Songs are poetry too, right?

And when you wanted me, I came to you.
And when you wanted someone else, I withdrew.
And when you asked for light, I set myself on fire.
And if I go far away, I know, you'll find another slave.


And when you wanted blood, I cut my veins.
And when you wanted love, I bled myself again.
Now that I've had my fill of you, I'll give you up forever.
And here I go, far away, I know you'll find another slave.


Then a vision came to me:
When you came along, I gave you everything...
But then you wanted more.


Now I'm free from what you want.
Now I'm free from what you need.
Now I'm free from what you are.

To douche or not to douche . . .

Why is it when you treat people like complete and utter shit things start to go in a positive manner? Life seems to actually go your way? My outlook on life always seems to be at its worst whenever I try and be nice and polite, treating people how I want to be treated, yadda yadda yadda, because everything, in a word, sucks. Everybody just runs roughshod over you when you're nice. Nice guys finish last. You'll get your just desserts, they say. All those douchebags who look happy now are going to regret in ten years when nobody likes them and they're poverty-stricken, and karma finally kicks in. Except that never seems to happen. The douchebags just keep on prospering and the nice guys get dick.

I can look back on my life and when I didn't care about whose feelings I hurt or even what I did, I got all sorts of good things handed to me: solid jobs that paid well, good grades in school, girls, friends, whatever and everything. But I swear to god, I would think I should stop being so callous. Stop being so indifferent. Start caring about others' feelings. What happened? The jobs dried up or the company went out of business, grades slipped, girls become disinterested, friends get other friends.

What the fuck?

Seriously.

This is not what I was taught by anybody while growing up by anybody. There has to be some idiotic flaw hardwired into the human psyche that tells it to latch onto whatever treats it like it's worthless.You see or hear this in the news all the time. Spousal abuse and the abused claims it's their fault and somehow they're to blame. America itself is a prime example. When we try to simper and snivel our way into the good graces of other countries they hate us, but when we say we're gonna do this regardless of what you think goddammit then people leave us the fuck alone.

Perhaps resentment bubbles to the surface when we see people acting respectful with all of man's potential. Something just gnaws at our brain that says they're not taking control of their life. Perhaps Nietzsche's Übermensch isn't such a far-fetched idea, as if treating others as equals instead of stepping stones to bettering ourselves is a hamartia of the worst kind.

Don't misunderstand me. There are always some people who seem to be appreciative of genuine goodness, but by and large, the majority stands in stark opposition to it so I wonder if it's worth it? Do I get over this god-awful guilt complex of mine and head down the road (Frost's poem is highly ironic anyway making it highly apt for this rant) which seems to bring more good things than bad? Or is it worth it to stick with what seems to only lead from one miserable failure to the next hoping in the end it actually pans out and I made the right choice? For whatever reason, a life of misery doesn't sound terribly appealing. For whatever reason.

God knows I just want to be happy and content with what I do. It's not as if I'm demanding to do something spectacular like being the mediator of world peace, or being the first man on Mars, or inventing the cure for acne or chlamydia. God knows I don't fucking know anything and I know even less about what I want in life besides those two things. I was never the highly ambitious sort. God knows I can't help but think maybe I've been mistaken all this time about how to go about my life. About how to deal with -- better yet, use -- my fellow man. But god knows I'm usually wrong so no surprise there.

I'll admit maybe I'm just looking at this from a completely jackknifed angle. I wouldn't be surprised if I'm absolutely misreading the whole situation. Yet it wouldn't surprise me if the reverse was true either. Hell, maybe things would actually start going my way again. Maybe I'd actually get some of the things I actually care about in life instead of having them slip through my fingers time and again.

Something has to give sooner or later. Or maybe it doesn't. I'm unsure how many of the cliches I've used so far actually hold true anymore, but the meek inheriting the earth seems to be more ridiculous more and more. And I swear there's no way I can be more self-loathing if I'm a dick and get what I want than I already am with myself. I can't even imagine.

You can't fault a kid for wanting to be happy, even if he has to look in places where he never thought he'd find it.

This can't be right can it? Even with all of the evidence pointing to the contrary . . . ? I have a feeling I'll be calling bullshit, whatever happens.

Stability

"Time for the final bout.
Rows of deserted houses.
All our stable mates highway-bound.
Give us our measly sum.
Getting the air inside my lungs is heavenly.
Starting out with nothing but crippling doubt.
We'll rest easy, justified.
Suffered a swift defeat.
I'll endure countless repeats.
The gift of memory's an awful curse -- with age it just gets much worse.
I won't mind."

I'm probably crazy

There's a void in my life. I think I've known what it was for quite a while now, but I've tried to ignore it. Or scorn it. Or hide from it.

Ultimately, I have no responsibility. Id est, I'm irresponsible.

Unfortunately, my parents love me too much and are worried nigh to death about me. Thus they say nothing. Unfortunately, my brothers also seem to love me too much and have taken the older brother position a little too seriously in protecting their youngest of kin. Thus they say nothing. Unfortunately, I don't tell my friends shit about what's going on in my life, except for the overarching, yet discriminately vague my-life's-in-shambles-I-need-some-goddamn-pie-let's-hang-out. Thus they say nothing.

Why the fuck would I care what a complete stranger thinks of what I'm doing with my life? Not that I've really met anyone with whom I'm relatively unacquainted with who has told me such. Regardless, it's principle. Therefore, their opinions mean nothing to me. This leaves me with few, if any, options of sources who could potentially be helpful.

Moving on. . . there's nothing for me to work towards. Nothing hinges on me. If I do nothing at all nothing catastrophic will happen. Now, I'm not trying to say I've got a god complex or that I need to be a totalitarian in order to be satisfied with myself. I am saying, however, that I need something that is dependent on me. It doesn't need to be large scale, but, at the same time, it can't be too small either. A job won't do then. Even if it was my own company I built from the beginning. Work will come and go -- much too fleeting for my selfish demands.

Education isn't the answer. It centers too much on my intrinsic betterment, but is circular in purpose. Learning feeds on itself. You can never learn enough and be done with it. Sure, it would take up my time and take my being mind off of things while additionally being wholly dependent on me, but it still doesn't deal with the looming issue: that whole responsibility thing.

Essentially, inanimate objects aren't things to be genuinely worried about. I mean, I would love have a perfect little house with everything just right in it, and then. . . what? Acquire more possessions? More belongings? I don't want to end up hording everything like a squirrel. Animals, while cute and cuddly and mostly faithful, don't fill this gap. Maybe I'm just biased, but (sometimes) logical human beings are more important to me than some other creature. Call me crazy, but I do hold my species in higher regard than any other, even though I'm occasionally misanthropic.

So. People are important. This is good. This is a step in the right direction. Yet I'm thinking it's not so much people, but person. Going along with that, the general attitude here is to get married. Find your soulmate. While this wouldn't be a bad thing, per se, as it would thrust some responsibility upon me, it's not nearly permanent enough or a sure enough thing, I guess, seeing as how the divorce rate seems to be as high as the marriage rate now.

Hyperbole. Sue me. People get over each other. Love can fade. Friendships end. We move on. What then?

Um. There definitely appears to be people who are utterly, completely, and thoroughly dependent on someone. This answer would be a child.

Yes. A child.

True, they can be taken from their parents by child services. True, they could look after themselves if needed at a remarkably young age (as I was witness in a documentary about Romanian orphans). True, they grow up and lose this dependency and become independent, uncaring, 27-year olds who still live at home.

Dammit, nothing's perfect.

Seriously, a child is all the responsibility a person could ever dream of inflicting upon anyone. You become responsible for someone's life. You could seriously fuck them up if you don't take it seriously. It's playing god on a small scale, so maybe I do have a god complex. In my diseased mind, this makes complete and perfect sense.

Now, I'm not going to rush out and knock up some chick just to satiate this somewhat odd desire. Maybe my biological clock is ticking but I was under the impression that distinction belonged to the gender without a Y-chromosome. Furthermore, it's a flawed idea because this is such a selfish thing I want. Yes, I would hope that I raise the child well and that he/she will be happy, but it's all stemmed from wanting to remove this rancored abscess that my life has festered into and just drain it all away.

Flush it out and start over from a cleaner standpoint. Lance the wound so it can heal. I've focused on myself for long enough now, and I'm tired of being so consistently selfish. Yeah, yeah, woe is me.

I want something pure and unadulterated, untouched by the world. I want full responsibility over another life when I can't deal with my own. I want a purpose. And it scares the hell out of me.

Addendum: I love rereading at a later date how fantastically incoherent and absurd these little posts of mine are.

God, what a waste...

It's nothing short of remarkable.

Life, that is.

And how quickly it seems to end for some. Seemingly capricious. Whimsical. Happenstance. Unfair. Overdue. Saddening. Regrettable. Take your pick.

I don't think I can genuinely call him a friend, in the strictest sense of the word, but, in my mind, he was more than just an acquaintance. For seven years I saw him almost every week at church. I saw him in the hallways at school. He played lacrosse with me for two years. We rode in the same, tiny, little truck for work two summers running. Then. Then I didn't see him or hear from him much for seven years. There were stories and rumors. He got into drugs. Began to smoke and drink. Got married. Had a daughter. Dunno how true or reliable everything I heard may have been. But he was still there.

Saw him at the grocery store a few years back. At Orem's Summerfest. Rediscovered via Facebook.

Not friends. Strangers though? That's too strong.

We fought. Verbally mostly, although sometimes physical. Never did I end the day upset or resentful of him. Smart kid; quick-witted -- frustratingly so for a person like me. Slashing retorts. Charismatic as hell.

Perhaps he was too smart for his own good. I've heard that cliche a lot. Still not sure what it means. But, in this case, it's a perhaps. Lost? A little. Directionless? Earlier, I'd guess. Unmotivated? Again, earlier, I would suppose.

Unfortunately, we weren't great friends. Unfortunately, we didn't speak often. Unfortunately, it peaked at little quips and comments on Facebook. Unfortunately, I don't know what he was dealing with in his life.

Now? Now it's too late. God, it's too late. And now it just seems like a terrible and fucked up situation. Now his daughter won't see her daddy anymore. His parents and brother and half-siblings don't get to talk with him. Friends don't get the pleasure of seeing him. The whatever-we-ares don't get the always-thrilling-to-hear-from-someone-you-actually-like-but-don't-really-hear-from-very-often calls/texts/comments/whatever.

I'm not condemning him. Like I said, I don't know what was happening. I heard what probably gave him that final push, and I have no idea how I'd take that same event if it were to happen to me. I'm not condemning him. I didn't really know him by now. Not friends...but something close, I'd hope. God, I'm not condemning him.

The only word that keeps running through my head is unnecessary.

I know people loved him. I know he had things going for him. Yet I can totally relate to being alone and lonely in somewhat similar circumstances. It doesn't always matter what other people can clearly see from the outside, and I'm more than fairly certain everyone knows how empty it can seem in the all too personal and private hells we sometimes deign to confine ourselves to, and there's not a person who can make someone feel lower than they themselves can.

Dammit, I know I'm not the first person to feel this way. I know I won't be the last. Did it really have to end this way? Wasn't there something anyone -- anyone at all -- could have said or done? Did it have to end so abruptly? With such torment and anguish? I can only imagine the demons saddled to his back at the time; only guess at the pains they were causing; only hope it ended quickly and less painful than life seemed to be.

He wasn't perfect, but that's no shortcoming. I've decided that's what I love best about people. Our cataclysmic failures to live up to our own expectations and to others' standards. Because it's what genuinely brings us together. We can relate because we can laugh and cry and love and hate but still...feel. It makes us dependent on each other. And, yeah, similar to the night sky there are billions of little stars glimmering softly and for me, personally, I don't notice when some may go out and some perchance will appear in different places. But I knew where his was. It meant something to me. And even if a hundred or a thousand or a million stars come into place around and make everything that much brighter, that one is still missing and it meant something to me and a lot of other people. We'll still notice (forgive the sappy metaphor).

My brother said it best, I think: I hope you're in a better place now...

You are missed. You will be missed. We all love you, Travis.

What is greater than the written word?

...but truth is so great a thing that we ought not to disdain any mediation that will guide us to it. Reason has so many forms that we know not to which to take; experience has no fewer; the consequence we would draw from the comparison of events is unsure, by reason they are always unlike. There is no quality so universal in this image of things as diversity and variety.

~ Michel Eyquem de Montaigne

I've heard tidbits. I've read quotes. I've heard good things. I've read little. But what little I've read of Monsieur Montaigne has whetted my appetite for more. It's not so much his skepticism that draws me, rather it's his recognition that wisdom comes from within and not from any outside source. And that's what I need right now. Wisdom.

I've precious little of everything else.

I love quotes from people I deem to be sage. Even when these sagacious folk from the past urge to not look toward others for sagacity. Yet such an epiphany would have happened much later in my life without these whispering ghosts, which leads me to believe I don't ever really understand what they were trying to say, but which M. Montaigne delineates as well. Perhaps we read into these great philosophers' and authors' and poets' and scientists' works too much. Is it because we deign these individuals to be so great it becomes inconceivable we have the intelligence to fathom or plumb the depths of their machinations, and ultimately accept their prose as it is presented? That we are so inferior and beneath their collective greatness that the very simplicity which some of these passages or themes bludgeon us in the mind is to be discarded as incorrect?

Suppose, perhaps, on the off-chance these masters of their respective languages improbably -- as countless critics will assure -- meant exactly as they wrote and our common, simple interpretations thereof are precisely what they wanted the reader to discern.

That is a novel idea.

Yes, if I'm to change one thing about myself from now until my body lies in the earth it will be to accept whatever understanding I glean from these titans and from whomever else I learn -- even a tittle -- as something good. It may not be what the author intended. It may not be a generally accepted conception. It may not be right. But I am as I am.

Oh ho, Descartes... cogito ergo sum, right? Sure, maybe a bit out of context.

But.

No one else knows what I think. No one else knows what I've been through. No one else knows what it's like to be me.

I've been told by professors and read that relativistic subjectivism is a dangerous philosophy to base life upon. Indeed, it is often looked down upon and considered a kind of cop-out, if you will. However, the more I think on it the more I am led to believe it is necessary for ambiguities to be part of life, and our American law at least demonstrates this in a small way. Children are tried differently from adults. The mentally insane are given some lenience, feigned or not, and it is an imperfect system. I will not argue that. But is God not the same? Am I seriously to believe that I will be judged in the same manner as the Savior of the world? Tried the same as a person born into completely different circumstances in completely different times in a completely different world with completely different paradigms? Would it really be just for me to be tried and held under the same accountability as some poor pagan who has no inkling at all of things which I believe? Tried the same as people who hold differing ideals in varying levels of import?

I can't believe so.

I can't believe anyone would ever want to be me. I can't believe I would ever want to be somebody else since, in fact, I barely know myself. Every day, droll in its own way, whether through sheer boredom or complete panic or intense laboring or whatsoever it happens to be, teaches me at least something about myself. Typically it seems to be a reinforcement of giving in to my wallowing, but with the hope that I hate and am ill-content with how things are currently. The day that ends with self-contentment I hope to be my last. Much as I loathe my internal struggles, in addition to those which are external, they are much needed for my psyche's well-being. My constant inner-prayer is that my time awake is not real, that I am still eighteen years old, fresh from high school and about to enter college, that I have not squandered the last decade of living, and that my life has not been reduced to eight fucking dollars an hour whilst seeking refuge at my parents'.

And still, that's not right either.

I'm not one to claim everything happens for a reason. That particular assertion lends me to discredit everything any person who subscribes to such a philosophy says as diluted banal tripe. Rather I'll take from M. Montaigne the acceptance of myself as a work in progress, never to be finished. What wisdom have I learned? Never be perfect according to others. Never be what I'm not. Never become what another ascertains me to be. Never be complete.

Because sticking feathers up your ass does not make you a chicken.

As you sow, so shall you reap

It's not as if I'm expecting many to read any of what I write on here. It's not as if I'm portending I will write some illuminating or edifying masterpieces. I can't even say that I want myriad people reading whatever it is I happen to scrawl down (if typing can be said to be scrawling). It's more that I enjoy writing and all of the simple beauty which comes from this antiquated endeavor. Happiness seems hard to come by sometimes, but it does usually come when I write, no matter how dark or depressing my words may be.

Man is timid and apologetic; he is no longer upright; he dares not say 'I think,' 'I am,' but quotes some saint or sage. He is ashamed before the blade of grass or the blowing rose. These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature is satisfied, and it satisfies nature, in all moments alike. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson