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Even if,

This all exists

Inside your mind,

I am real.

And you are mine.

It still could use some editing, but whatever.
            “Name?” the wilted, donut-hungry woman articulates in a perfect monotone.

            “Miranda. Miranda Mulryan.” I state, equally disinterested.

            “And why are you here, Miranda?” her mammoth hairy mole on her left cheek jiggles with each syllable.

            “I want to die. I read once that you could help me,” I scoot the brochure laden with Christian symbolism to her side of the counter. 

            She eyes the aged cornucopia of uselessness with an incredulous glimpse.

            “When did you get this?”

            I pause. “Ten years ago.”

            Raising her untamed eyebrows, she smacks her tomato lips and remarks, “Well honey, I don’t know if there’s anything we can do for you?”

            Gawking at her, I stammer, “What do you mean? You’re a hospital! There’s got to be something!” Hopelessness foams and I throw my arms into the funny air.

            “Now you look-e-here missy, we can’t just let anyone waltz on into the mental ward without paying a dime.” Her tired mud eyes glower at me in their fog.

            The rage boils. “What do you mean, woman? Don’t I look mentally distressed enough to you?”

            “Honey, you just need a good night’s rest and a cup of hot cocoa. You’re too pretty to worry yourself like that,” her slick hen nose poking at me.

            Curling my lip to one side, I sneer, “If the ugliness inside matched my outside façade, you wouldn’t be able to look at me.”

She stares at me with a mix of understanding and alarm, “…Well I’m sure you’ll be admitted soon.”

            “Thanks.” I slump into one of the generic chairs that all hospitals have- the periwinkle blue that looks perfectly comfortable until you actually sit in it. The waiting room is deserted; I suppose that’s to be expected at two in the morning. Antique Newsweek’s, Highlights’, and National Geographic’s litter the six small plastic tables, which assist in creating a flattened “U” shape with the chairs. I slip into my orbits. Orbits loop around the unfortunate and undeserving planet of my mind. They’re nagging reminders of what I’ve done wrong, what I’m doing wrong, and what I will do wrong.

            “You’re wasting your time,” Luna hisses, “not that your time is worth anything anyway.”

            Mercury leaps into the ring to torment me as well. Luna and Mercury are the more common orbits, with Luna’s petulant pessimism and Mercury’s cutting sarcasm.

            “You made an oh-so-good impression just now. I bet that fat woman won’t do anything since she probably got her ass stuck to her chair. Don’t know how she got into it in the first place,” Mercury jeers.

            I slump. I know that I can’t block them out, but I try expectantly, wishing desperately for their immediate evaporation.

            “Good luck with that one,” Mercury stabs in a tone so that you could hear his eyes roll.

            “Oh Mercury. Let her try. For some reason she doesn’t believe that she fails at everything, despite all I’ve told her,” Luna scoffs.

            “Quiet you.”

            “Who are you to tell me what to do?”  

            I interject, “Good point. You don’t even abide by the person whose head you’re living in.”

            “Zing!” Mercury forms triumphant finger pistols and shoots them at Luna.

            “…Hey, that cute young doctor over there has been calling your name for the past two minutes. Too bad you don’t have a chance with him,” Luna retaliates.

            “Ack. What!?” I snap.

            “Miranda,” He smiles his realistic fake smile, which he uses to tell patients that they won’t die from progressive lung cancer.

            “Er, yeah?”

            “You can come with me.”

            “…Okay.” I awkwardly trip out of my chair. Scarlet tinges my cheeks.

            “Are you alright, miss?”

            I give him the icy look I give everyone who asks me that question.

            “Well then, I guess you wouldn’t be at a hospital if you were,” he chuckles softly while his cornflower eyes attempt to analyze me.

            I just stare at the door going back into the maze of hallways, needles, neon biohazard signs, and stitches.

            “Well, I guess we could just proceed back to an examination room then.”

            He briskly marched forward, with me sauntering behind. We pass corridors of screams: five women giving birth, seven kids with third-degree burns from an apartment fire, and one purple and black lady screeching that it wasn’t his fault. The wallpaper is a dry tan with the consistency of a salted graham cracker. A typical assortment of cheesy motivational posters is my cue that we’re getting closer. Eventually, we approach a room next to a kid with deep bite marks spewing blood all over his scrawny legs. Shutting the door tightly behind us, he states with a furrowed brow and a pained gaze, “So…you want to die?”


            He stokes his rough chin quizzically, disrupting the straw-shaded stubble. “You do realize that by coming here you’ve taken the first step towards living?”

            “I have?” I’ve finally decided to find a way out of this self-created Hell?

            “Please take a seat,” he said quietly, motioning toward the bed.

            After his command, I finally begin to take note of my surroundings. The bed appears suitable, though the matching shade of periwinkle is not a promising sign. A poster outlines “Achievement” as some random guy at the top of a mountain smirks at me, its Theodore Roosevelt quote not helping things “It is hard to fail, but it is worse never to have tried to succeed.” I shrug and sit. My cynical attention is diverted by a male close in proximity. Luna was right- he is cute! No more than thirty, he carries an athletic build and a strong jaw line. His eyes are a knowing natural green. Tanned skin emphasizes them softly-

            “Of course I’m right,” Luna ridicules, “Though I can’t say the same for you.”

            “Shut up Luna,” I command aloud.

            “Huh?” he puzzles at me, while hunching onto an insufficiently proportioned stool.

            “Er…sorry. Luna’s being a nasty whore. Where were we?”

            “Well miss…do you want to be free from your depression?” He gazes intently at me with beams of chartreuse. Ditching his clipboard on the gaunt side table, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

            “I’m not sure…I mean, I know that I loathe it, but now it’s almost inseparable from my being…you know?” I notice my feet begin to twirl in slow circles.

            “Hmm.” Skilled fingers stroke his chin, as he tucks one arm under the other.

            “I mean, it’s not as if there’s a Depression Anonymous group. I’d fail out of it anyway.” I lean back, crossing my legs at the ankles. The paper sheet below me whines in awful crinkles.

            “Why would you?” He sits up, with his eyes still deciphering me.

            “I don’t believe in a ‘higher power’. I’m pretty sure that’s step one or something.” I snark the allusions to God. I’ve truly never been a fan of Him and his antics. Especially when he refused to answer a prayer I wished devoutly for five years straight. If he exists, he’s a lazy asshole. I don’t want to worship that.

            “Nor do I,” he grins, secret atheist code for “I understand”.

            “Really? Then why do you live? Or rather, what’s your reason to?” I still haven’t found a gratifying response to that question. Some suggest living for God, but I’m past hoping for him to get off his slacker arse and help someone. My psych recommended that I live for humanity, but I’m pretty sure I can’t stand ninety-nine percent of humanity, so that won’t work. One of the most laughable answers I’ve received was “work”. Who lives to work a nine-to-five job? The stranger next to him at least advocated hard drugs and hot sex. That has some merit.

            Meanwhile, the doctor turns away pondering, then deftly twirls back.

            “People,” his droopy eyelids ascend at the content of our conversation.

            “Eh. I’ve tried that though.” My shoulders slump in despair. More than twenty years of schooling and he proposes something an elementary school drop-out advised in one of my depression support groups a few months ago. I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything more insightful for someone who works at Saint Anthony’s Hospital. Any affiliations with God and your logic is already impaired.

            “Is that so? Not to be a skeptic, but have you truly tried? Have you encountered someone that is worth living for?” Studying me, he anticipates to find some sort of weakness in my personal being to gurgle forth.

            “There isn’t anyone worth living for. At least not in my life.” I point out coldly. What an Arctic chill.

            He appears hurt, as if he took it as a personal insult. “You should give people a chance.”

            “I don’t want to be saved by someone else.” Gracelessly, I cross my arms over my chest. “That’s the way! Be a stubborn bitch! Use what Luna taught you!” Mercury heckles.

            He starves for a loophole. “What if that’s the only way?”

            “Worthless scum!” Luna whacks Mercury with a black snakeskin purse.

            I hesitate, tensing. “…Then bring on the strangers, I suppose.”

            He grins, flashing spotless teeth. “That’s what I like to hear. So what can I do for you presently?”

            “I was hoping to be admitted to the mental ward. It seems to be the only place left for me.” Unfurling my arms, for the first time I lock onto his emerald eyes.

            “And why is that?” His head teeters to one side. He looks like a dog person.

            I sigh, prepping for my practiced argument. “No one in society really understands me. I have voices flying around my head telling me to donate my arm to starving cannibals in Africa. Pasts blend together- each plausible and distinct. And the only substantial rush I get is from being completely soaked by ocean water when it’s below freezing outside…I don’t get me; how can I expect anyone else to?”

            “So you’re looking for your place in this world?” He pushes thick-rimmed glasses up his thin slice of a nose then grabs his clipboard and scribbles some notes.

            “Eh. Basically. This is the last place on my list to check.” The cheap Bic pen had bite marks rippling down the sides. Yep, definitely a dog person.

            He leans back, and in between nibbles he inquires, “Hmm. Were you always this way?”

            Vague and roundabout. I was hoping he wasn’t a typical doctor. “This way?”

            He cautiously elaborates, “Distraught, despaired…”, with his face squinching as if he was just told to feed a dragon some lunch.

            “I don’t know. One of my pasts says yes, and one says no,” I remark, aware of the inherent perplexity of my statement.

            “Wait. I don’t understand. Pasts?” His head tilts again, this time to the other side.

            “I’ve tried to analyze myself. I’ve arrived at the conclusion that watching your parents stab each other to death when you’re seven is a very damaging experience. In order to cope with that event and everything after it, I created different embodiments of myself, at different walks of life. So I remember more than one thing from one time.”

            Head dipping, he supports his chin with a clammy palm. “That’s…bewildering. How do you keep them straight?”

            I shrug. “I can’t really.”

            “That sounds problematical.” He smoothes his pant legs.

            I find myself in a shrugging rut. “Eh. I deal…not particularly well, but I deal.”

            “Hmm. I still need a reason to admit you though. Being complicated isn’t adequate, I’m afraid.”

            I leap to my feet and begin pacing in the derisory space. “What do I need to do, stab myself with a needle? Give me one! Pull out my pocketknife and start hacking away at my skin? You said I was distraught, how is that not enough? I want to be accepted into a medical ward, not a butcher shop!”

            Dropping his clipboard on his lap, he displays his palms and pushes the air in effort to calm me. “Valid point. Things just have…changed slightly from when you picked up that pamphlet.”

            “What do you mean?” His uniform of mint slacks and a pocket-laden plastic robe seems to wrinkle and twist due to the breathable anxiety.

            Eyes wide, he explains “Your case seems very legitimate, not to undermine it or anything! However, after we initiated the program giving free care to people in need, we received a wave of fakers. Hundreds of people straight from the streets, all looking for a warm bed, invading the hospital with their practiced minds and packs of lies…They would crack open beer bottles and get into fights just so it would appear as if they cut. They had books upon books of abnormal psychology memorized- hitting all of the signs and symptoms like bullets to bull’s eyes. It grew increasingly difficult to tell who was genuinely ill and who was simply well-versed. So we abolished most of our policies about admitting people, only reserving entry for the most worthy.”

            “Is there anything I can do to prove I’m not just a leech?” I howl.

            “You do have a leg up,” he reveals his crooked smile again.

            “How’d I manage that one?” I wonder.

            “Most of them didn’t arrive at 2:00 a.m.” Rotating his clipboard, I see a clearance card to the mental ward, filled out in doctor scrawl with “Miranda Mulryan” at the top.

"Gogh" by Shortcut to Existential Despair

I wrote a song earlier and I thought I would post it. I have the melody worked out; it is simply a matter of recording it.


On a starry starry night,

A man wilted, head cradled in hands,

At the threshold of eternity;

Carried by the weather's whimsy.


He took a dose of malice,

The medicine of most,

Removed the revolver from his jacket,

And shot his heart, once.


Lost solace in hallucinations,

Left mastication for the mutts;

Instead of giving into despair,

He chose active melancholy.



Eroding, fading, suffocating,

Dissolving, Drowning, frowning

A co che mo te ro le

No words exist to match this strain.


Verse 2:


I lie bound hand and foot

At the bottom of a deep, dark well

Utterly helpless

Yet shrieking for someone


The well dips further,

Into the Earth’s crust.

Soon it reaches the unfeeling

Cold abyss of space.


As I sink into the ultimate,

An undercurrent of vague sadness,

I wish to end the

Inner seizures of despair.





Cheers to the razor,

The termination of ahedonia.

How can something be

So prohibited yet so common?


True art begins and ends

In suffering and inner-torture.

A virulent life cycle with a

Torrent of reproaches.



Eroding, fading, suffocating,

Dissolving, Drowning, frowning

A co che mo te ro le

No words exist to match this strain.



Eroding, fading, suffocating,

Dissolving, Drowning, frowning

A co che mo te ro le

No words exist to match this strain.

First part of "Marielle"

I dipped my finger into the bubbling marshmallows, and swirled it in slow cautious circles, contemplating my future. Microwaveable hot chocolate provided me with a salve for the Diem’s strife. Specifically, I sip the frothy goodness of Nestle, with its stubborn islands of powder which never quite dissolve. Sometimes the notion of being able to “read” them empowers me to try my hand at divination. A load of hocus-pocus becomes the entertainment of the evening. If they float solemnly, in their own isolation, I know tomorrow will be empty, and liberated from all outside contact. However, if they clash in the center, pooling like the eye of a hurricane, I attempt to predict a foreseeable conflict. But for now, my future lies indiscernible, coated by a layer of melted jet-puffed marshmallows. I slurp some up with a distinctly unsexy snorting noise. The unappealing sounds do not apply to the category of grotesque when you’re living alone.

I toy with the fine, carved chameleon’s tongue-like handle of the porcelain china- nothing but the best for microwaveable consumables. My finger trails along the thin rim. Peeling off a rose post-it note, I glanced at Marielle’s rushed handwriting: “At times when I am at my worst, your love for me is not deserved.”  Oh Marielle and her silky peach lips, her almond trusses, hives of freckles, and fresh salty tears of joy. Oh Marielle and her fanciful dreams, perky laugh, and glowing smile. Oh Marielle and her depressive tendencies…I dropped my cup. The poetic note was written in blood.

Oddly, the insoluble hot chocolate bits clung in a tight embrace on the checkerboard floor.


The voluptuous curves of structure,

Kiss the rain then flush it down.


Reveling in the splendor of nature

Is a one-way ticket to an asylum.


No, now the latest technology,

Mimicking and robbing organic additions,

Wins the beauty pageant.


Why must we destroy

Billions of years of struggle?


Is it simply because we can?

Or is it just because we will?


DNA underlines our genetic destiny,

Unconscious fears manipulate reality.


Billboards advertising cars, films, food,

Are the new mighty oaks.


Gasoline replaces the more fundamental water

In the cascading Niagara Falls


We’re told that it’s pretty,

And we believe them.


Soon, after a few generations,

No one remembers its prior prestige.


What happens when we manufacture

Animals, insects, grassy fields?


There is no God to cry, screech,

Plead for us to stop.


That would be very convenient.

Which is why it isn’t true or there.  


This land isn’t ours to plow, dig, and damage.

We’ll soon drown in its wrath.


Just wait.  


Chills scurry down my spine,
Cheap thrills are in line.

Goosebumps erupt on my arms,
My feet in constant rhythmic alarm.

Heart starts beating faster,
Time starts ticking slower.

Shivers spring, quakes shake,
Preparing the leap to my next break.

Legs tense, fingers curl,
Quick transformation from teenage girl.

Depression sinks my thoughts, my drive,
Soon I wonder why I'm still alive.

Capsizing into a pool of dark,
Forgotten all my prior sparks.

Nothing emanates from within,
Inquiring how I begin.

Then with a crunch,
I snap back sane,
To dream with abandon,
And smile again.

The Secret Life of Trees

Tears of overlooked phloem trickled down the elms. The sturdy limbs hung limp like wet spaghetti. Lush leaflets shriveled. At one time, one couldn’t count all of the families, all related to one lofty seed lifted by a cocky crow. There were uncles, mothers, great-aunts, brothers, cousins, godparents, and removal elicited a game that could be played for hours. “Family tree” branched a new meaning.

But the outer trees were the first to go. One could observe the sobbing among the inhuman slicing, dicing the once mighty umbrellas of nature. Foxes fled, robins rang for righteousness, and moles moped about; stunned, unsure of their next abode. Squirrels scurried, November flurried, and any remnants of Uncle Timber were buried. March’s untimely wheeze interrupted the distracting nap held in high regard by the trees. It was their final exam. The remainder of the year resulted in one giant prep course. All had survived. Though it should be noted the melting polka-dot patches of snow uncannily predicted the next occurrence.

Now, a roundabout encapsulated the growth of elms. Starbucks and Walgreens winked across the inorganic divide. The wind whispered nervously. Cars commuted and caused commotion. Lacks of clean air choked the chloroplasts within. Rush hour transmogrified into an inescapable angry robot. Fingers flew, quashed Dr. Pepper cans lined the overturned roots of the new border trees, and minivans crunched the back end of pristine limousines. The grand elders of the forest were now targets for yellow spray paint and obscenities. Invading cities glowed the colors of their toxins. Venomous lime, routine scarlet, neon orange, and suspicious periwinkle conjured an alarming collage of industry.

Soon, the civilians became dissatisfied with their every desire and addiction satiated on only one side of the roundabout. Rain dipped in acid fell upon the expectant leaves, which rotted, poked, and peppered. Even the wailing winds could not correctly emphasize their suffering. Saws ripped sons from mothers in their unavoidable clenching mandibles. The whirring of motors caused shivers among the inner elms. Mechanical roars never boded well. A Super Target materialized above the cores of cousins. Construction workers summoned a shiny Staples beside it. That was easy.

As anticipated, dreamhunters abandoned their childhood hiding places. The magic of a natural escape from the whizzing life most choose to follow blindly was lost. It lies at the dusty bottom of a black hole roaming the universe. What shall become of similes and metaphors once nature’s final murmuring protest is drowned out by a boisterous fax machine? Will sunny smiles, soothing touches, and oceanic attire still exist? Sincere butterflies and bees kissed the tips of trees before fluttering and flocking to their next destination far away. At first they trailed behind the caravan of trucks hoisting their load of elm chunks to the closest sawmill, before realizing the hardship endured by such strapping trees was too much to bear. The monarchs and deceptive twin viceroys never glanced back.

Oxygen particles wafted the odor of grimy oil and filthy sweat. The smog consumed tender trunks. Tuffy Auto Service Center, Sweet Tamarind Delivery, a BP station, a Jenny Craig, a Taco and Burrito Place, a Saab dealership, and AJ’s Posters and Framing sprung up, deflating the next outer ring of trees. License plates displayed birth dates of children, anti-abortion stickers, or what someone aspires to become. The storefronts composed of gritty concrete and dim brick poked out of the shrunken thicket. By now, the once majestic and imposing masses dwindled to a fifth of their previous glory.

An insect with fuzzy limbs and a sleek casing hummed, looping through the holes in dead leaves. It whips, whizzing through the wind’s wild whispers. Buzzing in pleasure from the jet stream’s deep jutting, it wrinkled its antennae before springing them back up like a slingshot. In the distance, he spots a potential mate. Her maroon exoskeleton blinks coyly in the sunlight. Stricken without words or excited ringing, he zoomed towards her animatedly. She reacted to his advance- halting and batting her eyelids along her many slimy hexagonal eyes. This caused his heart to beat at thirty thumps above the normal of 300, as he raced to her. Then, the driver of a truck toting various edible manifestations of Frito Lay floored it, ignoring a red light. Why humanity tends to rush towards red lights is unknown, though in this case, it squashed a tiny hopeless romantic as a consequence.

As the cars, trains, buses, outlet malls, ramps, drive-thrus, Golf Clubs Fore Less, massage therapy clinics, 7/11’s, and Baskin’ Robbins encroached further and further towards the apex of the former forests, nature did not thank Heaven for there were no robins basking in the longing sunlight. Distant constellations knew something was amiss. Plans were cast to transform the leftovers of the forest into a (caldusac). That’s when Billy appeared.

Billy was a raucous boy of seven, with a false supercilious air sprawling behind him. His moppy brown hair and constantly untied shoes reflected his concern for anything but himself. Large copper eyes sparkled in the flaccid afternoon sun. Clouds assumed puffy and large yet ominously dark formations, as the coils of wind carried them nearer. He wiped his leaky nose on an olive green t-shirt. He squinted in the direction of the light, pushing his bushy eyebrows together into a tight knot. Wrinkling his nose, he faced the oldest tree lingering by chance. Armed with a sign with “Dont cut the treas” scrawled in orange crayon in his clutches, he sat. Every day, from nine in the morning to nine at night, Billy sat with a patterned lunchbox, holding the inner side of a Cheerio’s box at the traffic. The wet moss saturated his cargo shorts, but he kept waiting through June.

In mid July, a scruffy man approached him adorning a yellow helmet and ripped overalls. He growled, “Kid, you need to get out of the way.”

“Why?”, Billy countered.

“Because I have a big bad saw that needs to chop some trees today.”

“No! Don’t cut the trees! You can’t cut the trees!” Billy began tugging on the worker’s pantleg.

“Look kid, it’s not my choice.”

“You can’t! You can’t! You can’t!” Billy protested, pummeling the man’s lower body with loose fists.

“Kid, watch where you’re aiming!”

“Don’t cut the trees! You can’t cut the trees!”

Awkwardly yanking his cell from one of his thousand-some pockets, the worker called his supervisor, “Boss, we’ve got a situation here…we have a little kid who’s sitting in front of where I have to saw…Okay yes, I have a situation, not we, I understand…What should we do?...Okay okay, What should I do?...Remove him?...Like that?...You aren’t serious!...Okay, maybe you are serious, but we can’t do that! He’s just a little kid!...Yes, I want to keep my job! We can’t do that though!...Yeah yeah, personal weakness, I can’t do it…Okay fine!...Fine!...FINE! ILL DO IT!”

The man chucked his cell phone into the dirt, where it stood at an odd sixty-eight degree angle. He rubbed his trickling snot onto a faded orange t-shirt, and dried his eyes on the same sport without realizing it. A primal cry filled the sky and injected concealed birds into it. His body trembled violently. Arm hairs stood at attention, and would have been prickly to the touch, assuming the cross of a cactus and a porcupine. Muscles bulged like colliding tectonic plates. He stomped out of Billy’s view for a few minutes, and returned with a revved chain saw. Its maniacal purring and snarls scorched the surrounding air. “Kid, I need you to get out of the way,” he growled.

“No! I won’t let you cut the trees!” wailed Billy.

The man gritted his yellow teeth. “Now!”

“No!” Billy folded his arms.

In one elongated swish, Billy’s head was no longer connected with the rest of his body. Thunder grumbled in the distance, as if just waking up. The next cry pervading the area was more pain-stricken than the last. He took the chainsaw and cut out his own beating heart from the tight clasp of his ribcage. Rain began to engulf sight…


Billy’s bulging bubbles of blood would have fertilized future generations of trees, if there was any free space left for them to grow.

I want her. Not in the usual cliché sexual sense, which has been dubbed by diamond-coated and inflated masculinity as a suitable pickup line, but rather along the lines of a salve I could cherish close to my heart and clutch tightly, leaving the logo on my polo quietly outlined on her thin drawn face. Obviously, I’ve put a lot of thought into this. Her peculiar magnetic attraction draws people in to the epitome of the mysterious. She’s a flickering street lamp in the summer, with the rest of the population transfiguring into shameful insects, drumming the light frantically with tiny exoskeletal bullets. Something about her manner causes my entire body quiver when I hear her honeyed breath, and it makes me believe that she could save me. Sort of like a dream…no, better.

            She doesn’t speak that much. Okay, let me rephrase that. Words leap out of her mouth about as often as Texas is subject to winter’s dandruff-like wrath. Sentences lug aimlessly out of others’ mouths, like marigold-tinted freshwater salmon whirling up the primeval frothy beard of waterfalls. The throat, or abrupt cleft in the lazy journey, provides no obstacle for the inner salmon of those people. But with her, the throat is shallow and still. No immediate and indispensable hurdle for survival. No waterfall. The salmon just sort of pool in her vocal chords, gormandizing on the weaker ones to become giant, strong, meaningful salmon. I don’t know if my imagination translates well into sentences, since I see things in pictures, and as complained about by every English teacher that I’ve had throughout my existence, my description doesn’t accurately portray everything I’m picturing. I’m off on a tangent again. That happens uncomfortably often. But anyway, her salmon provide an SAT-worthy vocabulary, paired with an uncanny sense of logic and rationality that appears to be quite the rarity these days. I wish I could fish them out of her throat and toss them into mine. Maybe that’s what happens when you French kiss. You exchange energetic salmon words with someone else. I wouldn’t know though.

            God, another tangent, I really need to control my mind somehow. Moving on, I’m going to see her, but she can’t see me, or else I would be marked as a major creeper, which doesn’t alleviate my already meager chances. My Converse happily munch on October’s leafy carpeting. Similar to when kids who mow their Dad’s retro shag rug, authentically vintage and straight from college at a major state university. Sidewalks have been transformed into crimson runways. Brisk air with the pungent wafting odor of dying penetrates into my nose and forces it into a tight scrunch, only paralleled by my sister’s ringlets. The sun peeks cautiously out behind groomed Standard Poodle-esque clouds, as if involved in a colossal celestial game of “sardines”. Light wind caresses the landscape, foreplay before the brewing storm gnashes its jaws tonight. In the distance, a pair of mismatched siblings gripes to Mommy about raking leaves, before bickering over the “best rake”. Autumn in suburban Chicago is disappointingly overrated and despicably predictable. Luckily, I have an escape from that burnt rainbow every Thursday from exactly 5:00 p.m. to 5:45 p.m.

Pulsing thoughts.

Does life need meaning, in this world of hollow laughter? 
Are deities an excuse to live, rather than providing an elysium after?
We acromatize into cycles, like raining water.
We struggle to suffice, but why do we bother?
Why don't we all die, a slicing suicidal slaughter?
What defines life, if you escape from the Father?

Answers, anyone?


There's a reason humans dislike toggling with their current routine, even if the continuation of such would lead to their imminent demise.

Routine has stability. Routine has predictability. Routine gives a person a sense of control over their lives, while the exact opposite occurs.

Eventually, once a routine has been set, people become a slave to it, losing every prior sense of their spontaneous self. Let me point out that not all routines are problematic. Brushing your teeth, taking a shower, exercising...these are all beneficial to yourself and others. Diverging from this, some can eliminate the sense of being alive, and the linked rejuvenation between mind and body.

Building on this note, I have attempted doing something spontaneous every day, to minimal success. I have a greater sense of well-being when I do not plan every detail, and rather float along freely. Although impulsiveness can lead to recklessness, even that outcome is not always bad.

So I've started an experiment. Not sure how it will develop, or what will result from it. It's a secret, even from my closest friends. I'm giving it a shot, without thinking about the consequences of my actions. We'll see what arises...