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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