By all means marry; if you get a good wife, you'll be happy

Fading into colour is the start of this story. Etching into the eyes of a blurry soul who is just recently 'awakening' dawns a courtroom, where a judge's face can not be seen, only felt. Everyone in the room consists of their best clothes and the soul seems to recognize them all. The soul's father paces before the faceless judge, shouting his best vocabulary about something the soul can not understand. The soul's mother sits behind, crying silently. To the far right sits someone the soul can not see very well, only determinable as a person by the dim outline. A feeling of hatred and anger burns in the soul's gut. An urge to shout approaches, only to be stopped by the Grand Decide.

Fighting for the idiot blur is just another blur, who speaks no language the soul recognizes. In the jury box are people who seem to be there, but not, existing more like ghosts than actual people. As the soul stares at them, sadness covers everything. The lights even seem to dim.

Hours, days, and even months pass on by. Finally, after all of the arguing was complete, the judge spoke. To the soul, it sounded like the recordings of a whale that the soul remembered listening to as a very small child. The gavel rang with 14 echoes, booming off of all the people the soul could recognize. The rest seemed not to hear it.

A feeling of loss covers the soul. A feeling of unfairness. A feeling of defeat.

It is.

There is a man dressed in all white; buttoned up shirt, white denim jeans hanging real down low, baggy like Busta when he rhymes. In the lights it is impossible to tell, as red, green, and blue changes the tone of everything every few seconds in the expanse of the club. The only colour possible to see is black. Bass is down low, pushing every living being's guts deep into their soul.

A man walks up to a beautiful girl in a room that was out of her tastes. She sings with the songs and her feet tap. Her friends laugh at jokes someone told that nobody but them understood. Something like "...and he said 'WAAP'". The man does not understand, but does not care.

The man says "I would not mind spending every day, out on the corner in the pouring rain"

The girl says "Maroon 5" and does not smile.

The man walks away in a shade of blue.

How is it to tell, in this world for tomorrow, about when the past is meant for today, or today meant for the past? Herein lies the secret telling of lies, where stars are not stars but memories. If in one thousand years you see the present of a thousand years ago, does that mean in two thousand years you hear the present of two thousand years ago?

If light is good then shadow is evil. The lack of good. What then, do you think the lowly fish in the ravines of the sea, putting of pressure that could kill a 3 ton war submarine, is good? Perhaps light and fire are only goodness because we so desperately survive off of it. We say the sun is the basis of life, but we can see proof against it. Such does life prove the same examples. Such as, what is good or evil to one is not good or evil to another, because they did not need such plateau of goodness to survive. If we did not eat would we make food? So in a way there is sense in all of this.

What is nonsensical however, is that every living being is firmly set on everything being the same. That if one presents, it represents. That which is not identical to your representation of yourself is nothing like yourself, and therein an enemy. That which lies outside of our thought process is enemy. Those in which moves backward as you move forward are indeed going the wrong way.

In Ancient greco-spartan past, young citizen boys, from royalty to poor, were put through a series of three tests. Test one started when they could walk. They would spar with their fathers, facing things we would see as abuse. Things a hundred organizations would sue over and we would be horrified to hear in the news. The next test was to make them homeless for a period of two years. By guards appointed with this task, slaves were sent to steal and rob these children. The only way presented for these children to live was to steal themselves and many times kill in their own protection. The final task was to banish them from the city, into the dark and cold woods outside the city. They were allowed back in three years, at the age 15. 

From these tests came the strongest soldiers in the world. Born from it came nationality rival to the Third Reich. Pride came from being undefeated. The city survived countlessly against unimaginable odds.

The great empires of the worlds: Cleopatra's Egypt, Alexander's Greek, Xerxes' Persians, Hitler's Reich, Eisenhower's Marines, Caeser's Rome, the Golden Hordes; All of them had their best soldiers created in the same way.

From suffering comes strength.

Socrates, a famed philosopher from Athens, was a poverty-striken boy begging until he was old enough to speak. Leonardo Da Vinci was a poor carpenter. Michelangelo was a poor masonic apprentice. Van Gogh was forever depressed, mentally insane perhaps.

From darkness, comes beauty.

After the "tragic" incident on September 11, 2001 (I only put it this way because I find it a tribute to our nation on how spoiled we are), millions of money was spent from the American people's pockets to organizations like AmeriCorps, doubling and sometimes tripling the normal amount. After a small dip from company losses, the economy rose from increase in legal tender circulation. After Hurrican Katrina, the same thing occured.

From unfairness, comes kindness.

There is no such thing as a happy life. Sadly, I suppose.

So, I am not sure if I chronicled this or not, but I shall now.

I'm currently moving out of Charlotte, because this apartment is shit and my mom doesn't want me to be here in this shit (which is how I'm looking at it). I'm moving back to Kernersville. It seems fitting to go back to a place with good friends and demons to fight with them near your side.

The only thing is, I found a place. A nice place and I'm moving in next monday. How much fun!...?

It is less than a mile from where Kelsea (used to?) live(s). I have no clue where she is now but I have a feeling we will bump into each other at some point. Maybe I could try to convince myself I don't care but then I'd be lying. I mean, I'm not going to her house with a bunch of flowers and a sorry note. That doesn't work, nor do I have any inclination to do a stupid stunt like that. The only thing is, I can plan all I'd like for when (hopefully "if" rather) we do bump into each other, but I know now that I will freeze up like an idiot.

I guess thats the best reaction anyway. Something I find even more amusing to think about is that I know by now that she is most certainly not even worrying about such things. I would hope not, at the least. Which means, dear fellas, that I am more of a softie than her. Which I find amusing.

Hey, I'm a cancer. LAWL

No, moving on (pun, LOL), I'll be living with billy and some woman for super cheap for a nice place. I have a job transfer, and currently enough funds to buy a few classes in forsyth tech. Not enough for an associates, which is what I'm saving for. I'm smoking a lot less. I didn't even notice it until Jimmy said something. I guess its starting to leave me for good. I'd actually rather not think about and let it go (oh how I've overused that technique). I haven't drank in probably two months, actually abstaining from drinking at the last party. I haven't smoked pot in...jeez Febuary at the least. I remember doing it on Valentines day. The end of all the ends, lol. Anyways, my point is that I feel so much healthier, and I'm starting to get more fit. I've actually got tone. I seem to feel myself smiling more. It feels good.

Its a tad lonely, but it feels good. I don't need a crazy person to feel sane.

EDIT: WOAHHH stop there. I recognize how many times I range from up to down, this sort of post to my old dark ones. So I don't mean to be repetitive, but doing this helps me keep up with my mood changes.

And maybe you are not counting, but I am. They are growing farther apart, and the dark ones are dropping in frequency. So at the least, I am getting control.

I quite remember being young. There are times I really don't but I really do. Sometimes I think about good times. Those are easier to remember. I suppose that makes sense, with what I know now. The only question I have is why would you try to change that?

I remember not giving a flying crap about anything. I mean that seriously. I didn't want toys or even friends. There were two things in the world I cared about. Beyond those two things, nothing bothered me. I wouldn't have eaten had my mom not fed me. I wanted a father, and I wanted my questions answered.

Not too long and yet not too soon after that, I had tossed aside the need for a father. I still had plenty of questions.

I remember being the prodigy son. Someone who, while he felt he had nothing and proud of it, was prophesied to be an amazing person. Not just a doctor or some rich guy, but like Ghandi and Martin Luther King Jr.

I remember the first time I let them down, and how much fun I had doing so. I kept wonderful grades in school and never got into any trouble, besides being the class clown. I dressed up every halloween for candy like a ninja three years straight. I attended those "special student" classes, thinking they were dull and snobby like rich people are to people like me. I had no idea then how it must have felt not being in those classes. When I finally did find out, it seems that I intended to fail. I remember my first bad grade, and it had nothing to do with me being slow or lazy. It had to do with my friend not being in the same class of me because he wasn't deemed smart enough.

I remember how sad he looked, and yet he didn't cry and just smiled and waved. For a kid who is only 10 that is impressive. I remember playing soccer after school with the older kids and kicking more butt than they expected. I remember how they would always forget my name the next day. Oh how that bugged me so.

I remember how I never talked of how my home life was going. It was easy keeping that up, lying every now and then, so that we sounded like a nice little suburban family, because my mom would do the same thing every time she met a teacher or even went out in public. At the time, I thought that was respectable. I guess I still do.

I remember my first kiss. Like it was yesterday. Like that was the only kiss I had kissed. I was awful. Embarressingly awful. I missed the first go. I was so dry in the mouth the next time that it must have been like kissing sand paper. The third time was where the magic is. It happened brilliantly, and my only regret I have in life is that I wish that could have been the first one, not the third.

I remember seeing my first girlfriend for the last time, as her mother angrily grabbed her away from me. I recall now how I only loved her out of puppy love, or maybe even guilt. I don't think I knew what guilt even was at that age. I remember her face as she cried that last time. She was telling me sorry and I don't understand why. I was happy. I really really was. Some part of me felt that was wrong but I was happy the whole mess was over.

I remember how from those happy, outgoing moments I became secluded. Lost inside myself, refusing to speak unless it was a question. None of my questions were getting answered correctly. It had taken me this long to understand what my penis was for and I would be damned to wait that long again. I grew a marvelous and enormous imagination. Sometimes it would seep out of me unwillingly, and create things in the dark. Other times it would create worlds in which entertained me for hours on end.

It was possible I didn't have a conversation with a girl for at least two years. At the time, I was okay with that. I really didn't care. Being a virgin didn't matter to me. I laughed it off when boys at school bragged about being not, because I knew they were lying. I found the internet that year, I think. I remember my first porn experience. I got caught.

I figured out chat rooms and forums, and I was lost into vast amount of people just waiting to talk to you, expecting things from you, and laughing with you. It was so simple to be clever with typed words. That may be in oxymoron of sorts. I began to talk to people all around the world, further enclosing me into myself.

One person I found particularly fascinating. Simply because she talked with such surety and acceptance. A type of speaking that would attract me to women further into my teenage years. That year I started writing creatively.

She lived nearby. Well sort of, maybe about 45 minutes away. She once asked me to see her, for her parents were coming into town. I was nervous, and simply innocent in the dangers of the internet. I lucked out however, she turned out to be a very pretty girl only one year older than me.

We didn't have much to talk about, that quiet day at the park. We had talked about anything we could come up with. She knew my past, and I knew hers. I remember the warning signs I chose to ignore. That she was 15 and not a virgin, that she thought it was cute I was a virgin and okay with it, and had expressed I should change that. All those sorts of things. I was too much amazed that this older and very pretty girl was so into me, like I was into her. I was just a chubby kid with too many thoughts and way too much imagination to connect properly with anyone.

She set out to prove me wrong, and she did. I connected, and I was vulnerable. I guess as much as I could have been. I hardly cared about anything, except for my questions and my budding desire to prove people wrong. The world seemed too sure of themselves, to locked into the things their parents teach them, that I needed to prove that the world is greater than what the can only see. Everybody thought I was weird. And they are right. They still think that now.

I grew a new passion, and that passion had a name and curly hair. My thoughts were filled with her and I was immortaly consumed. It was a nice feeling. I did things for her I would never do again. I hitchhiked to see her. I ran miles. I lost weight and took risks.

One night, she took me by the hand in her most pretty dress and opened up a world to me. Something more I could drive into, so to speak. I was consumed, and she was entertained into teaching me the things she knew. I was the student, and I learned well.

From then on, it seemed I left my world in childhood.

The past became the present.

I circled the same events over and over again, wishing for a safe return to innocence. Hoping that someday, someday, my questions can get answered. Maybe that day I'll find my passion again. I'll begin to care enough. I can not think of it as sinking, but rather emptying out. Losing what I did not want or did not need, and indeed the vacuum of space it left was painful but water has its way of returning. The only white butterfly of hope left from my child was that I never, in my life, intended any harm. I was just, perhaps rather selfishly, monsooning my way into life.

I feel like a train. Many stops, many stretches of rail. On one hand, I am painfully sorrowful for the blood on my front, for those who took a risk in getting my attention. On the other, I know I never made it a point to say I was safe to do so. I can not return the lives I have taken, but I can reach beyond them, knowing what they meant, like a funeral service for the already living. I won't know it all, and my questions may never be answered, but if faith is to believe in that you can not prove, then I am perhaps the most faithful there ever was.

Or I am the greatest sinner imaginable.

Parlez-vous

In the dark October sky,
There was a bird, trying to fly
As his blue wings took
The Earth beneath him shook.

As so in his eye
He rose to the sky
Breathing in the clouds
Holding him as a shroud

He has risen above
To be buried with love
Rotting slowly in the sky
Left for good, hereby

In the heat of the sun
Icarus, he has outdone
There is nothing of wax
No rolling deadly tax

Only flesh and veins
Are this bird's chains
As he soars beyond this earth
Finding this world a dearth.

You know, I can't really remember the last time I had fun. Anytime I really smiled because I couldn't help it, when nothing was funny. No, thats wrong. I remember smiling when I stared right into a beautiful girl's eyes, and she was staring back. It was because I just couldn't believe I was there, but I was, and I was inhaling every bit of it. Its all I ever needed from a relationship. All the other things just drove me crazy.

I guess I could say I've been depressed for a very long time. I mean, I could have fun, but not as much as I could when I was a kid. I remember being thrilled from flying a kite, or going to the park, or dressing up like a ninja, or even taking my imagination and a box of animal cards outside. Now, it takes a lot. I have to risk my life, my sanity, and/or my dignity to get a glimmer of what I once had. Now, I've been manic. But that was more a crazy need to drive on, rather than the fun I really wanted.

Maybe that is different now. I mean, who knows. I know my self esteem is no better than it was back when, but I can't say I torture myself or try and be a martyr like I did before when. Last night I went out with a guy from work, his gf, and a girl from work. All we did was sit at a coffee shop until 3 in the morning and they kicked us out.

We laughed and we talked, and we talked about ourselves and other people. I connected with them, and them with me. I felt...connected with the world. I was shivering and it was rather warm inside. I was shaking, but I hadn't had any caffeine or anything else but my own blood inside of me. I couldn't help but smile the whole time. They told me they have never seen me so happy. If only my friends and some old ones could have seen me.

It is a shame they can not. Maybe this is a new chapter for me. I don't remember being hurt by things that don't exist. At least not specifically. I remember that I used to all the time.

I have... so much respect for myself. Maybe that seems arrogant, but its true nonetheless. I'm surrounded by, nearly every day, by people constricted by their family, the society, and norms that I know it must be awful. I am able to reach outside of these things, despite what people think, and because of this, I've made friends. People that are interested in me. People that are fascinating, more fascinating than I have ever met. It gives me confidence. It lets me know that things will be alright.

Things will be alright.

One Day One Day
I could have lost you in the Fray
But I didn't and I won't
I'm not sayin this is love baby

I said I was complicated
I said I was simple
(with problems attached)
But you said, baby

"I'm lost by myself
And when I'm lost
I do not look"

I miss you when you're around
You are so far away
But look, baby
I'll reach forever

We will listen to rap songs
And listen to you sing
With T-Pain
As if he could sing at all.

I will hang out with your friends
Make them mine
They won't love me
And I won't love you.

I'll kiss your lips
And you grasp my tongue
Let me pull your hair
Scratch my skin.

But I won't love you, baby
Because you're not around
There is a hole in you
Something I never found

On this Dark June
I'll move away forever
And I won't miss you
Because I don't love you

You date big guys
With muscles I don't have
With giant members
And deep voices

But something I said
Or did
Or tried
No one else did

You're afraid, and I say
Don't love me
Because I won't love you.
I had fun though.

You're broken but your stare
Is full of life.
Your hair is golden brown
But you're dead inside.

I won't be responsible
Of killing you further
So its one more day
I can do, without loving you.

Only
If that is what it takes
To love you
As long as I can.

Sometimes it is a little teller with an annoying voice that screams at you when you realize that life is really not all that short. Time is merely consistent when you're life remains the same and whose does? Maybe that didn't make any grammatical sense but who the hell determined that grammar made sense anyway? To communicate effectively does not rely on efficient spelling, accent, or grammar but the grand meaning of the message. To those that are blind speak in touch, those that are deaf speak in sight, and those who are mute speak with write.

Life flows on like a looping highway that takes 10 years to fully circle. People who consistently stop for the broken down take longer, as those who speed on by end too quickly, threatening their own span of the circle, reaching dangerous speed and aggressiveness to achieve perfect insanity. Those who spend a whole 10 years sitting on the side of the highway when their car decides to take a break are just as bad or just as good (depending on how you approach such matters). There is no quickest way to the end. There is only the circle in which our lives are held onto by little strips of leather and plastic.

Would you like to sit by and watch the world scream through? I would hope not; that makes you a quite sever masochist. To allow yourself to be a martyr and blaming the world or even a bit of the world for why you bleed through your chest. Perhaps the thought never occurred to you that you are the one who stepped into the path, deciding not to move, deciding to demand. To hate endlessly on the people who pass through you because your needs can not be met by them is the greatest act of victimization yet to be seen. For all that pass in the future, good luck; for all that stop with her, I'm sorry. It can be interesting to spend the night puking because somebody doesn't like you or nobody likes you and step outside and find nobody cared. Some people never experience that and spend their lives on the side of the highway, getting mad because no one will stop for them.

A small bird once told me a fantastic story. It was how this small bird began to fly. 600 times, he would say, he jumped out of the nest. One time, he flew. 599 times the mother cried because he died. 599 times he died. By the time he felt the wind push under his feathers there was nothing left alive in him to enjoy it; only bitter resentment at the fact it took him so long to fly. Merely one year later this small bird forgotten 599 times of failure. His mother had forgotten her wounds. I asked this small bird, what about space?

Happiness is undefinable, no matter how much you try. It is a feeling that is reached quickly and ends quickly. Perhaps, for you, it can be a quiet sunny day with a quiet sunny book. For her it might be someone willing to please her and please her until there is nothing left of her. To him it might be making loud jokes and taking risks and flirting as any young boy should do. To them it may be riches. For us it may be love. The matter is not what exactly happiness is, the matter is why exactly your happiness is.

And finally, for those who refuse to ask questions because they fear answers, refuse to change because they fear change, refuse to love because they can not be loved, and refuse to be better because they fear pain, I ask you, here now and with no real chance of an answer; How well can you be happy?