The Duty of an Island

I am a liar.

A broken, afraid, and scared liar.

I lie to friends and family, even people I don't know, and for what?

Distance.

I build walls and burn bridges. Each lie strikes like a match to incinerate the wick of connection to others. I don't think I like being close to people, because I never have been before. From an early age I was conditioned, by no fault of family, to be alone; to be by myself and alone in my thoughts. I can't even fathom a connection where you share everything. Though I had a sibling, there was an age gap and I didn't even have that connection there.

Yet at a very young age, I'm remembering as far back as three and four years old, I understood emotions and tension. I don't think that is a "special" skill by any means, I think children are more in tune with these things than adults. But I learned as a child how to "read a room" and defuse a situation.

From then on, I've given every ounce of energy to attempting to murder sadness and unhappiness in the people around me. So much so, that I don't even remember what its like to make a decision for something that I want.

The closest I get is when someone becomes so much of an emotional effort, or I realise I can't help them, I cut and run...and I feel like an asshole for years after...

There are tools one develops to avoid connection. Sense of humour is the most versatile. The trick to being unnoticeably disconnected is to be funny. Laughter misdirects. Lies are another good device found in the toolbox of the broken.

I remember speaking to my paternal grandmother about my paternal grandfather.

"I never knew adults could lie, it was a surprise."

That shocked me. All the fears one has of being the things you hate about your preceding direct generations all up in your thought bubble shining light on the worst parts of yourself.

The truth is I'm almost thirty years old, and I'm still that three year old boy.

I feel more around me than I do within myself. I have a pattern of being whatever someone else needs me to be. Lying to hide myself so that I can be what it is they need. Because in my arrogance, I believe I'm stronger than a normal person and can handle it. After repeated offences, and some growing into it, its true.

I can handle it.

I don't feel or have my own emotions, just the idea and knowledge of what emotion I should have. I can't turn it off, I lie to myself and others to pretend I do have said emotion.

I thought I had feelings and emotions, but manipulating circumstances for attention is not the same, and I'm quite disgusted with myself on those attempts. Another grand hand me down in the long genetic trail of tragic preceding generations.

I think I'm a shell now.

I require the drama or else I don't have any connection to feelings.
So why concerned with connection to feelings and not another person?

I wish I could answer that.
Probably because its the closest I can get.

I feel defeated. Existence has won.

But the worst part is I have to stay around until the end for various reasons. I can't undo the happiness I've done for a select few (most would never notice the absence). Not to mention the scientific and/or spiritual, which ever you subscribe to, obligation of continuing the generational trail so future generations can have a chance of fixing a lineage of comedic tragedy.

An idiot left serving the penance of life.

Sometimes lies are transparent to those you tell them too.

They are smart enough to see through them, and patronize you with subtle mockings, though their intelligence in this regard is one of the reasons you liked them in the first place.

It's too late at that point.

You've said the exact opposite of what you've wanted to say too many times. Cowardice and anger are all that you've got left cause if you didn't lie, they'd know the truth of what you wanted. And they've got their own stuff to deal with, they are just passing by.

The walls are still up and the smouldering of what used to resemble bridges fill the horizon. Or better..

I think some men are islands. Stationary beings for the lost and needing to wash up on shore until the island's resources have nourished and sent the lost or needing soul back on its way.

I remember at school (a private Christian school mind you) being "taught" about how we all made up the body of Christ. I made a joke about how if that were true, than someone had to be the butthole.

This was not well received by my teacher, but I still believe each human has their part they play. Not everyone gets the life they want and to believe so is foolishness.

Weither humanity is evolving or we are the body of Christ doesn't matter, there is always the need for the islands and buttholes.

They have their purpose and functions.

I suppose if I have to lie to do my doodie, than so be it.

A Blast from the Past

Well, it's very interesting reading some of my old writings from a really old blog.

Some, I find interesting enough to share, some I've realised I cut up and used as lyrics for songs, and others...well you don't get to read those.

First up, a poem that I find interesting. I remember writing this about a newly found enjoyment of alcohol. Although this poem is about drinking and not a girl, lines from this were used in a song about a girl who made me drink. Go figure.
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31 July, 2005

"The Lady Fate and Her Unfortunate Ability to be Late, on Time, and Wrong at the Correct Moment"

oh savory songs of blissful air,
how you'll rain over her hair
gently now it will whisp in the wind
and hold my eyes till the breeze will end

her voice was heard all to well in the depths of my mind
as it shot each memory down like lightning leaving the sky
the cloud split as each syllable departed hastily
from those deceitful venomous lips

light will trickle down her silloutte
all the forms of pain disintegrate in the sunset
this lady of fate elludes me once again
as i drop to my knees, lowering my chin

are you whimsical like the flashing autumn leaves?
i'll take three drinks to say you are
the fourth to wake up tomorrow unsure what day it is
all i really want now is to wake up and feel accomplished staring at empty bottles...

tomorrow should be better, always remember tomorrow
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This next one is eerie. It seems I really was in a dark pessimistically cynical state (I suppose I never really left). Somehow, comparing dreams to earthquakes, and always annoyingly quick to point out I had a broken heart, was meant to be a catalyst for the reader to follow their dreams? I certainly had a twisted way of being positive almost a decade ago...I mean really...what was/is wrong with me? ...and geez, alliteration must have been a newly found device. ...
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7 April, 2006

         Dreams are essentially earth shattering, world destroying travesties; seemingly sudden and deadly as an earthquake. A dream emerges collapsing every fundamental building of thought constructed in your mind. Then, much like a female's way with a male, the dream completes it's damage, fizzles away without trace, and leaves you with little to no record. Granted, the destruction is it's own seperate history of the earthquake's existence; your dream seemed to be an entire lifetime, utterly suprising it's victim when they find it has been nothing more than a meger split second.

         Such a short interruption of thought, should go unnoticed, yet you and I both know that is never the case. The rest of your conscious mind sticks on the dream like the media reporting on the city attacked by nature's rumblings. Exaggerating the death toll, eyewitness accounts, and exacerbated scenarios plaguing every channel of your thought telling you what to think about the dream.When in actuality, what you really honestly and truthfully think IS the dream.

         The ash snows down as, one by one, each fire is put out in the aftermath of your thought. Each scourching scenario sails smoothly into smothering, as the "big red reality truck" makes it's rounds and the logic police control the crowd. 

"It was just a dream." 

         Tell that to the family of eight who now has five. If the dream doesn't exist, than why is there aftermath? I propose to you, let fate enthral you. The dream is in every bit of grasp, reach out and grab on.
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Lastly, another random rant. This one I actually like a lot. So much so, I'm jealous of my younger self. There is a confidence in this writing that I lost at some point, maybe I'll get back there again one day.
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22 January, 2006

Here we are, left undoubtedly in such a disheartening thought that, no, not even the slightest hint of an exacerbated explanation is found. Do we continue onward in the blissfully ignorant acceptance of the parallel between reality and thought?

I propose that we not take a look at the simple complexity of thought, yet that which does the thinking. 

One reads these words and tries to not have their eyes wander; however, soon the thought of tonights dinner, tomorrows plans, and relived yesterdays creep in. 

What is this item of greatness that we use for everything, yet we are seemingly powerless of control over? 

It is not for a loss that we receive education, distinguishing letters, numbers, pictures and words; but we tragically plummet once this is surpassed, allowing anyone or anything to do this thinking for us.

Would our thinking be different if we understood just what it was we were using to think?
Coincidentally, how does one generalize thought for all people? 

Perhaps the difference between a genius and one who is the opposite of a genius is simply that one grasps the concept and is aware that thought is everything. Where as the "other" loosely connects mental excitement to being alive. 

There must be some point for every person when they are confronted by thought and give in to unlocking the greatest currency of all. 

You see, money, cars, houses, items, and stature in no way, shape, or form characterize you; thought is all thats left. 

Your thoughts you leave behind, and the thoughts about you when you're gone.
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#brainspew

My oh, oh my.

I thought being busier would help.
So busy. Busy.

I'm not at the top of my game as I once was, but then again, this is a transition from the "doing" to the "telling to do."

Yeah, going as expected.

I see more and more of my father in myself as each day goes by.
Mixed feelings there.

I suppose homesickness is a real thing. Bring on Thanksgiving.
A homecooked meal is probably all my grumpy crotchety-ness filled stomach needs to satisfy it's hangriness.

I think I've finally come to terms with my laptop being stolen before I could transfer all of my writing that I did in the last year or so. It kinda feels like, the last year was such a year of growth, it doesn't deserve to have its history and art it caused erased. But then, that also makes sense.

Knowing that gap is there in the chapters of my writing, eats at me. I suppose it's not that bad, its more like every time I have to rewrite my novel from the beginning (...the third time in a decade its been lost; and yes, back up lessons learned, but sometimes Murphy's law has nothing on Whitworth's law...), the novel seems to get refined and a smidgen better.

I've become a lot more dedicated to the cause as well, probably to the dismay of societal obligations, but I've grown tired of the masks and characters I must portray in order to appear "interested" or "engaged." The truth is, I like being alone, and I don't like being around people. Not all the time.
And that's weird to me, cause that will never work in a relationship.

I see more and more of my father in myself as each day goes by.
Terrified feelings there.

And so the dedication to writing and creating again. It's easier now that it's not a vehicle to a living and more a need to explain.
It's swell.

Sometimes I worry myself, but the island just has to much yet to be tamed to be shared. Sorry.

I have a plan, it's going to be difficult and depend on a lot of "maybes," but it just might work. And should it work, I'll be making a return to a land of opportunity by this time next year (...Whitworth's law dictates at least half of the "maybes" being hard "no's..."). But hey, that's life. Deal with it.