living in the dark

By it's own seemingly horrible choice a arboreal, 'bushy-tailed mother squirrel' spends most of it's time crying outside my window sill. Shivering in the rain day-in and day-out, ever since the contractor had sealed the dilapidating roof above our heads. Unconscious or conscious as I stare at this 'bushy-tailed mother squirrel', I see my very own relfection of living doomed to a lonely and miserable existence. Am I prepared to have her nest of young die for my own gratification? I have pondered as the sounds build higher and the guilt rises to the panic in these walls and ceiling above. Would you complain? Would you mind? Would you care what happens outside your room? Would I put anothers needs before mine, should I sacrifice myself for the sake of others to re-open this gate? Is that love or altruism? Or would I just thank good fortune? The dead quiet restores.

Every morning darkness is swallowed by dawn. The musky air gathered by everybody wriggling together, had to move, tried to catch eye, but seeming pointed towards looking away. Through the glass you can see the street outside, sunshine paling beyond the shadow silhouette of the rooftops. A vehicle barrelled down, brakes singing, paused at the junction and drove off again.

Unless you're kinda lost, you probably would have a hard time imagining what it's like to live life far beneath the surface, as a pale boneless creature, a floating stomach in watery darkness. A life that is as difficult to take in as it is to take out. One side that is light, smooth, squeamish in texture and the other completely accustomed to living in the dark. In a place as dark as the sea where the inside is mess of gills and filaments, a fleshy-bits of explosions, cells within cells in which other cells sit for a long time decomposing. Truly this is where the evilness would lay in store, away from these benign brown eyes under long lashes.

Note the reflection of where I am now. Note my withering expression in a distaste of uncertainties. This is where I have always started. Somewhere, as someone worked in secrecy throughout his life, used to the transforming of his eroding environment into a pandemonium. Thought over with enough time that has passed. What do I do now?

Insignificant changes are one thing. We all have them and we can live with it without even stepping back for a moments time. Major changes, of the sort, violate the clock of internal consistency. As a reclusive man kept mainly to himself who cannot even reroute an exit node before leaving towards the big white building. To a place where things, as in education; is the path from cocky ignorance to miserable uncertainty in discovering a model on how to get rich programming a consciousness to run ads for some serious income. I'm back-peddled on sensitive subjects, a million more times than one may desire. So, how about this self-made custody? How about the shock of realizing what I've exactly been doing for years now. You'll have to take three showers after finishing before you start to feel clean again, let me assure you.

epic sense of struggle

In the walls. In the walls and through the ceiling the voices are quickly, quietly lost in dust. I'm covered in everything, either cynically irresponsible or completely crazy. I know what the problem is. They say they're rodents. I beg to differ.

I'm under considerable stress to make the frayed ends of my life come together. I'm not sure if this is what a licensed psychiatrist would recommend... "Take your life and call me in the morning." I don't know. Maybe search for a second opinion. The problem is you and I would have never have gotten along famously unless I was for one, namely a beautiful female into gratuitous flashing just for the hell of it.

The problem is admission. Popcorn and a drink at a movie theatre ususally costs more than $20 dollars.

The problem is I do not even have a job to allow such occasions i.e: the one listed above.

The problem is the pen is mightier than the sword but the bullet is mighter than the pen and the educated lawyer is mightier than the bullet.

The problem is the press cares what the public thinks about them which is why the public only reads the paper for on average 2 minutes a day, a.k.a when they're taking a crap.

The problem is the public only listens to the president or prime minister on average of 20 seconds a day and not-to-secretly think he's full of crap.

The problem is the people really don't think that they can do much better.

The problem is that people seriously don't care what others think.

The problem is people straight don't give a shit.

It adds up. Then there's you and me. Common ground possibly established if you've read thus far, let us awake and make the mundane profound. For this second I am sending out an open call welcoming "whatever will mail and commentary" The green light to forum in traditional two-dimensional format.

These are the notes that will outlast my very being after my death. It'll show what I was going through in my movements before the one day that I die. It is the inspiration going through me to create something current out of my immediate environment that I cannot stomach enough in time to turn it around and make precious. A time other than this, that revolves around a chance and the psyche in such surrealism.

Then again, I could tell you about the time I had seen Canadian stand up comic (of Anglo-Indian descent) Russell Peters perform live right in front of my eyes, could have but didn't. I had a vision quest and saw a river made of diamonds next to a highway of sulphuric exhaust. Should have but no slice. Encouraged physical education in youth to battle obesity while at the sametime walking my dog using the invisible leash. No dice. Drowned myself in a juvenile intellect that has little need or regard for anything resembling actualities beyond perhaps a life to lose in a callow engagement. Altogether unromantic and devoid of any epic sense of struggle. Scratched.