think what I want is a real friend. Or a real love. Or something like that. Someone that understands me, someone that gives my life meaning. The thing is, I don't know if I'll ever find it. Knowing me, I'm blind to most good people I ever meet. I'm just too shy to meet or speak to someone I don't even know. I'm too timid.

Some people have God to give their life meaning. I don't, but wish I did.

So I'm wondering what's worth it to live for. I'm wondering if the word would just be better without me, perhaps. All I am is just another human being out of so many others.

Someday, I hope, I'll find a person that will serve as a key, and let me find the true me. The one that's somewhere in my mind.

2003-05-10T14:14:00.000-05:00

Of blood and death and God

Why do we feel pain? Because our nerves relay the message which is outputted by the brain, and flows to the point of the pain. Why do we feel emotions? Because of chemicals in our brains. What are we? Merely trillions upon trillions of cells, all functioning as one?

We can think. We can move our arms. We can touch things with our minds, with our hands, with our our taste. We can hear sounds, and can memorize the exact level at which the sound emanated, and splashed.

If we can do all of this things, if we can exceed what we merely are, then what is perfection? Is perfection what we are now, as we are here. Homo Sapiens with advanced brains and advanced, abstract thought?

Is perfection sacrifice? Is it bleeding and bleeding over again, just to simply understand our mistakes, and come out of the ashes with more knowledge than before?

There isn't a thing such as perfection. God is seen as perfection, and so is heaven and everything contained therein. But is this true? How can we, but trillions of cells, contemplate what perfection is, and what God is? If God created us, and since forever he's loved us, is God even himself perfection? Is God just a view of perfection in his eyes, and his eyes only?

Since we are born, we are shown to be perfect. From ads in magazines, to the way our parents teach us their proclivities, we are told that the meaning of life and society, for that matter, is to get a job, become perfectioned at it, and waste our lives away doing it. We are supposed to try not to be selfish, try not to make faulty choices. We are brainwashed mentally and physically for how we should be. We are entreated to millions of hours of TV within our lives, altering our moods and behaviors, and how we act.

Perfection is a goal, a lieing goal. A goal is something that you tell yourself you will reach down to, you will grab and place in your hands by a certain time. Perfection as a word itself has too many meanings, too many places. To one person, simply being who they are is perfection. To another, affability is perfection. To another, death is perfection, and everything thereafter.

Yet--yet it's no one's place to say what perfection is, other than it's a word. And we don't know what it is, just like death. We know perfection is something great, we know that it's something wonderful and grand. Yet we are never told what it truly is.

The only perfect thing that most will claim to have in their lives is God. And what if, if God is truly real, God's perfection is flawed, and is actually not perfection? What if perfection is, as I said, actually sacrifices, and learning to live with them? I think it is.

Perfection is understanding what you've done wrong, where you've been wrong. Being skinny and tall isn't perfection. Having the most beautiful face isn't perfection. Having all of the knowledge in the entirety of humanity isn't perfection.

Perfection is learning that life isn't what it is. That death's something you'll never know. It's realizing that blood is bled, and that instead of bleeding blood, instead of taking the hard and trying course, you can learn to take that course again. Only, this time, you'll only use a pail of sweat rather than a pint of blood.

Everyday we all bleed in our minds, we alll scream in our heads. We wail and swing in our mood's fancy. We two-step and dance, and eventually, we fall and bleed.

Perfection's not what it's said to be.

Perfection is sacrificing yourself. Telling yourself that you aren't perfect, that you can actually feel. That you can let these emotions out, instead of holding them in and bleeding internally.

Perfection is realizing that you're going to die, and that you're probably not going to be remembered. Perfection is living with what you have, and doing what you can.

It's touch and go. A moment's lapse and moment's interlap. Perfection is not at all what it's said to be.

Like death, it's just a word. No one really knows it. Some try and say they have it, some try to find it. But it's all lies. Perfection's not being perfect.

2003-05-09T19:33:00.000-05:00

Death Is A Word

Since forever, since men first could think. Since forever we've wondered, we've probed, we've dug. We've used our minds to do great things, to build colossal statues, to build memories of us. That's all that everything ends up going to. Memory. It's quite a stark thing, quite and dead thing. Quite a missing thing. It's an empty void, memories are.

Death's always been at the top of everything. To the various food webs, to religion, to that great question of what is life. Death's always been there. It's been written about, it's been examined, it's been watched, beaten, seen, tried and trued as far as we could go. Yet--yet we know still nothing about death. We still know nothing about what happens after you die other than you begin to breakdown into nothing.

I remember when I was a child, when death was only a word. It was something that wasn't mentioned often, like sex, or drugs. It was something that most weren't surrounded by, as in my case. When I'd first heard the word, it didn't comprehend in my mind, didn't touch. It was simply a word for something that I just couldn't possibly shape. Or see. Or understand. Or feel. It was just black and gray. A colorless thing.

I've been to one funeral in my life, and, frankly, I don't remember it. It escapes my entire mind. For, I was quite young. But I wish I could remember. All I know is that it was for my great Grandpa. I had never known him much. But my Mom cried and cried for his death.

I couldn't feel a thing, though. I was too young. Death was only a word.

As I've grown older, though, death's become something that constantly comes into my mind. Whenever I write, whenever I think, whenever I try to see, understand, to know what is life, death comes into my mind. I'd like to say that death was only a word, and that life did have a meaning other than it. But death's the only conclusion that seems to come to my mind.

You'll love; you'll feel; you'll make; you'll create; you'll wield; you'll see; you'll touch; you'll believe; and, yet, when you die, it all becomes gone. Just something of the past. A memory. A dying memory.

It's amazing to see that everything dies. Memories die. Lives die. Animals die. The universe will one day die. The Earth's going to die. The sun's going to die.

Everything dies.

Religion, to me, is an answer to death. Life after death. It doesn't make sense to me. How can there be life after death? Death is the end of everything. Death is going into nonexistence. Death is what it is. Yet supposedly there's a heaven out there, a haven up in the etheral havens that's a home for the dead. For angels. For God. And so many people believe in this, even though belief comes with actually feeling something, actually touching it.

There's certainly the spiritual acuteness to things, but God's just an answer. Perhaps there is a God. Perhaps there's something that did create us. It may be a being, it may be lifeless. Whatever it is, it created us. And whatever's created us has long since hidden, and become a memory. Just like everything else. A dead memory.

God's been written about in the Bible. It's been written, probed, stretched, stressed, beaten--just like death. Death and God go together in someway in my mind. God couldn't exist without death, and whatever that God is couldn't exist without death, too.

Death interests me so much. It mainly started from reading Poe, and it's just grown. Perhaps someday I will know what it is. But then it'll be too late, because by then, death won't just be a word.

But for now, death's just a word. It's a one syllable word that rolls off your tongue and lands in your hands. It's something that's beaten in your mind that beats with your heart.

It's just a word.