“People don’t always get answers, and real life doesn’t always have meaning”

Ok for one second snap yourself out of the pop-culture bubble you live in. Stop your daily intake of gossip, rumors, top ten lists, blogs, reviews and interviews. Take a deep breath of everyday life. Fuck that burns, it burns with the stench of unfulfilled dreams, to do lists, unfilled internet surveys, dirty laundry, half eaten sandwiches, simmering lust, and burning desperation. Let me back inside the bubble before I expire. Every time I try to embrace my awkward humanity I find it too much to bear. Its too real for me to touch. I'm afraid. I'm scared that as much as I want it I wouldn't be able to coincide with it. Let me sit passenger side and watch life pass me by from the side view mirror. Its much more relaxing this way. Its so much easier to pass judgment and advice when its too late to do anything with it and I'm already on my way out of town. I like my movies to be realistic and my life to be idealistic. Let film portray the gritty boring everyday truths and let life be grand and moving. I think I got it backwards. I'm living in Pleasantville while on Tv I'm watching a documentary on the morning routine of the average American adult male, fascinating. Will I ever be ok with being normal, with being just like my parents, just like my neighbors, just like you. When will I relish my role as the consumer and realize I am not the creator. I am just a dumb American. Will these feelings that I am bigger than my environment ever go away. Are they just illusions of grandiosity to protect me from the harsh reality of my own existence or do they hold truth. At this point I could give a fuck less I think I would be fine with either one. Just someone pick one for me tell me what to do and I'll move one. There are no answers only questions. Life isn't a book. I cant wrap it up with a clever ending that ties all the loose ends together and makes me seem like a literary genius. No it doesn't work that way. Life is a joke with no punchline, a story with no revelatory moral, a painting thats just colors on canvas. Life is not Art. I'm sorry I ever thought it was.

Only in Africa

Only in Africa can you hear the word "rapeable"
and feel your lips not pull back to form a gasp
in fact its a laugh
at the absurdity of the situation you've found yourself in
Words, Ideas, and Concepts are fleshed out in the dark hues
of Broken, Beautiful, Proud, Beaten, Filthy Humanity
and I'm left asking
Where Is My Humanity?
it is overridden by the reality of my selfish prejudice
yet I didn't ask to placed on this step
I didn't ask to wear this mantle
I was born as the rich savior of the Third World masses
Mass around me say my name. I'll never feel more important,
more loved, more respected, more used than I do right now
Fuck protocol, heres a dollar for you
Use it wisely, I never seem to
Faced with the same situation I'd be the same
begging beggar you are
Manufacturing sob stories, like a top tier Hollywood screen writer,
You aim right in between the chinks
in my White American Capitalistic Kevlar
this Dollar burns in my pocket with the weight of a winning Powerball ticket
I've never felt so cheaply empowered
You value it and myself in ways I will never understand
and yet as much as I want to give this to you
out of the goodness of my heart.
I end up giving it to you to shut you the fuck up
like Third World Blackmail I pay you off to be quiet
and now you went from sob story to rob story
Plus your dirty in ways I can never imagine
I try to act like it doesn't bother me
But my own ignorance is more caked on than the mud on your feet
And I'm left to think ......

Has Christmas lost its Magic?

It's the Sunday after Thanksgiving and my family has gone to get a tree. I'm sitting here thinking: wasn't it just summer? When did November happen? And now, all of the sudden, it's Christmas season. My mother literally took down all of the fake leaves and plastic turkey decorations and on the SAME DAY put up the christmas decorations! How did this happen? It's almost as if we go through the motions to conform to society's demands. I've always wondered what would happen if one year I just didn't put up any decorations. Or if I put up different decorations instead. Aka pink flamingos and neon and a Miami-themed Christmas. I would be shunned by my family. Remember as a kid, Christmas held all of the magic a year could bring? I feel like I hit puberty and that was it. Gone. Will it come back once I have my own family and my own kids? I sincerely hope so. Is it wrong of me to want the magic back? Or do I have to grow up and face the realities of the real world? My parents have come back with an 8 foot tree. The ceiling (at its highest point) is 14 feet. This Christmas is already shaping up to be a disaster; with a miniature tree in a house built for a large one. I feel like Charlie Brown already. They should have brought back the saddest tree they could find. At least then I would have felt better about saving the saddest one. Why didn't you bring back a Real Tree? Something Huge and Awesome to look forward to decorating? Live a little!! Bring the magic back!! We have an 8 ft. tree that is dwarfed by a high ceiling. Christmas is officially dead to me this year and it hasn't even started. Hell, it's not even December yet!! I will never understand. Why not go big or go home? It IS Christmas for all intents and purposes. Do you stop caring after your kids graduate from highschool? Or are the kids supposed to stop caring as well? I just don't get it.

love-fucked

How can I be his world, when he can't make my heart melt?
Is that a prerequisite for true love? That warm, tingly, numbing feeling in your heart? If it is, I'm very much not in love.
I'm lost, confused, scared...
Do I have feelings for someone else or is the grass just greener? How will I ever know?

Why is life and living so synonymous with love to the world? There's more to life than love, but why can't I live it?
I thought I was ready for the life he's pushing on me, but I see more each day that I'm far from ready and I may never be ready. Why put your heart into something with a 50% failure rate. If it were money I was investing, would I do it?? Nope, definitely not taking the 50/50 chance, so why with my heart and my life?

This writing is as confused as my head and my heart... shifty, scattered...

I know no one has the answers. I know I am the only one that knows what is in my heart.

I can't stand the idea of breaking his heart, but how ridiculous am I to just hold on because I'm afraid to hurt him. Yes, it's going to hurt me too, badly. Over a year and a half... he's the closest to me, he's my comfort when I'm sad or hurt, my punching bag when I'm angry. But it just doesn't feel right. I wish I could hate him. Loving someone makes it so much harder to tell them the truth. The simple sentence... I'm not in love with you anymore. It breaks my heart to say it, so I can only imagine what it will do to him.

I hate this feeling. Nothing is worse. I'd rather not wake up tomorrow then go through this. Fuck love.

just rambling

Lately time has been passing so slowly, yet I feel my age every day. I can feel myself sinking into the day by day monotony that I've worked so hard to avoid. I read too much. I read stories of fantastic love that lasts forever; I read murder mysteries; I read fantasy novels of vampires; I read historic fiction and how-to books. I read to escape. I am screaming inside for a bit of cultural stimulation. Yet nothing comes to hand. Little things. Little seconds of joy have become the definition of life for me. I live for the weekend or day I can spend with some good friends. I love the way your hand feels in mine when I hold it. I love sleeping next to you... I've missed it for four years. Riding on the subway back from a bar. I'm a bit buzzed and I'm sitting down next to a couple who are, of all things, reading. I try to catch pieces of sentences but I don't want to be found out so mostly I stare at the floor. You are standing above me talking to a friend and holding my hand at the same time. I feel everything in this little memory I've stored. The sway of the subway. The hard plastic seat with the awful carpet-like covering. The smell of too many people in too small a space. I feel so connected to everything in that moment, simply because I'm connected to you. And I feel safe. This breaks the monotony. A simple connection to someone or something. And I find that I crave and need it. To connect. It's strange and ironic that I can't be myself until I'm connected to something else. I've even taken up knitting because I need something to do with my hands and it wastes time during the days I'm not working. In a strange way I feel connected to the string because my hands are shaping the scarf or sock it will become. I hope someday I won't need any connection to survive. But for now it's all I have.

100

Willowchronicles just had its 100th post and i think its perfect average

average

Am I a sick pessimist for not agreeing with the feel-good concept that everyone "has a purpose" on this earth?
I don't care if that's what I am, because I don't buy into that bull.
Some people are here just to live and die. I hate how our culture feeds into children's minds that they will grow up to be some great deal of a person. Society is doing them more harm than anything.
Am I saying we tell the kids they're destined for an average life? No. But we can tell them the truth: that some people become something great-mostly due to good timing and a stroke of luck but that not everyone is going to grow up to be a famous singer/dancer/politician/millionaire. They should know that the vast majority of people are just that-people who live their normal lives and accept the luck of others surrounding them.
Furthermore, we should tell them that skill or talent is never enough. You must also be beautiful, and if not-well forget. Fame.