Welcome home.

Looks Like I'm back to sharing my thought with a tiny screen that never replies. At least it gets out of my head.

I feel like an asshole, and why? Because everytime I try to help someone, they freak out about something. Is it so hard to imagine sometimes people do things to be nice?

I'm not perfect, but I'm also very far from morally bankrupt. I wear my mistakes for all to see, and I work on the rest. I have about two more paragraphs to write here but it's too emo even for me.
I'm sorry, who cares who's fault anything is, bad situations suck either way. Seems to me I usually willingly play the role of villian, so everyone else can justify their actions. It doesn't matter to me, whatever helps you sleep at night.
I'm looking forward to returning to my "normal" workflow and getting some new material done. Too often I get caught up in others aspirations, and forget to wish on a couple stars for myself.

The last few days

Haven't gone exactly how I'd planned. Somehow I'm ok with that though, one random bit of drama changes the course of my life, but there was nothing I could do to change it.
Honestly it makes life a bit easier, I've been neglecting some of my projects, not being able to manage my time equally.
I met someone interesting and nice, don't jump to conclusions there, I just don't meet people often.
I also had a dream about a friend, that calls into question how I feel about that friend. Either way it was just a dream, so I'll treat it thusly, just interesting.
The second some of my time frees up people come out of the woodwork ready to get things underway,oh and the website WILL be back up soon, just going through server changes. Funny how that works, the photography and other music projects are about to get busy again.
Moral of the story, it's good when someone reminds you how shallow the world can be, it helps you step out before you get lost in the deep end.
Keep your floaties on until next time.
Lucid

Cat naps. I have to remember how bad they are for you. Over the course of several days, the mind starts to break down worse than just sleep deprivation would cause. It's harmful over a long stretch to keep prematurely pulling the mind from NREM states without letting it finish cycling.
A few days ago a dialog with my brother opened up the query: "Is this why cats are so playful and odd?" if they never reach full REM they never are fully rested.
I've never seen that question arise in scientific study, although at the time of said discussion we were watching a nova documentary on dreams. They learned how to switch off sleep paralisys in animals, they showed dogs, cats and rats, up moving around but still asleep. I noticed the cats were the most agile. Just interesting.

Sleep deprived journal 24.7

Very sleep deprived, stuck in my own head. Recalling how we used to name every song thought with a different revision number after it. Until a song had lyrics, it was always thought4.2, or a similar means to library our content. In That instance the .2 would be the second revision of the fourth song. The higher the decimal number, the newer the version of the track. Just an odd process, it led me to think about the word thought. In my own sleep deprived breakdown it went something like this:
Thought can be so many things... Like, "I thought that our naming scheme made sense, but then a thought occured to me, why did we name them that way?" The single form of the word can encompass several tenses, or states in time.
Led me to this conclusion:
Thought is the think of yesterday, as if in a brain dead patient. What is the beauty of having a soul, without the ability to ponder just that? The soul, the symbolic "heart", the emotion love, does it exist without the thought? Every person is instilled with a different idea of what love is, it is a very mental state, and yet does our chest not ache, physically hurt, with the loss of love? Even with a sensory understanding of the human anatomy, it still seems like one cohesive experience, the entire body senses as a whole, not the sum of it's parts.
This is breaking down in my head and leading nowhere, just sleep deprived journal 24.7, see in that instance the .7 would be.....

Not long now.

Fragments scattered in time, proof that I did in fact exist.
I was several things to several people, but vanished from thought once my use was fulfilled. A leftover picture, a scribble on a piece of paper, a voicemail, these are the only fading memories of a life once lived.
Remembered only in small shards, the whole of my life was never shared. Those closest to me always knew there was something else, I couldn't put into words, and that they couldn't understand. Here, at this late chapter, in a book that's almost written, the pages show signs of regret, words unsaid, emotions held back. You can't dwell on yesterday, and that's where I am. Look forward to an amazing life laid out before you, think of me no more.
I had my time, and wasted most of it, chasing incomplete dreams, unrequited emotions, intangible myths. My legacy, my name, scratched from history, my own children no longer wear my name. Life is an artform, one to be respected, grasped as tightly as possible, for it slips no matter the agility.
My memories are all I take with me, an early morning smile, a shared walk somewhere new, I have my fragments of you, and I will cherish them, the only time I really felt alive.
Whatever the future holds, I wish you all your dreams, love, and respect. A vast plane stretches out before you, covered with great memories yet to be had. Mine is not long for this world, I will clutch tight the thought of you, as I carry into the next great experience.

I'll try this one more time to understand my crime my patience complacence is lost on no one I'll save my tongue the pen is mightier but the sword is swift if the mood were lighter it wouldn't need a lift so fingers to keys that unlock no door except to the soul of one so poor I digress injustice LIEs in the hearts of us all so let us join together even if our loneliness is the only bond let it be so strong as to not tear asunder but unite us under a common cause to be free happy and healthy makes every man wealthy let my words on this screen start to change even I can admit it's strange just getting it out there cleanses the mind the negative thoughts being left behind no period no comma may structure fall with the drama I'll leave it behind and just unwind the clocks gears were too tight the time is now and now it feels right to express myself in a public form maybe someone will learn from my forlorn it's not perfect I'm the first to say but as I jot it so ends the day I put it to rest with my unrest a brighter tommorow with less feelings of sorrow joy and prosper I've called upon thee I'm not looking back so mote it be

Tis better to have lived life lost, than to have ever loved at all.

Can someone please tell me how a year of celibacy was even worth the wait to end up in the same mental state it's as if there's been no pause just because I'm dealing with the same exact fate it's always too late they stop they stare but they don't care if it's not seen onstage or on some drunken rage it's not worth noting the man the myth what's the diff if anyone knew what was inside the lack of worth the lack of pride there's a soul here still but everything has been stripped away as if to say you weren't good enough with what you've done the work the play I feel like a jerk but who's to say I'm stripped empty I miss them so much but apPARENTly not enough their still gone for right or wrong I'm left with this gaping whole in my chest if I must I shall protest it's not fair but it never is that's just life kid do unto others again and again they'll not do unto you that much is true one lesson from life live and give but don't expect just a reject I can't always complain there's plenty in so much more pain a roof and food my creativity trying to use what's been given to me sometimes blessed but mostly cursed I can stand on a stage and do my worst I could scream at the top of my lungs till I feel I could burst it's all taken in jest surely no man could feel that hurt in his chest I've fulfilled my dreams oh lucky me now I'm left wondering what's next while everyone picks me clean I'm a step to their goal they're the conductor I'm just the coal on the lucid express it'll get you there as long as you can bear the company of a tired man that wants to care running low on steam can't stop now everyones dream is to see me tired and sick old and spent spit out chewed up hollow sad and alone there went the scheme with everyone else it left

"I want to kill myself"
Said the fifteen year old boys subconscious. "I want to die as slowly, and painfully as possible."
The years that followed were accompanied with addiction, heartache, loss beyond any measurable term.
This boy grew to a man, a monster, a beast wrought on the path of destruction; self destruction.
If days were years, this life passed slowly, painfully. The aches, the undocumented ailments. Pain was life, suppression was a vacation at times. His eyes had seen all the love in the world, but they also bore witness to the breaking of a man. The thing he became, the thing he hated being, he conjured purposefully to seperate himself from any notion of sociatal acceptance. His voice was still heard, but it was hushed, dulled to a kind whisper. He looked down when he talked, knowing that the sparse encounters with the outside world, changed their view of him, but hardened his reserve to abstain from becoming a socialite. To communicate in any accomodating fashion with another person, even of the intellectual type, was most often merely a process of slowing down the process of arriving at summary that could have been concluded much faster in the quiet stillness of his own mind.
To learn is beautiful, to derive something original from a process considered fringe from the medium used, to think outside the box, and then to burn the box to ash.
Sex, drugs, pleasure, no longer his forte. Choosing instead pain, deprivation, self humiliation. The new art of self destruction had begun, kill the body slowly, but build the mind up strong.
Somehow his life will be some cautionary tale of mental illness, and lack of control. But this tale will be spun upon the very fabric he grew to hate. Only society in some crude fashion could summarize the whole of his parts, break down each section of his life, then come to some accepted conclusion of derangement on his behalf.
Sickness from the inside certainly paints a softer picture, you can feel the wallpaper peeling away, even try to patch it, but the body and mind can't fully be repaired. Is it easier to watch yourself decay, or to knowingly deny the process and wear a smile made from lies?
Benefits come from acceptance. He can knowingly create, form, and imagine things from new perspective; his perspective. Albeit a rather malfunctioned machine, his brain thought differently, it could take a path unpaved.
He feverishly built a world around himself allowing for creative impulse. Justifying his social anxiety, it allowed more time to create, to dream, and never was it slowed by the need to explain an idea.
Lonliness was an art he had mastered, shame, guilt, pure self loathing were but side effects of severing his own ties to anyone that could even begin to understand, or to care.
The afterworld do mean something, a hidden legacy of time spent meticulously toiling away on various prose. Mediums were but a channel, forget classification, forget being tied to some ideal of what expression should be. Just express.
Pain was certainly easier to communicate than happiness, and although oddly optimistic, his life was sinking in peril. Jaded views that weren't acceptable to speak, a gentleman at heart, but worn by the years of moral depravity that seemed to lurk in every dark recess that seemed to stalk him everywhere he went. Reinvention, the idea of the phoenix, born of it's own ashes, became a symbol to him. People live these cycles, they repeat what they know. If they find something different, they reject it, or attempt to twist it into a reality they've always known. This tendency was lost on him, to evolve the self is the easy part, it's to choke down the monotony of daily life that's painful.
"you're asleep" he thought to himself. "they all walk through this existence, without a clue". Even burrowed in his four walled self made prison, he saw the outside world. The suits, cars, lawns, it was their dream, a shared dream. Society creates this world, and spits out anything that doesn't accept it's ideals. Vibrations of matter, objects, even people. Why did any of it matter, if it was all just matter. She sees a chair, and he sees a chair, therefor there is a chair. While everyone else was asleep in their daily lives, he was awake during his sleeping life. Lucid, to be awake and aware. The control of ones mind can only truly be obtained if the dreamworld is understood. He sees a chair, he doesn't accept that it's a chair, now it's a cat. Dreamstate can be more rewarding than waking life, minutes pass as hours, and if the slightest annoyance materializes, a mere thought melts it from existence.
With a lifelong fascination of psychology, and a protected respect of the spiritual realm, dreams were a place he could test theory, cure phobia, and seek any gratification lacking in the flesh.
The sad fact that he grew to be an insomniac troubled him constantly. To be awake for four days was the cruel punchline, to the sad joke of his persona. Longing to be free in slumber, but stuck on this dirty, flaccid plane of being. Bound by other mans ideas of gravity, love and law. His brain would wind so tight, until it would unspool, incoherent thoughts, half finished projects. The longer you're awake, the less you accomplish, this is a raw truth he had come to learn all to well.
"I want to kill myself"
Said the fifteen year old boys subconscious. "I want to die as slowly, and painfully as possible."
Patience, you're almost there.