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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.