angry young man

i was an angry young man, as there is no female equivalent, sadly. we are left to flounder, without identity, home, or understanding. i stayed an angry young man until about 40; now at 45 i am entering a different stage.i may eventually come through a curmudgeon (again, no female equivalent), but i don't think so. i am angry still, but it is not an anger that wants to fight any longer. it is full of sadness and resignation; it only wants to find a home to hide from all of the horrors, and to nurse these wounds which still remain. and just maybe, if possible, alleviate the horror of someone else.

containment

i have a name that contains the essence of who i am; a cryptic way of sending that message to anyone who cares. but who could be so perceptive, and who even knows what the wire mother is anymore? we are down to a null set now. i'll keep writing, my words will survive forever, and one day, another lost monkey will find them, and i will sit with them, and smooth their hair, and we will speak of beauty and the soft, and the savage beauty of truth. - softmonkey

cult victim

let's put aside my dream of riches. i'll settle for comfort and health and be satisfied. but for a mind like mine, comfort is a complicated thing. health as well, for that matter. these things are rare in the world, comfort and health. we forget how rare in wealthy countries. in cases of having enough to live on, the question of comfort comes down to feeling. are we all victims of western thinking, despite our best resistance having taken in a warped view given to us with the explicit purpose of manipulating us to pursue money only to hand it over for shit we never needed? could we be deprogrammed, like cult victims, removed from the source until the lies become apparent? but we will cling, like cult victims, convinced that we sincerely love that which anyone else can see only wants to take as much as it can, wholly without regard for what impact this has on us. it is like racism, in that we all have been tainted to some extent in this culture, no matter how insistent we are to ourselves that such things do not live in us. let us acknowledge that it is there, and then address it from there, in all things unsavory. you can do like most, and pretend the rot is not there. you can even get used to the smell, especially if those around you are full of rot as well. or you can admit it's there and try to clean it up.

askew

Listen now; I can't hear it anymore. I never could. Yes, I know, but neither does the world make any sense. Or I should say humanity; the world makes perfectly logical sense. So I suppose do we, viewed in the proper amoral light. But that still doesn't explain the madness. Or that empty feeling. Can you hear it?

solo

It is lonely at 2 am. It’s always lonely, but there are fewer distractions then, and the appearance of a lack of loneliness at other times. Here is my heart. Barely beating. Still, in spite of all of it, I am alive. What fancies fill my time; I dream of that other place. Where all happiness lives, some other world, where god did touch down, and lay upon them a blessing without accompanying it with a tenfold curse. Yes, it is all a lie, every happy thought. It is sometimes too late to be what you might have been. I could have flown, were my wings not broken by lunatics and their children. As it is I can sing, and I will do so, whether you can understand my song or not.

never enough

I suppose that’s why Jane Seymour is hawking her atrocious jewelry with that fake sincere melodramatic sappy story about her mom (the kind Americans lap up with no other possible explanation than gross stupidity), at Kay Jewelers. I don’t want this to be true. That it’s never enough. My privations have so far given me reasonable allowance to believe happiness will be in my grasp one day. If I can just get enough. But it never will be.

what do i want?

What do I want?

Practically or fantastically?

Practically it’s hard to say. So many difficulties to move around, and my mobility in question.

In a world where my finances are taken care of, but by whom, there is the problem. How do I feel if this dependence is removed? I am afraid of the answer. I do not want to look at it. It is conflicted. It is not one thing or another. Variable variables. Maybe it would all be different in a different situation, with the fear and stress removed. Maybe. Maybe we could come to who we are in this place, and then figure out from there. Maybe. Always so many maybes. They never sleep. They cluster over there, some hopeful, some churlish, some lie - white lies, malicious ones, who knows which is which in this mélange?