This Time Is Ours

Entry 2: Written in 1st person

As some peoples lives painfully linger on, mine will come to an abrupt halt in less than three hours. I am anxious to see what lies beyond these finite walls and this glass box we refer to as life. Am I scared? Of course, but who wouldn't be? Sometimes I wonder how I will leave this world. Will I leave engulfed in flames? Will I trip and hit my head? Will I drift off in my sleep? Maybe I will die a hero, maybe I will die a villain, only time can answer. These last few hours I spend alone, thanking God for every moment He has let me experience life; every breathe I take is a gift from above.
I hope people remember my name and I live on past death. I believe that everyone aspires to be remembered. To be remembered after death is to live forever.

Within it all

I'm on the outside just like everyone else. Maybe I'm not
so naive, I believe that all articles that radiate with
resplendence are not truly golden. Then again
most do, they are just too ignorant and caught up in the
beauty to realize how sordid things are.

I wish to open eyes and let look around to see. To
honestly see what lies slam bang in front of them.
Living the way we live in this place we proudly call
our home. How can one be so proud when things that
happen here occur so often. So there may be starving
children in other countries, we all have our poverty.
Yet they don't seem to walk around as if their
waste doesn't offend.

This place I call home doesn't make me as proud as I
once thought it did. I always want to complain that we
are all so pessimistic, but am I not being pessimistic
complaining about how no one sees what I see
Because they are mostly trying to be optimistic about
where they hang their hat. Yet in my defense, no one
is being optimistic at all. They merely don't know that
Beauty is only skin deep. And quite frankly they don't
concern themselves with knowing.

I just wish to open eyes and let look around to see. Maybe
just see through the eyes of me for one day, and
see how far their "optimistic" view of home is when they
leave my eyes and head back to their own,

grey like lonely

I'm so alone in my thoughts... I'm consumed by rapidly compounding worries, wishes, regrets, and hopes that are overshadowed by the enormous boulder of negativity that I carry always.
The lonliness isn't what bothers me, it's the realization that I've created this tunnel of pessimism and made it impervious to outside influences. Go ahead, try to convince me that my life isn't a complete waste; a waste of potential greatness. I know that I could change it all, but my mind is telling me that the amount of effort required wouldn't be worth the kickback, and I've got to give it to my mind on this one... because the last time I met a genuinely happy person... well shit, that's never happened.
I could quit the job I hate, where the people I work with win the prize for dumbest mammals ever (alive or dead, because really, who stuck in an underpaid mindless corporate shitty career is even alive?) But i'd likely be walking into another vortex of equally idiodic losers who have nothing better to do than to make small talk and shuffle papers while pretending their lives serve some purpose. By the way, no, I don't want to see a fucking picture of your kids or grandkids. They're not special. Nor do I care what you had for dinner last night or how your drive into the office was. I want to sit at my desk and wallow in self-hate smeared with self-pitty and watch the clock tick away the moments of my life, because when 430 comes I'll be halfway to tanked in my mind.
The only time my grey tunnel isn't so dismal is when it's got some hydration, a few cold beers and some menial conversation with the people I actually choose to be around. I guess that's the payoff, right? I suffer through a 40 hour work week in order to enjoy a couple hours a week. Yeah that sounds like a fair trade...
Is it so unreasonable to consider being unemployed for the rest of my life? 'Cause I think I could give up my worldly possessions for some more free time and a sliver of my sanity recovered. I've always wanted to see if I could survive as a nomad. Beach to beach just livin' carefree. Is this completely unrealistic? People to it, right? Are they any less content or happy than I am? Because if they're in the same state, they've got the idea. Screw working, no matter how far it gets you, you still won't be happy or satisfied. You'll work your way to death...

This Time Is Ours

What if the concept of tomorrow didn't exist?

Waking up to a sunrise knowing it will be the last you will feel and ending the day cherishing the last sunset you will experience, or at least that's what your mind is deceiving you to believe. You remember the happenings of the day prior because the concept of yesterday still exists, but when you start a new day you can't even comprehend, never mind prepare for, tomorrow. Some may call this a curse, some may say, "If we can't prepare for the future than how can we live in the present?",but I say, "If we can't live for today, we don't deserve a tomorrow.".

To Be Continued...

SS Squared- Teaser

In he strode, confident as the day was long. No thats all wrong what the hell does that even mean. How should I say this where could I even begin. How does one start when the end is still being written and the beginning is as much legend, half lies and opinionated truth as a Shakespearean tragedy rolled into an Aesopean Fable. I guess if I had to start somewhere I would have to start with the one place that wouldn't change no matter how often the characters that visited it might. I would have to start with the bar. Things always started and ended at the bar. They always have and they always will. Relationships, friendships, affairs, and gossip all shared their social galaxial center on those creaky unstable red stools.(At least for this group of individuals the bar provided this maybe for others it was the gym, or the University, or the studio or one of a thousand other places where people of like minds gather to socialize, laugh, blow off steam and fuck. No other place provided such a fertile(no pun intended) place to fuck. Certainly not the University and the gym only catered to a certain type of person and its not like protein shakes and energy bars had the same type of social liberation that a cold glass of beer and loud music did. If someone was down on their luck or having a bad day maybe with a few beers and one liners they could fuck their pain away if only for the night. The gym and certainly not the University could make that same promise.) Ah those creaky red stools many a story was interrupted by the inadvertent tumbling of an afternoon drunk onto the slick beer soaked floor. It was expected like hearing Semi Sonic's "Closing Time" after the bartender called out for the last call. It was a frame of reference, the loud crash echoing through the fog of cigarette smoke signaling that others besides yourself were also out there doing whatever it was that others did, reminding you of where you were and that you were not alone with your whiskey and misery. It happened so often that little shame was ever evidenced by the participants in this afternoon ritual. Simply wipe yourself off, take a sip, gingerly get back on the stool and continue with the story. The stories, oh my were there stories, they're what kept me coming back. I could get a cheaper beer elsewhere and the food wasn't the best but the company I kept and the stories that were told is what kept me around. Like the one Cynthia always told when she had one too many bourbon and sodas. Cynthia was not an inner member of my group but one of those social acquittance's its always nice to run into when she or you were a few drinks into a nice deep boozing session. It was better when both of you were imbibing because she had a grating high pitched nasally way of speaking that reminded me of someone that had a sinus cold and then swallowed too much helium. This fact was simply dismissed and in fact added to the whole spectacle of her ridiculous stories as long as I was on my 6th Jameson and ginger. I've heard Cynthia's story a hundred times, this should tell you something about both of our drinking habits, so I could basically tell you it myself adding my own little twists and turns as it is. In fact I often do just that when I'm drinking with people that don't know her and we are exchanging the typical "Well, one time a friend of mine..." Despite this fact no one can tell the story better than her so I'll let her tell it.

At first no one believes me at least thats what their faces tell me. You know that look you involuntarily give someone when you smell bullshit the half smiling, half wincing patient grin that says I don't believe a word of this but continue anyways. I know I give that look every time my Uncle Ronnie opens his mouth to tell us about one of his Rambo inspired Vietnam adventures. Honestly I don't give a fuck whether you believe me or not even if you don't you'll still get a laugh out of it. It all happened the summer of my 23rd birthday...

Now was all we had

I think of you on the brightest of days
And a smile creeps across my face
Remembering how the sun used to play
With the wild strands of your hair as we lay
Awake dreaming in a moment we both knew would end
Far too soon for either of us to comprehend
We enjoyed each moment for what it was
Possibility wasn't in the future neither was
Anticipation all was immediate, all was now
For now was all we would ever have
And had we did, so each moment was preciously wrapped in
An all consuming appreciation for the present BE
BE was all that we knew and it was better
Than I thought it could BE