3-Day Quote Challenge

I would like to thank C for nominating me and sorry if I’m missing a step, but it turns out I’m illiterate… except for typing.

Rules to be followed:

  • 3 quotes each day
  • 3 nominees to be nominated (no repetition!)
  • Thank the person who nominated you
  • Inform the nominees

My quotes for today are:

“For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul.”

-Mark 8:36

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

-Oscar Wilde

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

-Kurt Vonnegut

My Nominees for today are:

Sophie – Healing Your Broken Soul

The Lotus Divine




Origin Unknown

Some can never understand the reason for a city that hardly anyone knows and why, in his infinite wisdom, a benevolent God would put within this city the ‘Nexus of the Universe’. Questions like this will go unanswered. It’s not our job to question, but to enjoy the bounty that the world hath wrought. Winding down East Street, there is a little known path, a cul de sac to the untrained eye, but if you follow the path you’ll find it. You’ll find this place, for which many great bards have written, for which weary travelers would cross for a moment of rest if this was another time.

Follow down Circle Street, to where the woods seem to be exceeding their limits over the road, encroaching on the world and threatening to take it all back. It’s a place for which man separated from his bestial nature and although we promised never to return, we were never fit to make such a promise. We always return. If you dare to return, you must follow the trail between the trees, which leads a winding uphill path. Humanity tried to bind this road. Evidence of this failed attempt comes in the form of a big black pipe, where it remains buried in the ground. Climb over it and continue. Their failure is not your own. It only takes a few minutes to reach this place. It’s so simple that one should question whether this is truly the Nexus of the Universe or if in reality such a thing can be measured.

Nestled between the outcrop of woods and the edge of the city, which folds above and beneath it, is the falls. You can sit at the bottom and find contentment or you can move along and find the Nexus. It sits at the top, where the water is much calmer. At this point, the only hint to what is happening beneath is the rush of water crashing against itself. You can look out in front and see the water leading into a stream and heading out towards the river or you can stare straight ahead and see the city. It stands before you with such a perfection that can only be noticed from the Nexus. If you move from this spot you’ll lose it, but if you remain for a few minutes you’ll notice that all sense of what this city is or what it should be disappears. From this point, you can truly appreciate where you’ve come from and where you’ll be in the future. This is the nexus. We all need this experience once in our lives.

Del Cid

Solar corona above statue of El Cid SF CA.jpgThere was a story I remember reading in school about El Cid, who challenged the  Muslims who invaded Spain. He held a minor territory for a while, but still, he was a great leader. You hear these stories all the time if you look through the history books, but not many people apply them to their everyday lives. I’ve always wondered how many of these great warriors exist in our time that have gone undocumented and thus, die without their proper glory. It’s tough, when the world around us seems settled, no longer wild and without form. Ancient cultures seemed to fluctuate between rulers, with eager warlords rushing to rape and pillage, slaughter and sunder, to lay claim, plant their seed and have their name spread across the world. I think of the fall of the Byzantine Empire. One of the great structures, the Hagia Sophia epitomized that time, but then, when the Vikings invaded… someone wrote his name on it and it’s remained their to this day. Now, it’s history and no one cares; it’s as significant of the time as the structure itself. A great warrior left his mark; the world passes his name, posing with it for pictures. That’s the dream of every warrior, every madman and zealot. Every person struggles to be significant.

Del Cid didn’t think to be remembered, although a lot that he did was quite memorable. I once saw him fight through a broken nose. He just didn’t stop. There must’ve been a trigger in his mind, an impulse, an instinct, if you will, that pushed him through it. It told him to fight and that was what he did; it was all he knew. Stopping and tending to his bloody, crooked nose never occurred to him. It was disgusting to the rest of us, seeing his busted nose slanting against his bloodied face, but he didn’t seem to even notice the pain. I swear I caught his nose moving left and right, as he scrambled through the influx of pain and adrenaline. He fought so hard, if only to ensure that the other guy looked the same, felt his pain, understood the suffering that he’d endured. It was all about proving your toughness, proving who you are and what made you a force to be reckoned.

He wasn’t exactly a drug dealer. Del Cid was the guy the drug dealer calls to collect. He didn’t like to fight most of those guys or so he said, although he did enjoy his ‘tough guy’ persona. He liked a challenge. He told me that he didn’t like having a gun on him, because it took the fun out of it. One time, a guy tried to fight his way out of the apartment and Del Cid was forced to pummel him. He had two of his friends with him. Del Cid took care of them all, but he forgot to bring the money. The man came by a few hours later with the money. It just didn’t occur to Del Cid that this was about the money. He didn’t care. This wasn’t his job; it was his way of life and he loved it.

Del Cid didn’t last long in high school. I had nothing in common with Del Cid, excluding belonging to this fair city. I respected him, because I held an illusion for what he could be. Great men don’t come so often, especially in this city. I wanted to believe that things could get better. Del Cid ended up in jail. A funny thing happened when he went away. Everyone in his inner circle did the same. They disappeared. The glue that held them together dissolved in no time. Most found their place with other, lesser Del Cids.

In understanding a man like Del Cid, it’s important to examine more than his actions, but those that surrounded him. His father, an alcoholic, impregnated his mother five times, Del Cid being second oldest, before leaving and doing the same thing with another woman. He came back every so often, but it always ended in a fight with either Del Cid or someone else. The brothers fought all the time, if not out of anger, then just as a means to maintain the delicate hierarchy alongside their mother. Del Cid learned to fight in his own home, how to assert dominance and claim his place. It’s not exactly Spain or Hagia Sophia or even Sparta, but it still seems significant.


Rattling the Monkey Cage

It was quiet… a little too quiet on the night of April 11th, in this most wretched year of our Lord . I sat with friends in our usual booth in a nearly empty restaurant. Someone a little familiar caught my eye, as he made his way toward the side of the bar. I used to work retail. It was awful. I’ll tell you more about it some other time. I remembered the guy from when he came into my old job with his mother. I was there long enough that I could still remember him as a kid. I remembered the boy as a polite, considerate young man. I didn’t know him very well.

Then… he spoke. Not to me, but to those around him. More people started to flood the restaurant. They’d gotten out from a recent Trump rally on the other side of the river. They were excited. Rhetoric is the same no matter when or where you hear it. It’s a simple equation: Insert belief + Nonsensical Conclusion + A lot more belief = Fuck it we’re bad at math anyway. They could say it with smiles and jeers and as if it made sense. They gave a toast led by the young man I’d known from my retail days. He lifted his glass and said “We’re gonna build a wall!” I laughed, but they were being serious. They were dead set. That bothered me more than the rhetoric. They believed that an issue as complex as immigration could be handled by building a wall.

We left early, because… why not? There were more taglines thrown around, but I couldn’t stomach much more. That one tagline about building a wall always got to me and I still can’t wrap my mind around it. Then, I realized I was thinking too much. It was a simple solution that would have catastrophic consequences, but my problem was… I was thinking too much. These people aren’t thinking of any more than what seems right (in their minds). They see the issue: people enter our country illegally. They see the solution: build a wall. Simple, logic in its most archaic form. The complexity of immigration isn’t something they were built to handle. They don’t care that the people you want to keep out of this country build massive underground highways. They don’t care. Then again, I’m thinking too much. I’m thinking they don’t want the bad immigrants, like the drug lords that are helping to keep Mexico in chaos. That’s too much thought. They just don’t want brown people in this country. They don’t want to think of who’s good or bad. They just want the good thing done (building a wall) so the bad people (all immigrants) can’t ‘ruin’ our great country.

Another idea I heard was that they’re gonna have all the illegal aliens shipped out of the country. If building a wall doesn’t bankrupt us this idea definitely has the potential. Then, it doesn’t matter the cost; it matters what’s right.

I could ignore their madness up to this point, when I watched bits and pieces of the Republican National Convention and was amazed at what I heard and saw from the ‘Grand Old Party’. It’s something I realized that struck me in the point where my heart should be, somewhere there, poking at my gut. Mr. Trump is an obnoxious little cunt that sits in the pit of my chest, just below the cavity where my heart should be… and just above my gut. He’s a worm, but that doesn’t matter. He’s embedded into the future of America. He’s rooted like a tapeworm in our digestive tract. It isn’t going to matter if he wins. I doubt he will… sincerely, I doubt, but it no longer matters. He’s exposed something that America hasn’t accepted about its true nature. It’s a legacy of racism and simple-minded ideals. America is a country of idealists that take all shapes and sizes. We believe in fair market, while corporations bleed the world dry. We believe in saving the planet, while we destroy it.

We’re at capacity for foolish, sincere, idealists of all breeds. The ones that follow Trump are a particular strain of antiquated racists whose gram-pappies founded this country. They seemed relatively docile, dormant and, dare I say, serene around the turn of the twentieth century. They had no more armies, although they still clung to their rotten ideals. The ones that follow Trump aren’t going away if he doesn’t get elected, because they’ve been here since time unremembered. They’re here to stay. They’ve always been here and now they have a voice. It’s an old troll with tiny sausage fingers and a horrible (HORRIBLE) Toupee… and yes, there will be… ‘hell toupee’…

What I’ve learned from eight years of Obama is that the diluted gene pool of the inbreeding white supremacist has suddenly taken on myriad forms. It’s become more of a Ocean of Life. Where once it used to be entrenched in its bunkers out west waiting for the day the government sends the black helicopters to take their land, now it’s in our backyards. Obama struck a nerve for these people. They would’ve hated him no matter what he did. They hated him for what he stood for (in their minds). He was a symbol of racial decline. They were losing power. To them, he became a symbol of the final nail in the coffin for the dominance of the white male in this country. They cling to their guns. They cling to their traditions. They don’t accept change. Change means the collapse of something their ‘gram-pappies’ built. Obama exposed it simply by being who he is; there is a cult that went unnamed in America made up of white, Conservative Christians. It wasn’t spoken of before, because it wasn’t real. It was just a bunch of people with the same ideals who weren’t a unified group.

Even if Donald Trump doesn’t become the president, he still serves a role that is more fitting. He’s a figurehead. He’s a relic. He’s like the ‘spear of destiny’. When the Crusaders found the spear, they charged toward Jerusalem and killed everything in sight. Zealots only need a rallying cry. They don’t need scientists telling them the planet’s on fire. They don’t need economists explaining how currency works. They don’t need the logistics of building a wall, deporting millions of people and plunging our country into greater debt. Thought is the enemy. They live off of belief. It pollutes them, like toxic waste, telling them that all is well. You see them close their eyes and worship within, seeing the void and something deeper. They have something that calls them to a place of eternal peace. They hear a soothing voice channeling them to the center. It calls them unto a world without violence or strife or ‘coloreds’. The voice belongs to Donald Trump. He’s in their minds now, but he’s always been there. It just never had a name.


Nekkid Pic Nostradamus

I wanted to use a pic of Jennifer Lawrence, but didn’t know if I’d get sued. Since we’re living in an age where technology is the ‘second coming’ and the internet is our ‘messiah’, why don’t we take a moment to consider what the human race has gotten itself into. I can’t in all honesty tell you exactly what the internet is or where it comes from! This technology came on so fast we never had time to understand it. We possess the power to talk and share values with people across the world, while, in the same moment, an enigmatic figure can steal money from the coffers of world governments. Pedophiles can peddle their creepiness, human traffickers and various pederasts. Terrorists can recruit and hackers can steal sensitive information, while I can hardly figure out how to post a single picture of my dick.

First off, have you ever gone ghost? Ghosting is when you find somebody online, talk for a while and then disappear. No explanation, you just stop talking. The other person is given nothing. The internet has created a safe space for people to engage and disengage once we’ve gotten what we wanted. It’s reached a point where we no longer need to be considerate, because we’re not interacting with others, we’re talking to a screen. We don’t need to care about others, their feelings or thoughts. We have the power to fade away, a super power for which we cannot consider the consequences. Whose to say there are any, when we’re all ghosts? This entire world of the internet is illusory. It can fade like it’s nothing. A website can shut down and plug back on. A person can disappear and make a new name, a new face for himself, a new profile and personal signature. For as much as it changes, things stay the same. The internet and all its formalities leaves nothing to be desired for human contact. After all, it’s a world haunted by people who are nothing more than ghosts.

Therefore, it seems obvious that the idea of human interaction has changed, somehow evolving with the technology. We no longer need to make a connection, when it can be severed without warning. In the real world, you need to at least argue or decide you hate them and avoid them like the plague. With the power of ‘Ghosting’, this necessity in disengaging human connections has become unnecessary. The interaction is only personal to us; it belongs to us and no one else.

Secondly, another power that we possess is the ability to assume any form that we want. This is akin to ‘ghosting’, but where we create a persona separate from the form we take in life, which exists only on the web. We can say we’re that person, just by posting a picture of that person and acting as if this is a real interaction waiting to happen. It’s as easy as copying and pasting from any blog or site with a person eager to become a model or whatever might be the case. A person can easily say they’re a beautiful girl, steal a girl’s pictures and post them, claiming to be that person and form connections. She can talk and flirt and create connections. If she’s never found out; if she maintains these illusions nobody cares. As long as the person behind the persona maintains the illusion, why would anyone care? People assume they’re talking to a beautiful girl or a princess from Zamunda, so ‘she’ continues to post personal photos that don’t belong to her, for the world to enjoy. We’re forced to trust what we’re being told, believing that sweet innocent ‘Bethany’ is really just trying to pay her way through medical school and not some creep taking things that don’t belong to him. Be honest with yourself… which would you rather believe?

Whatever the reason, a personal bond is formed out of lies and, usually with the deception, a person’s personal property is stolen. This is the level that human interaction has reached, where both parties are interested in getting what they want and not forming a bond. The men get to see a beautiful girl and the person posting gets whatever he wants out of it. The girl, to the contrary, gets nothing. Her property is taken from her, in some cases very personal photos. If she never figures it out, then those photos are just there; this person exists with her image and nobody is the wiser. It should create a duality that tears the universe apart, but the illusion balances out, as long as nobody finds out.

Personal information, in this age, is never safe. The internet age seems to leave us open to invisible enemies, like in antiquity, when civilization experienced its birthing pains, and was forced to deal with the incessant threat of marauders.

Another issue that everyone seems c0ntent to ignore is the ancient wisdom of photos stealing people’s souls. It speaks to a deeper wisdom: do we ever consider what a person can see in our eyes? We’ve reached an age where you can have video and pictures uploaded for the world to see in moments, yet we never consider the consequences. Without editing, without refining what we see, the image is this muck of clay waiting for the world to mold it, to see what it’s made of and distort it however we see fit. What incredible power! You can go on a million sites and see pictures of girls in their underwear… not that I’ve done that. You can see them much worse, doing things that most would never consider. Then, there’s what’s in their eyes. Most of us can’t even make eye-contact, yet we can watch these girls do these things without blinking. Does anyone ever consider the consequences of watching, while this girl does whatever it is she does? Again, what incredible power!

There’s always something in their eyes. It’s a horrible gift, for which I possess, but I can count all the years of a person’s suffering if I stare long enough. If you look into a person’s eyes you can tell their story better than if they told you, because most people can’t be honest with themselves, let alone a friend or complete stranger. Take a look at the pic of the girl with her tits out, nipples rigid, every inch of her shaved, toned to perfection. Look into her eyes. Why would you want to when you’ve already gotten what you wanted? We’re missing something and it’s right in front of our faces. The age old parasitic beast, the dread monster of lore, an internal struggle in every creature to be happy under the duress of eternal sorrow.

When I see a picture of a person, the first thing I do is look at their eyes. When I’m alone, when I want intimacy, I find that picture and try to see the same old suffering I’ve known for years. I try to relate, I try to feel something so personal, so we can share in our struggle and become as one. So intimate, so pure and true. So dark and insidious and grating; something that can tear us to pieces.

Images are sacred. We’ve surpassed a point where we need to relate to people in traveling to France to go to a museum, to experience anything but our couches, to touch the smooth grace of movement made by a paintbrush centuries ago and know what struggle an artist went through. We just see. Interpret. Move along. Ghost is the nature.

No, I don’t know where I inherited this gift… if you think it’s as such. Some say it’s a curse… but, with great power comes great responsibility. I think Jesus said that. I’m here to help the world with my gift. So, please… send me any image of yourself and I will decode your innermost desires. No dudes… that would be terrible.

The Pigeon Man

Crossing the river, I say a prayer to Kama, Patron Saint of the Doomed. He is our protector, blessed be his name. The sun is nearing its highest point; not a cloud in the sky to impede its progress. We’ll measure its zenith, as well as its decline. Not many are blessed with such an opportunity, to know the rise and fall. Many experience one or the other.Crossing the river, your soul drifts, as the dark spirits that inhabit the underworld find the bridge to be a vulnerable point in reality, to prod and poke and pull unwary souls to their doom. Praying to Kama, in the least, provides us with solace. Blessed is his name.

There’s something you give up once you’ve become this person. There’s something you give up when you’re no longer considered a human being. Whether you have a say in it, I’ve not the wisdom to share. I’ve never reached that pivotal point of desperation. I’ve never been pushed over the edge by whatever unremitting force it is that can make a man into… not a monster, just something society would want to hide.

Society wants to hide from him, but I can’t… for whatever reason, I see him. I wonder if it’s a ploy of some schizophrenic tendency in my mind; the onset of dementia, but as I make my way up State Street, a long slanting hill, I notice a man, obviously homeless, with his back resting against a glass bus stop, roughly six feet wide. I notice at least six people on the other side of the structure, each either looking at their cell phones or wearing headphones. They sway to the sounds that echo in their minds. I see one man wearing a red sweater, bobbing his head. He peeks back to see ‘the Pigeon Man’, if only out of curiosity, but he seems less than interested. People pass us by. Some don’t even bother to look.

We talk about joining together in unity, about life being this ‘utmost significant’… thing, but these are just rhymes to keep us sane. We recite them, like cold mantras to ward off evil spirits. Dare we stop and take a look around us? To what end? It’s a cold world we live in, even with the temperature rising every day. Global warming’s another myth, just like Sasquatch and the female orgasm. Have you heard the one about the Pigeon Man? He turned out to be a black hole! Same myth as any other: insert implausible, undeniable truth that the mind can’t wrap itself around and keep the world busy for a while. People are black holes. If I put my hand out to this man I’ll be lost forever. Stephen Hawking says that’s a myth now too. Lying cunt. If I put my hand out I’ll never escape.

I watch the man feed several pigeons from a lunch bag sitting among the ruins and wreckage of whatever consists of his life. I wasn’t thinking it at the time, but why in the hell did he have the food for the pigeons… enough to feed them and not bother with himself? It isn’t laziness that makes a man homeless, but madness. Dementia, fringe searing thought forms that chew away at the mind. They can start in the back of the mind; call it anxiety, PTSD, depression, schizophrenia, but eventually they destroy even the greatest of us. Muhammad Ali. Ernest Hemingway. Me, probably.

I make my way up the hill, venturing towards Madison Ave, towards what’s supposed to be the ‘Tulip Fest’. I’ve never been, though I have no interest in seeing a bunch of flowers. It’s fun to see people, so I make the journey. I walk along the cracked pavement running between the roads and the sidewalks, until I reach the ‘State Plaza’. It’s a long grey stretch of land crafted by people who think that grey is the color of the world. Black and white, perhaps it’s a statement. Albany is the ‘greyest little city in the world’, with a number of state offices outlying, in-lying, lying every which way. There’s a call for startups, in hopes to bring fresh enterprise and perhaps a change to the malaise of grey fog, but who can tell what the future holds. There’s always talk of change, of making things better, but maybe we’re just doomed to remain within the fog. I walk through the grey, thinking of Tartarus in Greek lore. I think of things malformed, undigested bits of reality, not quite hell, but a world absent of the will to make this into heaven. I look passed ‘The Egg’, a big, grey, oval shaped structure for great artists to perform. If you look passed you’re blessed with quite the view of my home. The land stretches out from this point and Tartarus doesn’t so much ‘frame’ the view, but pull it in. This is the nexus of the universe and everything around us is being pulled in, consumed, like a black hole. All that I behold is my kingdom.

I have yet to claim it. I never will.

I walk along the fountain, which stretches most of the way from Washington St, to Madison Ave. It’s a reflecting pool, for our people to take time out of their days and stare at their most intimate self. See yourself, just to remember that you’re real and what you’re enduring is not a dream, as in any other rendition of Tartarus. Physicists claim that this world might be a reflection. Lying cunts. I see reflections all around me… lying cunts. I see myself as a boy running as fast as I can around the reflecting pool. I have no idea why I ran. I just did, because I was a kid and had so much energy. I see myself years down the road… too old for running… too old for walking. I sit and think of all that I’ve seen in my life. I think of myself, as the Pigeon Man. There’s nothing left to run for, so I sit and feed the pigeons. Rot of the brain is getting the best of me. I forget where I am. I’m at the reflecting pool. I go towards Madison Ave.

I’m not too far from my destination, but I already hear music. The music is a group of college-age ‘kids’ sitting on a stoop listening to a rapper I’ve never heard. My first thought is that I didn’t know people still sat out on their stoops and used their radios. Then, I feel the first sting of old age, not that I’m THAT old, just beyond that point where age no longer matters. I’m lost, taken, again, by the grip of that black hole. I pass them without a glance, as they shout every word of the song, cheering, as if they’d hoped to share this moment forever. Duality hits again and I remember acting the same way at their age. Something about that one song that brings everyone together. I can’t even remember the song. It’s beyond that black hole, yet its significance to my story remains.

I continue, noticing a crowd of people herding together at the corner, walking in packs into the park. Washington Park is flooded with people and vendors and booths for assorted goods. Artists have assembled, hoping to pedal their wares, enjoying the sunny day in the park. I hate the herding. We walk along the path. So many black holes grouped together is always cause for a cataclysmic, time-altering event and I want no part of it. There’s so much room along the grass, but we can’t go there. Vendors set up wires and tents and things to keep us trapped. We’re trapped like rats. I make a turn and walk through the maze of wires, hearing someone saying something, but I’m too far gone. I have to escape the herd. Crossing the jungle of wires, I see people laying out on blankets in the grass. I feel more relaxed. I see the tulips decorated for the occasion. I see bright purples and blues. Nothing grey about this place. Even the fountain in the middle, no grey, just faded after years of erosion. I see a beautiful girl in a sundress that passes me by. For a moment, we can stare, sharing in some moment that will go untold, unseen, in the back of our minds for as long as eternity holds itself together. SO insignificant, as it drags itself out; the will they, won’t they, as it stretches beyond the point of no return. We share that glance into each other’s eyes, the most intimate point we can reach, seeing something beautiful and sinister in our souls, before it’s gone.

I leave the park. I pass the ‘stoop kids’ and go back through the grey world of Tartarus. I walk passed the Pigeon Man. He’s asleep behind the bus stop. People sit on the other side, different people, still on their phones. I stop, seeing him, but even the pigeons have left him. What is the world? Black holes all around me. I can’t wait here too long. Down the hill I go. There’s a homeless woman sitting at the crossing, where the highway becomes the city. She sits on the corner. The cars wait at a red light, seeing her with her sign. It’s a clever marketing ploy. I see her around five o’clock every day. She waits for the traffic to pick up, when everyone’s leaving work. It’s like Pavlov’s dog… that sort of thing. She sits on a bucket next to her rusted metal cart, full of blankets and loose bottles. She doesn’t look at me, as I walk passed, but I notice a marble composition notebook sitting on top of the pile in her cart. It throws me off for a moment, but I continue along. Why the hell does she have a notebook? Is she keeping tabs on how many people stop, per car? Is she writing a manifesto about her life? Is she thinking up stocks to invest in, per dollar made today, minus overhead costs for the cart, rags, dementia and various dangers of the city?

I guess I’ll never know.

I cross over, saying a prayer to Kama, as I make my way along the bridge. I look down on the Hudson River, seeing its horizon far along and out of sight. I make my way home. I’m left with so many questions, but nobody ever said they need to be answered. What significance answering so many questions could bring to my life? If you never try you never know. Then, again, sometimes it’s just having that question that seems to keep you together. I find a soft patch of grass and rest. All I see is cloud.

Cyrrhus the Great

When I first met Cyrrhus the Great, we were both in high school. We were around the same grade, although he’d been held back. He was around six foot five inches tall and had the body of a college athlete. He was naturally inclined to dominate in every sport and he did so without difficulty. I say ‘without difficulty’, but the only issue for him was with maturity. He could dunk without a problem; he could run faster than anyone on the field and snatch the ball out of the sky before the defender knew what was happening, but he just couldn’t keep from getting into trouble.

He performed tremendous feats of strength that if we hadn’t seen no one would believe. He infected several girls with STDs. He performed crude acts of attrition to impress his peers. He got several girls pregnant before escaping his twenties. Smoked a lot of weed… not that it’s an indicator of character, it’s just nobody talks about the effects it has on a person who’s looking to escape. It provides it sometimes with such efficiency that they get lost in their own hangups.

I don’t know where he is now… time can do a lot to a person. It can change you, but nobody discusses what happens when people stay the same. They never change, clinging to dreams from which they never wake up. I hope, for his sake it did something better. Sometimes, even if a person appears to be blessed, it ends up a curse. Cursed with so much potential, we think Cyrrhus the Great was predisposed to squander it all. I think he never knew what to do.

I wasn’t able to see it in then, but looking back I can count the sorrow on his face. I notice his youthful, dull, unresponsive eyes. We were all immature, but his was willful. There was a bright person under that guise of insignificance. He has not the wherewithal to deny the pressure created by his friends; he has many, because he’s athletic and funny and says everything they want to hear. Like the sun, they gravitate to him. Like the sun, those around him keep him in place. He remains grounded, when he should be lifted, pushed out into the cosmos to drift beyond eternity. Instead, here he stays. Because he seemed ‘Great’, we assume he’s immune to this infection. We made ourselves believe that he was something more. Looking back, it becomes hard to tell which of us was the bigger fool.

Nothin’ More Murica

This is a picture of a monument in the center of town to commemorate the veterans that were born in this city. I took this photo, because everything I wrote seemed too vulgar and pointless. I gave it some time, because it felt wrong to pollute the day with any thoughts rambling along in my warped mind. I felt dirty. I’ll keep it short. Support the troops. Take care of each other… enjoy a ridiculous article I found that couldn’t be more ‘Murica’.