Appearances, are utterly exhausting. Let's paint a picture of who we wish we were, so we can spend our entire lives lying to ourselves, and everyone else in the process. Reshape the truth until we can sleep at night, and justify our primal misdeeds with some counter-productive excuse. We are consumers, first and foremost, we will feed some craving every few minutes(I'm being sparing here). Even if it's an act to deny another craving, we are still at the root, proving how weak we really are. Fragile little pockets of meat, fumbling through what we call life... In search of sex, money and sex. We clutter our lives with objects, that either fulfill some hole inside us, or(in our mind) make us more appealing to others. I'm no exception, that's why I say we. I simply accept, and try to minimize the damage. I'll drag myself to the bottom, and not think twice, but if I realize gravity on my way down, it makes the ground a little softer. Although, there is a certain sickness that comes with the knowledge of ruin.
I'll make my art, music, photography, film, anything I can get my hands on. I'll tell myself that there's some point to it, a reason, some justification other than the reality. I'm wasting time... I'm wasting time on purpose. There's this pull in us all, but it's never finished. Tomorrow doesn't come, because today won't fucking end. The accomplishments, love, respect... It lives in tomorrow, just one more day. I'm sure everything I've built around me will suddenly make sense, everyone will congratulate me, and life will be amazing... Tomorrow.
It's 8:30 in the a.m. My legs won't stop convulsing, my jaw is set and sore. My head hurts and all I can do to ignore it all is type on this tiny screen. This just reminds me my eyes are sore and I can't sleep. Sleeping medication has failed me again, already my body has adjusted and defied this months up-dosage... Double the milligrams, it worked for ten days. Now the hours melt together, as I waste away. When you peel away all the pretty wrapping, what's left is raw. Take a look at what your day consists of... Now even if it's busy and full of responsibility... What are you thinking about the whole time? Not the medial tasks themselves. It's sex, food, sleep, drugs... Certainly not the nine to five, or the minivan full of groceries. All we want is to eat, sleep and fuck, and feel good while we do it. Somehow it's less pathetic if the skin surrounding your genitals belongs to someone else, instead of your own fist. It doesn't really matter though, we tolerate others so we experience those fleeting embraces, even the tantric can't justify all the mundane chatter and showmanship it takes to keep someone "happy". It's exhausting, the only brain that can keep up the pace is the one in your own skull, it's the only one that matters, everything else doesn't exist. Yes, when I die the world will stop spinning, you will all vanish. Why? Because my existence is the only one I've ever known, it's the only proof I have of reality. Sad as that may be, the only laws, morals or behavior are weighed on my own hefty, yet completely pointless ideals. Who cares what I think? I don't even like me, why should I sell myself on you? There's nothing special, and I'm the first in line to tune me out.... But damn, I can't. Even with sleep, or television, no matter how much I tune out, I'm still there. A day without me would be a great vacation. I am my only company, and I've grown all too sick of myself.
It's almost sad that these words, will last longer than I do, the Internet with it's unfathomable data, and my stain will always be stuck in some recess of it. Just because we wiped it off under the table, doesn't mean it ceases to exist.
Is your life neat and clean? Are you shaven and showered? Ready for the day? Are your clothes neatly washed and folded? Step back for a minute, look... There's a dead fly on the window seal. Maybe, a big maybe, you keep up appearances, but something is rotten. Something sits and festers. If not, welcome to the most bland and unintelligible life possible. Chaos... We are spinning on a rock, and can't even properly define how, or why we are. I'm not wearing pants right now, I haven't slept, so I'm just realizing I need to shave... Again. Life is dirty, we are comprised of completely different molecules than we were as children... That skin has died and fallen off. We aren't even what we were, so why are we so busy defining what we aren't? Yes, this is spinning in circles, wasting time. My brain is chasing it's tail. I've made a point just to defeat it, checkmate. Appearances, are utterly exhausting.

What would be more respected? The good deed, or the thought that was planted to arrive there? Somewhere between the thought and the action was a process of bravery, courage and selflessness. Yet, whatever planted that thought probably planted it in the heads of a whole garden of people doing good deeds.

FYI

I am not Lucinda darkly. I often tell people to search my full moniker, lucid s darqly, if they want to know me well. I'm not a fictional character in an erotic/goth novel,(though that might be preferred).
So google has decided to offer this fictional character as an alternative to me, the names only vaguely similar. Please note I only mentioned "that" name once, if I were to type it over and over it'd appear as more hits in a search, for instance if I were to type:
Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly, Lucid S Darqly.
It might hit more often in searches, though I'm barely erotic, goth or fictional. I am part all three. I doubt I'll be a series, though there is another named Lucid, and he's much more interesting than I. #mykidsareawesome

Why is everyone else' bass so annoying? I like to listen to loud music sometimes. Knowing full well that others can hear it, yet I think, "maybe they'll hear something of interest, or be curious who I am"... They don't. They aren't.
My bass is just as annoying.
Which leads to the next couple realizations:
Few songs can be identified by their bass-lines.
Bassists are repetitive, not meant to be rude, it is part of the rhythm section.

Hearing loud music from someone else, makes me want to crank mine up to drown theirs... But why if it's so annoying, do I want it nearer? A simple answer would be taste and control.

By what assumption that because we are not friends, we must be enemies?

My heart hurt, with the realization that I have all but ceased to exist. I am not seen or heard, except on these pages, and these pages are certainly not me.

My moods dictate what I write, only in these sad, lonely states do I have time to write. So you may never know the true me, because the happiness is shared with the few that know my flesh and blood. Seldom do they see my bad days, for they are spent in solitude. However, they always see my good days, for only through them are they possible.

It takes two to fight, yet I wrestle with my conscience every day.
Even in my solitude I can remember how bad it feels to grow wary of another's company.
To be lonely, you just realize how much you don't like yourself.
What good are realizations without anyone to share them with?
If I cannot be comfortable with myself, why should I expect anyone else to settle?
Reading quotes always inspire me to be quotable. I was reading of integrity, I don't know where the urge to write of loneliness came from... Well, actually I do, it because you weren't here reading of integrity as well.
Am I the only person that writes quotes? Usually they are extracted from a larger thought, but I find the quotes tend to cut through the pleasantries.

Watching scientists on television. Considering the fact that one or several of them will discover things that will harm us. Someone discovered the atom bomb...

We can define where we are, based on the history of discovery. I live in the united states. Texas, I can further narrow this down to an exact street, address, or even further a specific spot in a room, my latitude and longitude... Etc. But what says I'm here? Columbus discovered America... Texas was decided borders bought and sold,won in wars, refined over time. This property was bought and developed and now exists as a home. What was it before, this space still existed. I existed, in some capacity, we all do, we have and we will. In fact my words on this screen are a piece of me. They will exist, and carry on me. The mere realization of the internet, and it's vast amount of storage, the freedom of knowledge, has changed the capacity, speed and efficiency of the human. Freedom of information has evolved us. Here I am, once again vaguely typing thought process, barely touching on five subjects all at once, the way our brain thinks, until focused. So I'll focus. I'll double back and address each idea I started to form, before getting side tracked to a different idea. Of course, this isn't the me that typed those things, no... I'm future me. I've had time to mull over each topic. The reality of each subject has changed in my reality, thus changing my thoughts on them. I will now type how I feel about them now. Not how past me thought of them, but a (hopefully) evolved, better educated formation of those thoughts. I wish the process itself could be shown, the filter that decides what word to type, if I hadn't put a comma there, you would not read a pause. If I wrote this without spaces it would appeartobemeaningless, even though there is order, without that space, even words lose their meaning.
And now, 24 hours later... Even further into thought, I'd rather post this in its incomplete form than double-back right this moment. But certainly I'm questioning things I'll inspect in further detail. Yet, certainly someone else has already brought up these topics.