Regret.

Throughout my vast, illustrious writing career of twelve years, eleven of which have been unduly forced upon me by cruel, apathetic teachers/drill sergeants, there has been a single piece of literature that I have created that has caused cascades of self loathing, frequent recurring nightmares and general disgust; I must confess, I wrote an emo poem once. Just once. And I deeply regret it with the entirety of my being. To define an emo poem, it is the type of poem written by people with porcupine hair, who are allergic to sunlight and generally spend twenty-two of the twenty-four hours of the day brooding. The other two are for styling their hair. It is a poem drenched in whininess, purposeless, and will guarantee to make a person’s day worse.
This assignment is an attempt to find any redeeming factor, anything I learned from writing something I am so ashamed of. First and foremost, I learned to never write after a catastrophic Valentines Day. Secondly, I will never write a poem in the dark ever again. Lastly, before I scrub the rest of this experience from my memory, I learned poetry should be used to convey a significant image or concept, not to rant. That’s what a blog is for.
What is emo poetry worth? Very little. It can be a good example for what poetry should never resemble. It serves as a voice for not for those without a voice, but those who should never be heard. It’s useful for making a horrendous day incrementally worse. It is a good/horrifying experience for a writer; it is incredibly self-revealing, the more one actually begins to seriously write like an angry adolescent is when one should find a new profession. However, if taken in jest, it is a wonderful tool to scare relatives.

Poetry

All of my poetry which was previously posted here, I transferred over to my new blog, http://poetryunbridled.blogspot.com/

Grammar police, fuck off.

A product of Facebook

20 Absolutely random things about myself.

1. I think Miley Cyrus is definitely at least top ten Scariest people on the planet, if not top five.
2. I actually think the majority of people are terrifying, intimidating, psychotic or mind-numbingly boring, and if they aren’t any of those, then they are fascinating.
3. I probably ate something in the last 24 hours that isn’t technically edible. Oops.
4. I’ve slept for two days straight. Not sure why.
5. I have a fun habit of walking into stop signs, fire hydrants, parked cars, pedestrians, not parked cars, because I never pay attention to anything when I am walking.
6. When I was twelve, I ate four foot-long hot dogs, 3 liters of soda, and 2 bowls of instant noodles in one sitting.
7. Chihuahuas also make my list of Scariest things in the world. And Tom Cruise.
8. My favorite word is watermelon. Close second is pudding.
9. I had a dream where my friend broke into my room when I was taking a nap in a recliner and threw a live vampire bat at me, which woke me up in both my dream and in reality.
10. That same friend caught me dancing vigorously to The Temptations.
11. I have an enormous crush on that girl from Arrested Development. No, not Michael Cera.
12. My favorite superhero ever is Matter Eater Lad. Duh.
13. I hate shots. With a fiery passion. Needles are so frightening.
14. I am so scared of a ninja mugging. Am I the only one who looks for escape paths whenever I enter a room?
15. I am a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and probably couldn’t fight my way out of a soggy, cardboard box.
16. I am prejudiced against any valley girl or emo kid. “Like totally OMG, lolz.” Hawthorne Heights = Sucks so hard.
17. I’ve found my senior year of high school that I actually like writing, mostly because it’s fun seeing people cringe at the insanity that I put on paper.
18. I am a nerd to the n'th degree, beyond normal human comprehension. But I will never be a trekkie.
19. I never learned to ride a bike, nor do I plan to, because I have about as good balance as blind appendage-less toad with an inner ear infection.
20. I would like to conclude with an obvious statement. I am weird as fuck. And I love it. Normal is boring.

Hope

Hope, the basis of optimism, it is the fantastical delirium that blinds the common man from the sickening reality of his own mundane life. Hope represents everything that we cannot be and yet still stupidly aspire to nonetheless. Hope is a drug in which there is no rehabilitation program in a sterile environment, supported by your loved ones and professionals trained to help you: rather it is the opposite. We exist in an unfriendly world filled to the capacity with soulless lumps of flesh that interact with such pitiful shallowness, where we are surrounded by individuals, and yet we are completely and utterly alone.

Perhaps Hope, even though it may only be an illusion, a creation of our exceedingly weak minds, is a necessity for survival. For is it not the goal to live, for our hearts to keep on beating, so we can find purpose in our lives, in where there may not be one? For hope transforms us from the mindless robots we may biologically represent, into motivated people, deluded into imagining that we can not simply exist, but to live. Even though we are merely an insignificant blip on the unimaginably vast spectrum of our universe, with hope, that blip finds meaning. Life is precious, shall we never forget that.

My personal experience with writing

Writing to me is can be equated to sculpting. When the project is first begun, a general idea of what shape the artist intends the sculpture to possess. For example, sculptor sees a majestic horse and would like to immortalize its graceful figure. The block of stone, in due time, begins to resemble an outline of a horse. However, in the process of sculpting, the artist, in a fit of passion, strikes the hammer down too swiftly and creates a line down its side. The sculptor realizes that the sculpture looks better now, and utilizes the line, until eventually it turns into a different beast, a zebra, perhaps. Writing can start with a relatively clear idea of what the desired end outcome is, but the act of writing can create a beast with a life of its own, and take on a completely different direction, a journey which we are privy to accompany.

What is History?

Here's another old piece I'm reposting in my blog.

What is history? Is it merely a random collective series of events? Is it merely a set of inexplicable events outside of our extremely limited influence; essentially powerless to the occurrences that exist out side of us?
What if, life isn’t simply a repetitive blur, an inevitable natural progression across a timeline, rather its your action or inaction that determines your life?

It is action that drives the world. People making active choices truly define the composition of history. Then what role does philosophy possess in the grand scheme of what comprises history? Is all this pondering is relatively meaningless?

Revolutionary thinkers change the basic concepts upon which philosophy originates. For in which history has been defined example, Carl Marx fundamentally changed our perception of what ideal government is. Marx's ideas were brilliant theoretically, and ideally if society could feasibly function with a semblance of selflessness, it would truly be ideal.
In hindsight, in the actual application of Marxism, it is revealed that it is impractical, not realistic. However, it is the active choice to implement it in human society in which it is revealed to be impractical.

It is action in which the course of history is perpetuated.
Free will, or the idea of choice versus the concept of pre-determinism is in reality a nonissue. It is the very fact that action will occur, in which history is continually driven forward, though not necessarily upward.

If there’s no action, the sole mechanism by which things get done, the world simply remains the same and unchanging. The mechanism, in the case of world history being the revolution and the people behind it, is what drives change and ultimately is why things are the way they are.

In a Platonic optimistic viewpoint upon this discussion, perhaps it is the thought provoking, intelligent discourse that inspires greater action truly defines the bedrock of what history consists of. Rash impulsive actions can have repercussions lasting far beyond their lack of contemplation. However, the root of what history originates from; goes beyond mere instinctual action, but a series of contemplated revolutionary actions.

This is my foray into serious contemplation of philosophy, Mind you, this is the product of severe insomnia.

The babblings of a self-righteous surburbian with far too much time on his hands

As I sit outside enjoying the fresh air, smoking my favorite brand of cigarettes (a logical conundrum, considering I am filling my lungs with intoxicating smoke), I ponder upon a multitude of inane, random topics. I gaze upon the infinite abyss (which is a meaningless cliché often used by astronomers attempting to pose as philosophers, or vice versa), I conjure up a list of self-descriptives I do believe will be apt.

I sincerely think my life may be a giant non sequitur. A humorous, completely unrelated joke that really has no consequence, unless there is a sexual reference.

I am the indelicately used portmanteau. I am a literary farce. A grammatical mistake in a hastily written fiction novella.

I am the spastic colon that throbs in your side. Hopefully not literally. A bodily mishap, a malfunction however on an epic scale, a person completely misaligned with the universe.

I am a bevy of metaphors. I am like a faulty VHS tape, an outdated defective artifact from the past, labeled in large ugly blunt font, “Return to Sender”, UPS’ version of the proverbial rejection. It essentially dooms the subject to suffer the same fate as the pixilated Atari version of E.T. ; shoved into a forgotten landfill, quietly, wastefully and gratefully.

I am the anti-type to Fabio; not necessarily a bad thing, I am not a fan of venereal disease.

My writing is the indelible hulk.

For years I have been fixated upon the idea of defining the self. But I suddenly realize in an existential moment;

I'm hungry. And I want a baloney sandwich. What fills your belly affects your brain.

*A quick post script, to all my friends reading this, the opening was written during the summer, and I have long quit smoking.