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What is step one?
- Making an excuse not to do it.

This is the lie that drags him down, little by little, and makes him cry. There is a thought for those who worry about this. The excuse never is that he simply cannot work through the trouble himself, to make his horizons broader or never discover anything new. This is a state of mind. Tomorrow he will be better, because he won’t be taking the pills. The pills are what make him stupid - this is the case he repeats to himself every day.

The repetition of painful memories makes us cold. The precipitation in our minds haunts us every day, and we hope that without these pills we will be able to walk away from the homes we have created for ourselves. These pills are the pages we want to write, before we pause in a daze and hope that karate memories and dragon skills bring hopeful work to chaotic dreams.

We want the world to come together without any trouble. This is the problem that haunts me. I want to think, read and write. I want to learn and breathe intellectual fire. I want to save the world and add great things to the public discourse. These days breathe fire on me, and the waves of this ocean of light panic my senses. I have nowhere to be or to go most of the time. The only hope I have is that the righteous water brings my heart towards the light, and away from the lazy flame of desire - that sinful breathe of peace that comes with sitting alone in a room and staring straight ahead, breathe cold in the air and watching nothing in particular.

There is a comatose line that watches him. These sovereign thoughts make his mind spin.  There is very little that bothers the kind of weapons that watch towards the heavy line, there air is that of the fiery depth of the soul, there are megalomaniacs here and there, but some of them really want to fix things. The doctors get no respect, and they just want to help us get jobs. They want us to drive prices down, to contribute to society. They want us the pay taxes. There is no trouble nor triumph in that. It is simply their path.

The doctors are spat on. They do not get treated the way they should. They are somewhat like cops, they simply represent an authority figure. They are called down every day by creative people so they must be strong. I doubt the doctors were going to hurt themselves, but they fell ill with the warpaint of tomorrow, the crime of the direct mail impulse, those drones they are sending to sell me for nonsense without me leaving my house.

What is the government doing with drones? The same thing they are doing with psychiatry. The megalomaniacs have more ample welfare states, which is an offering to their people to keep them in their graces. These are the weapons that breathe the light within the thoughts that are taking the little places with the re-reading of the valuable thoughts, because I must find the liberal way to bring the father of morality towards us. There it stands, the gibbered nonsense that wants to be a phrase, but will never stand alone without another thought of gibberish. Everything is a story. Everything is a lie.

This is the balance, the speakeasy for FOX News. The people that read the National Post need to learn the places of those that do not, and the other way around. We must breathe more, and fight to become the high letters of the door. We must breathe less, and make sure that the man who calls me to sit and stare into space is not allowed to drag me into the muck. That feels like a painful order, because for some reason my wanting to keep writing hurts his feelings. If I don’t want to be next to him it makes him very sad, and very mean. I believe the former, and I experience the latter. There is shelter in a world without him.

That I am looking for the extremely strange makes me susceptible to it. It opens the airwaves to the alternate reality, and it brings my heart down to a social atmosphere, requiems and openness begone, damned to the haunted reality and feared by anti-social weapons. I do not want to belong to this club with the damned man who sits and drags me into the muck. I fear that I drag him to the muck as well, and he just sits there cursing and doesn’t care.

What did we find out? Where is the weapon without cause? There are only a few chaotic writers, they do not fall out of shadow, nor make sense of the world without finding the water. The crescent takes shine to the weapons for sensors, and I can believe in the findings or better thoughts that take sensory kinds of lights in the attic and they watch from the window to be certain he’s taken and he watches from the light of the cell phone without malice, because he must know that you care about him.

As one can try to learn, and the cold whips the outside, I can be fearful of watering cans and bring weapons to the hundreds of protesters who are willing to shoot. These are the brought days and they hear her wait for the candle and the door, and they shot her in the back, because she has brought the hope without the better world - and the way is the shining, hideous face and he breathes fire, and he pulls at her so that she cannot watch from the hall.

There is a better world than that, somewhere within the weapons. These shadowed thoughts that watch without hiding and hurt us, they are the black eyed children or the fighting kinds of fearful thoughts that hurt my hands and feet and make it hard for me to work. I am well rested, and I am fearful of the water, because I am the watchful eye they see without the water, well, I can believe that I must be the healthy one and I am the shadow made of fighting kinds of breathe and the healthy kinds of writing.

This T-Shirt travelled 20 000 miles. The global innovation brings the world together. This doesn’t matter to me or the doctor. The cotton that was sent to the other side of the planet to be woven into thread makes my country less strong. The containers are what made that possible, and it is going to take off pennies per shirt. These are the brides of God, those beautiful people who made our clothing. They are the reason people like us are on the pills. We would have done something about it, but they fucked us because we were already willing to take druids. There it was, shaped like that.

There is a shape to this, because the leaders watch without the lights on, there in their sheds and they tamp the weapon down with the lights on while coming there. I can believe that all the shadows watched them - with the shiny kind of thoughts that salvage there. Ha! I can be white with fear and the light comes and saves me because I must because I must because I must because I must. There is sometimes reason for the fear. There are shadows on the wall, but the mind hurts because he hurt the light on the ratified line - he smashed the head into a mantel as a child. This head injury was his first real memory.

These are the wasted years, me, mindlessly repeating the radio, typing into the machine. The pages will be saved, shared on the internet, but sheltered from the world and with water and the careless thought I cram all I can in one of these sentences. I read once that this is the only way to be a real writer, one just has to write.



To learn more, or to at least find the offering - the desire to find the belief that holds my mind in it’s womb and keeps me from finding the truth. This is the problem with the idle youth. I never found the ulcer, nor did I find the wonderful kind of platform. These days I just happen upon clarity and know that I need to try to write clearly, hoping that someone will read it and help me through the troubled days with their mind, not talking to me, just pushing my mind with theirs. This silence harms me, and I can find hope somewhere within it.

Goodness always hurts me before I cry. I want to learn and be good, I want to do the right things, but I have fallen short on a number of occasions. My mind is made to be a sort of silent number, crestfallen and fouled by the scent of the happiness of others. I suppose we are happy. I suppose we are better now than we ever were before, and that is allowing me to find hope within a dull flame caused by music and ambient purchases.

This is the practice writing that article was telling me about. This is the shapeshifter and the pen. This is the pace at which I desire the letter. That is so worded, because it is special and causes harm half the time. There is the space we can work in, but why do I wish to be confusing? I like the sound of words sometimes, not just the meaning. I want to work, I want to continue the growth the shepherd began so long ago. There should be a sight for that, to get cheaper cards for learning. Perhaps I am the problem. I am the boy with the problem, remember?
I forget now what that problem is.

The problem is the curse of pouring foraged music on to the case. The beginning is the censorship, the silverware is the curse. No, that cannot be subtle, the case was misplaced near the Impala driven by the rather charming young man who paid me money to sit and wait for him. There is the shelter, never mind the clearing in the line. These are the poured cements of literature, here in the clearing. These are the letters to God.

Perhaps I should read to God, because the shelter is my home. This is the happiness that I find within the walls of my home - made to be here now, no other place than home. Where are the classic examples of watering cans and shadow people. I cannot place the house anywhere better than that. I was here without the shadow coming from the better place. I can cry out about my past troubles, my mistakes and shames, but there is no point in that. I’d be better off exclaiming my rewards and triumphs.

These are the ramblings of an insane person, thusly: There is a shape I belong to, simple as that might be, and these shapes are not the shapes that I usually belong to. When asked, this misplacement of occupation is accompanied by literal jumps of begging mercy. All this because of a head injury at 3 and a heavy drug habit by 20. It makes me want to cry. There is no sense to keep running in circles, and I must be pretty egocentric to think that anyone cares.


silent motives part 2

When I die, will I go to a passive existence or will my soul be forever torn into a dramatic torture that halts all growth and harms my entire substance? I suppose I will probably exist as I always have, just as happy and harmonious as I want to be. I know that I want sobriety, I want peace that only that happiness of my own interests can defeat. I want this heart to quit lying to me. I want to know that there is only one way.

I cannot explain the suffering that I have caused in any fine point. I have nobody more temperate than you are to discover the simple peace that comes with truthful reflection. I am sure that I can live without meditation, but I cannot continue to exist within it without looking at it directly. Will the passivity that watches the peaceful heart and the hopeful sorts of sudden movements clear your mind? I hope so. It is it that haunts me.

I want to do something for you. I am a blue man, hurt from the disagreement. I was rude to a person that I didn’t know, I watched the letters that haunted me. I was very sad without the rude sort of bettering, so I am better now for it. But still the man will one day come get me, and I want to be able to make up for my rudeness, but I didn’t kill him. I didn’t exist with the silent sort of motives, I was just part of the gang. I sure hurt myself more that I hurt him. It still hurts me when I sit and think about the bad I have and have not done.

We are pacifists, but I am the lonely type of person who at times watched the just wars take the hope and although I am now alright and learning. I have no reason to be blessed and it is just because I didn’t speak up against the ruining of my future. I did not know that then. I sat there and did the stuff, I drank the kool-aid and got the better lighter (as I know it will light a brighter fire) and I can more or less go home to be happy for a little while, high or whatever. It wasn’t like that for everyone, that is the supposed curse. These are two people who these days need some sort of good luck sent towards them, and that is surprising because we never know how hard the future is going to be on some people.

We want to be happy. Such are the limits of the human mind. These are the people who took over New York, never looking back and only learning the numbers that really long to be heard over the radio, in every small town all across the world. The silent water is that the man watches from the road, making sure that I am dying of guilt that is not mine - because I am the worrying type and you are the reader. So what sort of prayer do you have for me? I do not have the disturbing sorts of speeches that watch for the name. I cannot confess to things that I know are resistance delusions. They are the mocking of a pained blind recess. There, there, shadow person, I am alone without the temporary peace.

Anyone who is the boss takes the fall for his employees, so there must be some assurance that lights the watches, and waters the bettering of the silent yells that haunt my minds hallow walls, marked by paintings etched is stone and blood. I cannot watch without some kind of ill and sheltered psychology. These are the shapes that remain here while I leave. I cannot be without the written word, so I suppose one happy day I will be free.

Perhaps this perception of stress is just the deletion of silence for painters and writers, and she watches for the shelter and needs earl grey tea. I have a real reason to be impatient. She wants to move forward, and there further futures lay, so as the world sets itself a sort of solace she knows that the written work is shelter and the sanity will peer through, without the shadow or the leader. I knew that sort of thought because I cannot believe the little ones. I watch the other sordid detail, soul on a wire, knowing that the only way we have smart failures is through deeply desperate mortals, shunned by society for watching the kinds of Nazi resisters that watch the little savage people for kindness and stubborn war rooms.

We are desperate and lucid, still under the breathe, waiting for the sinister leavings that took the silent watchman - we have to believe in the human spirit, and the “so be it” leanings of all these people only hinder that sort of laughing mind. I wanted to believe in some sort of good thing. I wanted to live with some drugs, but not with others. Like this, the young man died, and it was not my fault, there was a better reason for his shame. He had to fight back. The only hurt came from his guilt for things that he had not done, initially, but it was then learned that it was just hidden guilt about some distant thing the protagonist had done. This always caused deep silence. There is nothing he can do now to fix it.

If the world was fair, the nicest people would have all the coolest stuff, right? That is not the way it is. These worlds are far from something as fair as that, the nightly duel was withheld with lighters stopped that. These are the bright futures that I see, the kind of place that watches the head, that needs the silent better man to act. That sounds like silence, but in minds as grey with regrets as the clouds that haunt this week it is a beautiful sound. It may not make sense but it allows for escape. I can be alone, and the others will watch wrathfully from the wings.

Happiness is a salve sent from the letter to me, like a patient rookie walked towards the leader and needed me to watch the future without hesitation. We watch the future with silent suffering, separating the minds from the leaders. These people watch from the wind, ready for their passive altering, high above the white month of life magazine. I just want to be happy and avoid jail. That seems to be a simple human emotion, I want to keep away from that place.

These silent motives watch from the wings, ha ha! Watch me because I know the man moves as he cries out for the safety of a warm home and a happy cat. That is what we all want, without influencing real world violence. In your own way, you want your hot cup of tea on a cold winters morning. You want your warm home and a happy cat.


drugs part 3

I am very depressed about all the drugs I did in my youth.

I suppose I was looking for an answer to questions of morality and philosophy, trying to become a better person, a better artist, in my way. I wonder where I would be now without those learned mushroom experiences that marked my youth in lust. I want to be as clean as possible now, quitting smoking first, then cutting down on sugar and coffee. I want to be pure.

My innocence was lost long ago, cut down like the affairs of a strange ape in a room, strangling himself against ego and lost attempts at being a gifted man. I hurt people, and I had to leave. I was influenced to be a bad person when I was young, and I need to move forward like a leader. I need to be a better person then I was being, sitting around a coffee shop like limp-dick scum, hurting myself with liquor and drugs, trying to rock and roll. Who did I think I was? That is not how to make music anymore.

I’m sure I got lucky on several occasions. I’m sure I died and was reborn in fits of manic dread. I sure enjoyed myself while I was adventuring, and hopefully I moved a mountain at some point. I look back at my youth and wonder what I have accomplished. Did anything I wrote do something good, or are they just inane ramblings sitting alone in cyberspace waiting for a robot to come along and post a reply? This manic idea that I am doing something great, that comes from the drugs. It must, it hasn’t been the same since I quit partying.

I love not partying, but there are few people to play music with. People are too loud and weird for me as a sober person, so I enjoy staying in on a Friday night and watching the television. It has been idle and marked with my awkward silence and “distance” from my girlfriend, as I have been smoking too much pot. I tell you this now, because only my mother reads my blog. I must confess, I am smoking pot to quit smoking tobacco, and it is working rather well, except for the haze of sweet smoke around my rental apartment. This is making me paranoid. I don’t want to get kicked out. I suppose I could really try to make a difference tomorrow. I could try to put down smoking in general. This is hopeful, but a lofty task in the light of my addiction. It is also a step I am forced to take.

I want to be sober. I want to be one of the good people who were never turned on to anything even like drinking, but I know I am who I am, subjected to eternities of habit. I must move forward and be a sober person from this life on. I cannot drink, because almost every time I drank I found myself next to the toilet wishing I hadn’t drank. I have that in my cell memory. I have that in my eternal memory. That is part of who I am. I just needed to clarity to try to change. I guess that is why God is tearing me apart like this.

I must quit smoking, as well. I am down to two a day. All I want to do is find a new way to try and kill myself, but I am so afraid of the idea of that thought that I pray to stay alive and see more with my friends and family. I suppose that is why I want to quit smoking, because it is the first time since I first thought about it that I was attached to this body. This sobriety is the first time in a long time that I have wanted to keep ahold of this life. That seems so shallow now, but it is actually quite sad. I had no idea what I was missing.

The trouble is the great fear that it produces.
I was running from my troubles, trying to create a delusional world.
I hated every moment of it, except the sober manias.


Positive Thoughts for a Better World:

There has got to be a way. These are the wide lenses that act properly. These tattoos will not go away, even though you are proudly a different person than you were when you got them. We have got to believe in hopeful nature. We must save for retirement. These realities are the worsening relationship for their hiding beliefs. These beliefs weigh them down, and therefore are held in high esteem. We, as a society, belong to the betterment of every person. We are all responsible for the life of the lowliest peasant on the globe. If you can make a persons life better, you should. There is a better world than this.

Every person struggles, and we need some sort of luck to be successful. You need to available to your luck, you cannot just sit there waiting. Feeling lucky is just tuning in to the opportunity, not worried that others will gain if you don’t. There has got to be a way to make everyone have their own opportunities, in the fields they wish to be in. Sadly, it is more difficult than that to explain away your troubles.

I went to the bank today, curious about making some money slowly but steadily. I feel it would be good to use the money from quitting smoking on something important, like building a money base to stand on independently. What am I going to build my future on, but my own hard work. This will help me take action in the future, and I would like to have more money. I think if I buy a Canada Savings bond every month or two, then I will save some money. It will not be in cash form, and will be harder to spend. I want to build a portfolio 50 dollars at a time. I think that will be possible for me.

To make a financial decision like this, I must decide to take a risk. It is worthwhile, because I will just spend that $50 a month, and if I lose everything in the stock market, I will have already lived without the stocks and been fine. There is no reason to not take this risk, and use the money that I am saving on quitting smoking to invest in my future. It is an inspirational note, too. I will be saving my health and growing my wealth.

That seems positive. It is all a mass of truth and destruction, the sort of fast acting right that takes us all by surprise. I want to save money, so I’d like to place at least part of my money in some sort of account that I am unable to reach. It’s just waiting, it’s allowing myself to spend my cash on a savings bond or mutual fund, raising my capital a bit and keeping me in the game. It will allow me to save money for the future. It will allow me to grow my world.

I can be bound by one of two emotions, love or fear. I have feared the banks, the financial world and such, but now I have decided to approach them with love, allowing myself the room I need to grow. It’s allowing me to believe within the righteous tomes. It’s allowing me to believe within the righteous tomes. There is nothing else left, just the emotion of love and the attempt at making my life a little bit better. It is always risky, but it is also possible that I will be able to make some money. It is more than gambling, it is something to do with a little bit of money a month, money that I will be without either way. This way at least I’ll be building something.

There is reasonable thought within this world. We have nothing more than that. We want to be able to support a group of people, we want to be able to bring their quality of life higher. I want to bring myself and my girlfriend great happiness, and this may be a way to help do that. I want to spread happiness on people, complete strangers. I’d like to be able to fund people’s need to eat. If I had money I’d give food to lots of people. Of course, I spend money on all sorts of restaurants - something that will only go up if I wind up having more money. Actually, I don’t see that going up very much. I already go as much as is comfortable.

My life is very comfortable. I live in a home and eat good food every day. I smoke as much as I want (although that is less and less every day). I cannot complain about the state my existence is in, but as is the case with all things, I want just a little bit more. I want some sort of security, so that I know that I will have a certain amount of savings on hand. I want this hope.

This is a shame because I want to be a writer. I want pain and suffering to make art with. This is the struggle of the artist, wanting fame, fortune and to be tormented endlessly always hoping that the next one will make you proud. Perhaps that is the path of investors, too. It may be the path of desire. Why do you want to be recognized? Why do we want the next big thing.

What do I want?

I want to be secure in my home and be able to stay in one location for a long time, i.e. buy a home. I want to be free from the restraints of a boss or any responsibilities. I want to sit and write, create something powerful, think, learn and process the world. I suppose I want those to be my responsibilities. I want to be a successful intellectual and artist. I want to work for Good. I want to help everyone somehow. I want to stay in love and feel peaceful. I want to quit smoking, as my sooner to be a wish.

Max says you can’t serve both G-d and money. I think it is possible. I once heard a wise man say, “You can feed more people with four billion dollars than you can with fifty cents in a jar.” It is good to have righteous intentions, and work within the society that has been pre-supposed. The bank was there before me. They have all the money. I want some of the money, so that I can do good things for people. It is easier for me to work with them than to break them down and build up something new. This is why we should always learn about what we are doing and make decisions based on the actions of others while starting something new.

This is the precept of a person who has given up his childish dream of saving the world, if you look at it in one direction, but the idea that we can work within this world to help it as we can, in another direction. The fear brings it one direction, the light and good of love brings it in another. Now, the question is, what are you going to worship? I suppose it doesn’t matter, because anything created by a human is inherently evil to begin with. We are far to stupid to create anything truly good. Even the best attempts at worship of good shoot rays of evil when looked at in a broadened form.

This is how it is with banks. They hold your money. It’s the economy, or something. I’m looking in to it. I’m beginning to learn. This is definitely a way to step up. Just having a meeting with the man in the bank does not mean I have to give him my money, but it will give me an idea what this whole thing is and hopefully an introduction into the world of money-getting. I remain stuck on the idea that I should live inside the system that already exists. It is better than betting my future on the luck of my good health and some sort of personal reflection that leads to a long string of physical action. I’d really rather write and think.

The trouble is, I am not as driven by monetary gain as many people. I want to learn about the secrets of the universe and try to know what it is that we are doing here. Gaining insight in a broad variety of topics is important to me, so I could never put the process of money-getting in front of the desire for knowledge. I suppose it should be a side project, though. The concepts of the economy and financial systems gives a large pool of things to learn about. Just like anything, they are made up by humans, noted by humans and are fundamental to only humans. Like this, it is not any different than learning about anything else.

I want to learn about birds, ancient Egyptian glyphs, physics, psychology and economics. I want to bring some sort of insight to the world, and be able to hold my own in an academic light. I want to hold on to some sort of great light, and give hope to the reader that he can make the world a better place, too. These sections are not for the hope, they are symbols about my origins, my spirituality and the obsession with being something further away from where I am today than I could ever imagine right now. I would love to go to school.

Which brings me back to my private economy. If I begin to save money in a way that I can’t touch it then I could hold it like a functional person, saving the hundred bucks a month I am not spending on smoking for a future that looks a little brighter. This should be joined with the sort of light reading and thinking that makes a fortune for me. This should remain an ever growing portfolio. It will help us afford coffee in the future, I am sure. It will give us some sort of security in our fortunate life. This will be my savings, done by buying one share at a time, and standing pat. It will be better than having a bunch of cash that I will just spend on coffee and pizza. If my past has taught me anything its that I spend my money as I get it. This time I will just spend my money on Canada bonds or something like that. This is the time to learn.

Do this with love. Do not live in fear. I suppose that is the most important lesson I am learning. Someone told me that long ago. I haven’t really understood it since the initial seed, although I have tried to. I am learning more and more now, and I think I am beginning to understand. There is much to this world. There is lot’s we are able to discover. There is nothing wrong with trying to make a little niche for yourself. I had to learn that, and I suppose it is why I’ve hid my dreams inside my body for so long. It makes life worthwhile, and my quality of life will increase with the gracious beginning of adulthood. This is a good thing.

I was afraid to tell people that I wanted to be an artist or a writer. I figured the best way to be one was to actually do the work, instead of wishing that I was one while working some other job. I don’t know why I was haunted with this decision, but even as I grew, when I spoke to friends defending my way of life I was not scared to say that I did work, but was scared to give examples. It felt like if he knew me at all he would know that I worked hard and writing and making art. Of course, even when I said that I was writing or making art, he told me it was a worthless trade and I’d be better being on welfare, living in a trailer park, and selling pot.

That doesn’t make him an awful person, but something else does. I’m not sure what it is, perhaps the amount of fear he lives in. It makes me afraid of him. He does not put much effort in to anything, and when I told him that I wanted to save money he told me to go the easy way. He feels you cannot serve money and God, and would like to serve God, (that is what he told me many years ago, I cannot be sure he still remembers it was his goal.) I believe he tries to learn, and he wants to be a Christian. I’m not sure if it is my delusions or perceptiveness that make me think he is a waster. What can you do with these people hanging around except excuse yourself and make something meaningful or learn about something new.

I read once that you hang out with people like yourself. That makes me wonder what he does that is like what I do, and makes me realize he probably thinks of himself in the way I think of myself. I remember while I was younger I thought we were, “Angels on stage, poor.” It was that I was not allowed to ask for money in return for my work, as it was a sin. The doctor says I am allowed to ask for money in return for my work, and that seems like a path to follow. It will sure help me save money, giving me cash to buy bonds and stuff.

Everyone wants your money. I want to publish more work, but that will take money. I wish I could find someone who will pay for my next book. That would be a great opportunity, but there is a fear in me in asking for that $100. What I have to do is love the fact that people give me money. I must think more of my past successes. It will make me think highly of myself. To get an agent to critique your work costs $100, too. It may be money well spent, but it likely will be a waste of $100. That doesn’t seem fair, but I guess you have to be a street sweeper or something for a little bit. It seems common enough.

They say that workshops are important to keep the arts moving. Each of these cost a certain amount of money. I should really have access to at least a thousand dollars at any given time, in order to live with the thousand-aires. That will be the marketplace that I will stand at for a bit but I would like to grow, so that I can look around and hopefully do something with my life. I will have money to audit classes at the college. I will be able to sign up for workshops. It will help me. If I have a little bit more, I will not be happier, but the actions with this goal is something to do with my time now that I’m an adult.

I suppose money buys things that make a person happy. A person can be happy without money and sad with money, so there is no direct link. Chasing after more and more money every day is not a way to be happy. One of the leading regrets of dying people is that they spent too much time at work, and not enough with their friends and family. Another major regret is that they were not able to be the person they wanted to be. I feel that savings will raise the amount of cash I have on hand, so I will be able to buy entry into some of the workshops and things that will help me grow in the direction I would like to.

That seems counter-productive, and I suppose it is going to take a while before I have a pocket full of cash generally, but if I save and save then I am sure I will have more money. To be sure, I will not be able to rely on my girlfriend’s paycheque while I try to fill my portfolio, so I will have to spend my money on groceries and such as well, but I’m not going to buy any more video games or tobacco, so that is something. It is about buying the things that you need, not just buying things to prove that you can. I suppose that is something that takes a few years of experience in the marketplace to learn. Perhaps I am on a normal trajectory for a person of my generation. I am learning and beginning to save before I am 30, so I suppose that is something.

I feel like I am responsible enough to hold on to a bunch of money now that I am older than I was when I spent freely, sure that more money for drinks would come. The mentality that I would get more money for drinks every time worked, but it made me a drunken poor man. I got lucky, and before I got old, someone believed that I could be a sober good person, so I took the opportunity and now I regret my mindless drunken behaviour. I have had two drinks in two years, so I suppose I am now ready to make something of myself. I was a drunken drunk while I was in that world. I am glad I have gotten around to making something better with my life. I hope my friends decide to do that too. They just got worse, so far. I have little to relate to them with. My communication skills are rising every day, and I still cannot have a real conversation with one of my friends. I hope he pulls around and does something positive with his life. I want to be a good example. I want to be a role model.

If I try this first, and am a little bit more successful generally because of the holdings, then I can help others start from the bottom as well. Then we will save for our futures and make peace with our now. We will all be better off for me making positive changes to my life. It has been true so far. The breaks came from breaks in being a good person.

I am still repenting for my mistakes in the past, and they haunt my thoughts every day. This happens, I think of them more than my successes. I will need to make a conscious decision to think highly of myself. A little more self esteem isn’t a sin, like it seems. This is a broken, fear based delusion that I cannot be above other people, that I don’t deserve success. This makes me work for free and get paid much less than my time should be worth. Why am I afraid of being successful? That is the question I must answer. Perhaps I was more effected than I thought by the song, “More Money, More Problems.”

Risk is a good thing. When you roll a dice, you do not know if you will win, but it is a real possibility. There is a spot somewhere that lasts like the last note. The man in Vegas who always does things to the fullest, losing his party money in a bet and going home with his savings in tact, knowing that even though he was up a thousand dollars at his peak, the money stayed in Vegas and he enjoyed the trip’s food. That is the key, you have to enjoy the present moment, but remain aware that there is a future. It’s less cute than saving nuts for the winter, it’s simpler than that. It’s buying things that you can cash in later, allowing you to have some savings if you spend all your money. That’s what I need.

One day, I will make a difference in the world. A good thing to do for people to take me seriously is to act like a successful professional. The more money I have saved, the easier it will be to let go of some of it. I like the idea of putting money away now, right now I think that might be what this blog turns to, but most likely not. It could be something like, “The Mentally Ill Guide to Saving Money” and I could discuss the spiritual wisdom of making money to feed others. It seems like something people do, so perhaps I could get in on this whole game too.


The Nice Man

There is, of course, a turbulent dream there. We have a supposed written world, and with it comes a sort of discourse. There, they say, is the grammar hall that haunted their later lives. In the sort of weaponized deconstruction of a rather well meaning portion of the stubborn little faces. It must be a silent one, and one day I will rest as well. We will all rest in a feeling. There is a necessary beast with many heads, rather gracious and well meaning. We have not discussed the level that had bound me to this quest, and as such I must describe that as a given time.

This is the eventual value, and the fundamental kind of warranted time, made to be badly weathered for the other sorts of kings. These kings are wrapped in festive wrapping, granting wishes for all because the weapons have finally become the lifeless bodies they were meant to be at the beginning. These people are glad the restaurant is still standing, so they can sign their cheques over to the other ones. We do not have a better world than this. There is neither an answer nor a reason to be found in the following letters, nor can they be watched by just anyone - you must be a special kind of seeker to find me here.

There must be a poetic reading of this, a kind of drunken fear that wraps my mind, turbulent as the weather goes. As she wished, we left the apartment. There was a sudden jump in my mood and the lights of my childhood brought me, forever impaired, to a place where I could stand to live no longer. There is a rather bothersome wrapping to this work, a sideways gash in my sternum where the stubborn notes never bothered to run. I could not see this, of course. There was only phlegm and body parts strewn across the lawn.

There must be a better note, something to write home about. There must be a whine withering within us, light as the notes they wanted. We cannot pause within that, as the servant can be replaced, so can the leader of the world. This is better done through safe measures, and that is what people like about this place we are in now. There is an illusion that our President is a fair and honest man. I cannot believe the rather dull note that came second.

It was scribbled on a piece of paper folded and wrapped in the sort of bible that watched me. I could not be sure of the purpose, just that it folded it’s weather like a direct decedent of the chocolate kind. There was nothing to it, really. Just the sort of weapons that watch the little kind burn. It helps that at any moment I can float away in my mind, curious of different things. There must be multiple places to go.

Whenever the hope comes, it dwindles and falters as I have another cigarette. The fact is, I am a broken person, hanging on to tobacco for dear life. I must make a better world than this for myself. I must believe in my mind and defeat myself in this addiction. The smoke is not the answer. It takes self control and discipline. These are the most important trails I can head down. We have no reason to believe it will hold me forever. I can live without them.

The manifestation of peace will take forever, and that is a good thing. There is a weight within me, that holds me to this way of life. It has taken on a life of it’s own, and the pain of not being held by the peaceful grip of nicotine causes greater harm than smoking. It is hurting me. I used to want to die, but not anymore. Now I am happy and want to live. I enjoyed the five hour break between smokes today. I want more time like that.


The Nosey Silence

The Nosey Silence
By Jon Pelletier

I heard myself speak to other today, just listened. It was a very off-putting experience. There was an eerie silence from me and I nervously judged myself. I can be very critical of myself. Things can be true from both directions. That is why the Felter and the Mage were such good friends. It is why the chambers of Distinct Reasoning were made from wages cut by the queen while she allowed the forgiving government to shut down. The stable men who wished to stand up for the Nervous Cloaks laughed because there was nothing opposing them. Ron Swanson was happy as well, with no government – the settlement was based on sheltered fates. He could walk away now and be happy.

There was an unsettling cause that desired to give up. There was a weapon of deceit, made with Detroit in the Shadow of St. Bartholomew. It was a sober weapon, like that which tore through the love within the savage dates. There was a morning within the memory of a girlfriend, and some good times though which they were able to stay together. They want the other way, to be torn asunder forever. There is some light in that. Although, one can’t be stuck – they must keep moving forever, as change is inevitable. I don’t want to think that I will not forever be with her, but at the very least one of us is going to die. There is a tome dedicated to her, from which I will describe the last ones.

I missed a meeting because of E. Erikson but I had a macaroon so it was worth it. The chaotic part is that we need to write. We need to make music. It is the only way to fight these demons of my mind. The unsettled dream I have is different. They are but sketched marks, robots and silent people. I must share with the little highs, the heads of which are within me keeping these silent places that make their spot tolerable. He is I, and that makes me want to smoke. This is the shame, the shape of these ropes. I cannot be compelled to look. That is the turbulent chaos in this.


the curse for pamela wallen

That looks like my Mother’s dog. Is it? Is that lady not the stranger I think she is, but somebody I know, whom I think is my Mother?
There is no telling what is left, just the dank stink of stranger days. A fear and feast of rather kind dragons, measured by the level headed stranger that watches me fall. These people are kind and noble, that can be written for certain. They want us to do the best, even if it destroys our lives – makes us their sheep. They are fearful vampires, and I do my best to be free from their grasp. Only the leaders know where I am, but they cannot get through the labyrinth.

Repetition is worthwhile. Only those marked by the skin of the beast must be written on the stone outside my cathedral. One of these sheep mindfully walks, dear to the heart of the woman who may or may not be my mother. The dog is there, I know that for sure, but the person is a far different creature than I have ever seen before, weighed down with heavy thought and the urge to complete a festival made out of glass. The place is not visible, but I think I see where she finally broke and rolled back to the ocean.

Finally, I cannot be certain that the woman is not the dog. A rope attaches them, so I fearfully cut it. These shining sums weigh on her concourses, the curves and highways that Tom Cochrane wrote of. The appeal is beginning to fade, because the hope of the tinderbox finally igniting is far too appealing for the separated faiths. We all want to be these people, but when we watch the gifts they are given we cannot do anything but cry out for equality. I suppose eventually something important will occur and the people will simply be fed up. Then, of course, they will stop voting. That really is our plan all along.


The Care and Feeding of an American Messiah.

Write what you know, they say.
Souls marked with righteous regret are walking down the street. Everyone is at least 30 years older than me. I walk to the coffee shop alone through the crowded residential area. There are usually not this many people on the street. It must be because the sun is out.

This winter was long and cold this year. This was unusual as the last few years have been legitimate examples of global warming. I hadn’t seen snow like that since I was a child. Crises were created and life was averted for another year so that I could write something meaningful. There is a chance that I did.

I recall a mania that occurred about a year ago that lead to long rambling notes regarding eternity and the colors of life, which destroyed my psyche for the rest of the year making me fritter away my time wishing that grandeur were true. The colors have fallen back to their resting positions and I cannot any longer see God. This is very well and good, as when I was close to God I was driven insane by knowing some kind of truth. My mind was not capable of comprehending what I saw. The doctors that took care of me called it bipolar mania, which is apparently an addictive drug.

The only problem with seeing the light so brightly in my mania is that I lose the ability to function in the real world. I am being abducted by aliens and walking around Syria with a light saber saving the world and ending wars, bi-locating to do the work of great spirits of white magick and writing books and plays regarding my adventure, but I am not making sense to the people who can see me and care about me nor actually recording the notes of my adventure. This is a valuable source of creativity, as it serves as cannon fodder to fill the notebooks and documents throughout the rest of the year.

There is meaning to life. There is a beautiful cause brought by reasonable ones. The British insomniacs are on the same page as me. There is no reason to feed blame. There are only we, those wicked souls of prediction and the land of the Sumers, those who lack the will to change and run away. We are people who find fury within graceful lines. I will find the truth, of course, like my ancestors that came to the new world hoping to build a better life. They want things only dreamed of and brought the silence of Northern Russia with them.

Who am I, really? Where do these parts go? Where is the one that works to get to that spot on the horizon that watches and waits for the passing of time? Where are the fearsome kinds of beast that take the manic witches and drag us to the hellish spaces of darkness that come with the blindness of mania? Who are the other people like me? Where are these strange memories from? Where do they fit?

These mistakes must have a hidden beauty. When they speak to me I am hidden. When they move I leave without them. Those who you fall asleep thinking about have given you either joy or pain, and in some case both. It is my mistake that makes these manic cries for someone to love me back. All I can do is love someone who also loves me. There is a nice space there, and it keeps a madman warm, even if I still smoke.

There is no careless effort afforded to me here. There is only a need for a massive lifestyle change. This one has been happening slowly for the last two years.

There is no hope to change my past. There is no wandering that can bleed these wounds and fear the change of lust in the ego. Bothersome, sacred matters are, while the righteous thoughts of faith and empirical space wraps the reader their white linen and calls out the in light shadows without their righteous fodder. We have no weather that bares my collar. There are members of the fighting stance that knead the brass as it drips from my shattered soul. I gave away everything that I could.

Gentle love shapes my mind. I cannot believe that these are the wide-open spaces that the divine wanted every day, between the faithful way and the shadows now. I cannot think that these divine gifts have wrapped me without leaving a trail. I must follow their ether and try to find the love and grace of the potential for tea in the afternoon. There is an old woman finally whole, with white wine and vinegar while the mighty fell.


the fear

This is what gives me the fear – a scalding note from a superior regarding the place that I want to receive as an important nuance. There are other things, but I regrettably cannot feel those right now, only the pure jealous knowing that nothing will relate with me like the chaotic failed potential. I cannot relate. That is okay, though – I am not meant to be like the rest. Finding this out, I cannot rejoice in the valor of accomplishment, not without knowing that I am only one sainted member of this team, not able to speak, but high on righteous indignation. All he can do is hate me.

Some time soon the pale veil of fog will encompass this valley, and the news will come that all I have tried to accomplish is not available to the righteous ones. I can concern myself with the resources found near the ghost of the Chinese bookstore that used to sit on the corner where that ailing old man now sells his drugs. They always invite me to the shadow, hoping that I can be another place for them to find a heartless badger, made for shadowed laughs and turbulent niceties. There is no point.

What are we doing here? Why should I try to be the potent mid-life rapture that envelops that piece of resistance deep in my drawl? I cannot be trusted. Only the shining light takes their spot. Without the rapturous lift to heaven, the stubborn must believe. The rose finds it’s hope and I cry. There is a weapon somewhere for me to fight through these details. It is deep within my cell memory of Catholic guilt. I cannot belong to any of the other veins. They are deep blue and have mystery. This one is purple and chokes.