Goodbye Microwave.

Compassion she says. I'm compassionate, I think. But how can I be compassionate to people who don't try for more, that settle. You're either trying to be better or you're not. I cannot be compassionate to people who stop trying. Fuck that. Fuck them. There's the problem, there's the solution. Where do you live? Try. Yearn. Demand more from yourself. Insist on it. What more is there in life? What the fuck more could there be?

Microwave, televisions, blenders, luxury vehicles, cellphones, the cutting edge, keeping up with the trends, memorizing the lines of the latest comedy to repeat at work or school on Monday. Do her shoes cost more than mine? How big is your flat screen? I wonder if his pants are from Barney's or The Gap...these are the problem.

I too am guilty of these things. I think about it every time I use the goddamn microwave. Where the fuck is the line? I need to throw my microwave out and use the stove. But can I? I have to believe that I can, because how else can you teach, but by example. I must simplify my life. Goodbye microwave and so many other things. I will be free of possessions and will gain knowledge and skills. I have so much to offer myself and others but there is more and more and more out there that I must ride myself of. In the world of souls it's either sink or swim.

It's just crutch, and I don't have a limp so why am I using a crutch?

Paper-Doll.

I never thought I'd be the type of person to care. The world shattered for me early on. I wasn't safe, protected or sheltered. That's how I learned to be reckless. It didn't matter. He was on the other side of the world and she was suicidal. I couldn't bear the weight, so I learned to simply stop caring. I retreated inside, built up walls and a persona. Locked up in solitary confinement forever. As I grew and sexually matured, I was torn up about my isolation. I wanted to connect but didn't want to give anything away. My persona grew with my need for intoxicating escapes. But always careful to leave up those walls. Only revealing the shadow of my soul to others. Life didn't matter, death didn't matter-there was no difference-I was already dead. At the age of eleven I had accepted the lonely demise that would be my life. Certain there would never be anyone who could understand my inner workings. I had not been designed as most. It was a drug-overdose, countless empty sexual encounters and eleven more years of self-destruction until I finally found a group of people that understood my language. However I was still bound by my shackles behind my walls. Unable to come out or allow anyone in. Instead I offered out a diagram-the blue prints of my words-there was a response of semi-comprehension. But I remained a prisoner of my persona-I had forgotten how to be me. But now is the collision of all times and all versions of me. I have been reborn of my death. I know there are others cut from the same cloth. They see my shadow and know my walls and know it is a philosophy trick. And now my carelessness has been stifled-like a flame that has run out of air. My cloth cutout is finally free to move and be aware.

My Current Cell.

Where in the world am I? Dwelling doesn't get you anywhere, I never stay in one place too long. Perhaps, I take myself too seriously. It's the truth. I only speak the truth. Inconsistency. I hate the world. It conspires against me. Then again so do I. I conspire against myself. Why must we fear success? It's my own inconsistency. My own failure to follow through. All the precision for the speed. The failure of time. I hate time. How do we get around time? That goddamn word

T I M E.

I do not submit to it. I am not one to submit. What the fuck is the process? Aging in this body. I do not know how to get out of the glass prison. The empire never ended. The savior is a four year old named Sophia but she will be slain. Slain by the very hand that loves her the most.

Stuck. They'll never come for us now.

When the Smoke Clears...

I am descending like a madman into hell. With every round getting darker. Here I am again and again, but never to my own recognition. It is too late. I never see it until it's over. The damage done, the poison in my veins already on its way to my heart.  Occupied in every sort of way.

Artificial Lighting.

The empire never ended. I am unknowingly in a glass menagerie. Forced to reenact my cycle that I have been assigned. Insert blade here. I have just made a big circle. I thought I had grown, changed, matured....yet here I am doing the same things I have done a million times. I thought I had overcome this. Which voice to listen to? One says fight the feeling, it's a test, fight the feeling. The other says there's no escaping, it is my fate to step in these footprints. I am both and neither, creator and destroyer. The victim and the killer. No matter what I ever choose to do I have already won and will always lose.