Rituals.

So I have a job. And I like it. It's decent. I get to work at night, sleep all day, and though I usually use my alarm clock, sometimes I don't. Sleep is a little weird though. I think the sunlight affects my dreams because they're been very strange and very vivid lately. The job's not bad, though. I don't hate what I do, though I hate things about it. I don't hate the people I work with, though I dislike some things that happen. But it is unsteady work. I started with five, eight hour days. Then seven hours. Then four days a week. Then three. Then four. Then back to five, with some days at seven, some at six and a half, stretched to seven with a lunch (to get the midnight pay bump). Now I'm on six hour days with one five-and-a-half. So unsteady. And ultimately, where will this job get me? It's not enough money to get a place of my own. It's not enough to pay all the bills I want to take care of. Definitely not both, which is what I need. And what, w...

Why do I lie? Is it just to get by? Yes. Because even getting by is itself a lie. Because I'm not getting by, or barely, or don't even want to.

I want to write without writing. I want to scream. I want to walk out that door and vanish into the night. Even though it isn’t the night. I don’t know where to go. I have a single path before me, but my feet are hovering three feet above the path and I have no way of getting down. Nothing is holding me up. I have collapsed under my own weight and I’m just so sick of it all. If I knew how to get a hold of them, I would do every drug man had ever invented. If I could stand the taste, I would be loaded right now. I am just so sick. My mind is moving at a snail’s pace. No racing thoughts, no wild visions. Just nothing and nothing to make me happy. Nothing to distract me. Just me and my misery alone and wallowing. I know I don’t have the right to wallow. I know I don’t have the right to feel sorry for myself. I can’t see any decision, of all those that landed me here, that weren’t my own. I just don’t care anymore. I d...

Crayon Boxes I think I have died That you no longer care if I live This grave could be unmarked, for all the people who look at it and know I am here I am hunched At my desk in my favorite sweatshirt The hood lined with orange And the sleeves frayed, worn I have worn this sweater for so many years, though loved it half as long The orange does little to cheer me tonight As I have searched your name and found a new addition to your fame An expansion of your being I realize the knife is still there Because I can feel it twisting, fresh, in the wound I smell that change in the sweet spring air and regret that I am not there. These rhymes are happenstance and agony. It has been so long since I have written here, had the charge to write here, and as always, it is of a tragedy My tragedy Like a forgotten war, Like a villager, killed by a despot, who is survived by a child who grows up dreaming of nothing but the tyrant’s death (I don’t even care to draw the conclusion) I have a thousand songs...

You have come to the end of a long tunnel. It branches to your left and to your right. The path behind you has vanished. On your left is a fire. On your right is a frying pan. Which way do you choose?

Currently, there is much about life that sucks. Most of it could be fixed if I had a job. Which I don't. Any offers? I'm not feeling very creative.

So I got tired of reading terrible reviews for the movies I like and great ones for the movies that I think are dumb and boring. Plus I watched Watchmen and had a lot to say on it. And I've wanted to do it for a while. So I started a movie reviews blog. http://outsiderinput.blogspot.com/ (edited, to say that I've pretty much lost all focus for it, so there's only like, three reviews. [shrug] Ah well. I'll go back eventually.)

Once upon, I saw the world as this other thing Back then, just once, my heart, it held a beat Now there are dark clouds, storms that rage and sing I lie dead, covered with a twisted sheet Night consumed the day and the darkness spread Alone, a knight of old, an endless quest I sought my salvation among the dead Needing a place to sleep, a place to rest Once upon time, there were flowers that bloomed When music rang out as laughter and mirth But on the horizon, faded stars loomed I looked at the world and just saw the earth Fitting then that the vine, the twist, should be, Keep the sun, I don't hate the things I see Sonnet, Iambic Pentameter...ish [a revision of "As the Sun Sets."]

Once upon, I saw the world as this other thing Back then, just once, my heart, it held a beat But now there are dark clouds, storms without spring I lie dead, covered with a twisted sheet The world has been corrupted by the Gray Like knights of old, they fight the will to strive So darkness spreads as the night becomes day And what hurts the most is to be alive Once upon time, there were flowers that bloomed When laughter rang out as music and mirth But a horizon of burned-out stars loomed I looked at the world and just saw the earth Fitting then that the vine, the twist, should be, My dark eyes, I don't hate the things I see