A little soul-searching

[cadaver]

I'm not many things that I appear to be

From what I'm told, I'm strong and proud.
The only thing that's strong about me is my insecurity.
It's just a mask which I prop up, and stuff it full,
So others won't tear it down.
Speaking of which, I'm a fucking complexity of masks. Maybe we all are.
Each time I think that I've found me, or that I've thought I understand how I change to me,
The facade is torn off. Kind of like the way a fingernail is ripped from finger with a pair of pliers.
Bloody, painful and fresh for what's underneath.
I could understand if it was a nice veneer for others to point and stare at.
But truth be told, I'm unknown to myself, and lots of things are unknown to me.
There's so much people take as given, and holy shit I don't see how. Maybe it's the acid.
It scares me though, this huge void of the unknown. As a certain Mr. Nietzsche would put it, I am one who does "dance at its edge", though my leaps are in terror.


I've also been told I'm kind and loyal.
My ass I am.
I am the most selfish person I know. Most of my actions are performed well in the knowledge that I benefit from them.
And when it really comes down to it, I couldn't care less about a lot of their problems, they have such potential, but they are so painfully human and do so little about their issues.
I could not care less if some of them went off and topped themselves. Hell, I'd do it for them - if they were so nice as to ask.
I fully feel every urge, to killrapepillagemaimanddrinkblood
Maybe even add some bites and bondage, And:
In
Everything
Between.
A prince of excess, the more I get, the more I want, the more I hold back, the more I crave:
Masochism at its finest.


Maybe that's why I get the feeling I don't belong.
My friends - or rather, lack thereof - consist of several circles.
None of which I really feel comfortable in. So I just drift. And instead of friends, there are just people I know the name of.
I wouldn't even call them acquaintances. They don't know me, nor I them.
Wait. Step back a bit.
There is one person who knows me. At least a little.
But the closer we've become over time, the further we've come apart.
Time. Mother mercy, end mine now. Just make it quick, and I'm pretty sure I could find peace.
But I don't have the balls to do that, so perhaps I should just lighten up and enjoy it all.


Hey, maybe I'm confronting myself. But that wouldn't be new.
Every fucking trip I decide I'm going to live, act, do, be.
That only lasts a few weeks.
I really am faltering under this weight. The burden that is an absence of warm and fuzzy feelings.
Oh well, not that it matters in any inherit way.
Maybe if I make a difference to the life of one person, but when they die so does that part of me.
I guess that's the reason I want to be eaten when I die. And then those eaters eaten, to create a chain of gods and prophets consumed by their flock.
What's the use of keeping alive the idea of a fake? Why should I care for something that's not the slightest bit me?
Or am I just becoming a ghost behind this image? I don't know. Once again it scares me. Time knows though.
Time always knows. At least, in time it knows. And too, time changes:
The days draw on, the nights slip past, a hit here, a hit there - it's all in the dark. Yeah, I've a new-found addictive personality.
Fancy that, all the freedom in the world and I'm still chained to myself.


I'm told...
I don't know what I'm told.
All I know is that it's all the same,
It's all in one ear and out the other. There's not that much that means a lot.
So many hollow words like so many hollow souls I guess.
I need to see stuff with blood sweat and tears, and tested by the years.
Something someone crafted, and something someone values, and someone's reasons for something.
So let's utter a plea for help, to all the broken beings - where is the meaning? I'm cold, stoned, tired, lonely and sick of all this shit.
Hold that thought. It really says something about this world, one in which six billion souls walk the land, that one can still be so lonely.
A little part of me just died inside 'pon writing that.


Money makes the world go round,
But who says it's spinning the right way, the rite way or the write way?
It's not. I do. I say. The drugs tell me so.
Maybe I am as I've been called, a junkie. I can live with that if it comes from junkies in denial.
I've read that a junkie may OD in an eternity of bliss while your average two parents and two-point-five kids spend 70 years working for nothing.
That same text asked me the question: "who lives longer?"
I'm not sure, and they certainly aren't either.
Though it's not, mine feels to stretch so far back.
I'm only alive this very instance for two very strong reasons:
My cowardly at attempt of my life, and some sort of path I'm following.
I don't know where the path goes, hell, I'll hop across a few of them, pause, and take several at once.
I don't even know why I'm following it, I should be making it, creating it, showing the path where to go.
A creator being forged. What a nice ring to it.
Pity I still can't live up to a poetic whim, a demand of a pure, fictitious language.


I'm pissed off, melancholy, seeing things, and what matters least to the world, lonely.
Yet all they pick at is "seeing things"
"This world on drugs is all just a hallucination", or so  - yet again - I am told
"As much as yours" to them, I said.
This shit is chemical. It's thick, hanging in the air. You can taste it. Choking on the sludge in the air.
This I preach to the gutters, the pale, watery dregs of once-muddied newspapers; but I must digress,
It is I whom is alone here. Here on this bleak, bleached-and-rather-boring rocky outcrop.
Yes, I think that's the problem with mankind, the epitome of the human condition: boredom.
So many fickle gods, so many same wars, so many false causes which could all be cast aside if there were simply something else to do.
I wish there were, but for now... now it's just a bowl of weed and a cold cup of tea.

I'm always told. As are the children.
Why not let them make up their own minds? Are we too scared, too insecure of what they may become that great height of glory!
I don't think it's too much to ask to let them mould themselves not make little clones. Give them love, give them support, give them hope.
Ah, but I've forgotten. Of course, this is the great cold world.
It seems both strange and foolish to put life in such a harsh, bleak, strange and uncaring hell of a rock. Well that shows any god's true nature - cruel and out of it.
I'd rather not be or be so connected to god.

In fact, I'd rather I believed in god. Some sort of unshakable pillar of faith would glue the world back together again, chain it to itself.
Alas, I cannot. My only pillar takes the form of a big red button, once which I am as of yet to discover how, when, where and why and with what to push.
Pity that.
It would be nice to push it now: when ones world is eternally crashing down.
The only other option really is to embrace suffering. Just lovely that, innit?
Ah, the human condition.
I think it really, genuinely, truly speaks to me that on a planet of six billion people, a single soul can feel so lost to the world.
For this, I genuinely shed a single tear. And so should the world. Should.
What determines that anyway? Nothing. Here we go, back to nihilism again, that beautiful, pathetic apathy.
And then it hits the noontide - the crooked path to eternity.
Back around to finish the circle.
Missing the button yet again, preparing for the next pass.


I should call a person from my past, just to catch up. Actually, I should call several people from my past. To catch up. I wonder though, come morning, if I will?
Probably not.
That's the cold harsh truth. When the sun rises and the day breaks, in all likelihood I'll be asleep, to awaken again with no sleep. But if it's so damn shitty, and I accomplish so
Little of what I set out to, how come I'm still here? Why haven't I pressed the button then? I still don't know.

[LMNO]

Hi.  Nice first post.

[cadaver]

Hi.  Nice first post.

Thankyou.
Though 'pon re-reading what i've written, i'm thinking it probably should be noted this is rather a piece of angsty whining rather than a rant. Oh well.

[LMNO]

'sok.  learning is life.