December 11, 2015

It’s late. I don’t feel like sleeping. I’m a little hungry. I don’t feel like eating. I feel like drinking. I feel like writing. I feel like, if I was a younger man with less of my experience and personality, I’d be calling people looking for drugs. Drugs to help me stay up later and write faster. But I’m me. I’m alone. I’m not going to do any drugs because I don’t do drugs, but also because I don’t have any. I’m going to drink until I fall asleep or run out of beer. This much of a conclusion I have come to.

And what the fuck, anyway? I’ll be on a bus to Chicago tomorrow. I can sleep on the bus. Fuck it. I can sleep when I’m dead.

I’m not dead. I’m alive. I’m alive and awake. I’m alive and awake and drinking. So what? I have to write. I have to.

So. What does one write about when there’s so much to say about so much? What does a twenty-seven year old white male really have to say that is any different than any goddamn thing any other bullshit, idealist, millenial dude-with-an-IPA-fixation also have to say? What makes me so fucking special that I think that my opinions are so rare and important that I should not only write them down, but that you should read them? Fuck. Nothing. Nothing except an ego that is self-sufficient; a mind that is so crammed full of these thoughts that I don’t give a fuck who’s reading it and who’s ignoring it because, fuck…fuck. I mean, seriously.

There arose such a clatter. A clatter in my mind. Something toppled over and spilled my deepest worries all over the fucking place. And in cleaning them up…fuck, this is cleaning them up, isn’t it. This writing…it’s all I can do, mother. Up against the wall. I feel up against the wall, but I shouldn’t. No, I should. I should because the things I think are true. Because the beliefs and ideas I hold are the correct ones. I’m not asking any fucking questions here, really. I’m really not. I’m not asking you to agree with me because this isn’t a fucking conversation. This is a bloodletting. I gotta get this shit down on paper…on screen, as it is.

And so what am I going to say in this bullshit? What am I not going to say? What lines do I draw to seperate myself from myself enough that my words ring so true and dearly that anything I don’t write here is what you’ll be thinking about…

Let me just say a few things:

1. Guns are made to kill people.
2. Religion is made to guide people.
3. Extremists have no faith.
4. Radical is not a dirty word.
5. Socialism exists already in this country, it just happens to exist mostly upside down.
6. Facism exists in this country in the name of the Republican Party.

Do I stop there? Do I continue in earnest? Can I do both?

I’ll do neither. I’ll just leave you with a poem:

Atop the burning sun arrives a darling.
He is stood upon the fire but he does not burn.
He includes with armored wills, a passing triad; a hummed tune.
He sings like rivers, cold from mountain snow.
And with only pause, delivering a wanton disregard for sin, he is but worried for his brothers and sisters who sleep under moons.
So without a callous will, he feeds the embers to his only son and he breaks with the God he believes in.
For it is but with shifts that one regards hallways in which evil speaks through darkness.
And it is in swallowing the light that we do perish.

And when nothing is sacred,
All things are profane.

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