Stained

A simple nudge and the glass is tipped, relinquishing its most coveted substance. It seeps from the bedside table to the sheets, engraining itself upon them;irrevocably intertwined. In a hastened panic, you seek to absorb of it what you can to control the damage, but to no avail. The sheets are stained. You try to wash them, bleach them clean and despite your efforts to erase the stain, it stands strong. In a vain attempt to forget the occurrence, you fold up and place them in the bottom of the pile, apprehend a new sheet and place it delicately upon the mattress. Seemingly unscathed, continuance of human ritual is necessary. However, the same listless rituals lead you back to the point of origin, changing the sheets. Time and time again, haunted by the sights, the sounds associated with the incidents occurrence, until you end up picking up the stained sheet. Back where you started.

seems

Seems is a very dangerous word. So indefinite, and so unimaginably infinite. It delicately places a blindfold over truth, a plague so effective, and so manipulative yet remains so innocent.

Please?

"I am fine, I am fine, I am fine, I just need one hundred dollars"-Machester orchestra.

Save a life, I need this guitar in order to continue life on this earth.

Transit

The road detangled itself before the under-appreciated Burlington Transit bus.Complicated networks of streets and avenues unwound like yarn before my eyes. Who knew a bus ride could be so tantalizing, yet so subtle. Beneath the roar and hum of the bus, a profound silence revealed itself. In that instance, I took note of the public who utilize public transit, all of whom were so discouraged by the rain which pitter-pattered against the cold steel box. Encased in this little capsol the public revealed their true colors, and emotions. Hidden from the scowling eye of society, they divulged themselves.

Those who almost excrete confidence struggling to contain themselves. Constantly twitching, opening and closing their cell phones in hopes that the friction created would manifest a message in their inbox. A 30 second high until insecurity sets in once again.

Old women playing with their hair, grasping anything and everything within arms reach to reassure themselves of their existence on this earth. Young men glancing back and fourth between other men, not because of homo-sexuality, but because of a need to belong somewhere.

The immense silence which seemed to span hours came to a halt as I realized my location. Nostalgia then ensued

Glass of Milk

So, today, a typical gloomy gray day in Canada I woke up from an almost transient dream. I felt as if my actions carried out in my dreams had some sort of effect on the outside world. I could have sworn I made some prolific discovery and asked my mother about it, only to be shot down in an instant with her quick(and accurate) reply of "no". That aside I continued my normal school routines. Wake the fuck up, shower, hair, shoo my cat from the toilet, and put some clothes on. I then cautiously entered the dining room to find my cat "cash" slowly dipping his paws into my milk as if he owned that glass of milk. I softened my every foot step as to surprise the feline, and catch him "white pawed". To my surprise, I had ended up behind cash without him being aware of my obvious presence. In two swift motions I was able to apprehend him, and toss him(gently) to the floor. The tension between the cat and I grew, but brought some levity to the situation by flicking the milk in his face. I anxiously grappled my fork and knife, and cut into the Blueberry Eggo waffles, then; Dissatisfaction. They were cold and brittle. I like my chocolate bars that way, not my Eggos.

So I ended up at Bateman, had my morning cigarette, and made my way into the deserted school. There is nothing more serene than an empty highschool. It's usually packed with kids bustling about, selling drugs, skipping, studying, or making plans. Not that I don't love the motion, but the serentity is much appreciated.


Anyway, I'll finish later, I have to leave Music.

some thoughts

Lately I've found myself slowly becoming aware of the world around me. I have been blinded so long by bliss that it seemed impossible to experience anything but that. However, unhappiness has manifested itself once again within me. The feeling is comparable to that of a morphine drip, slowly poisoning me with...the truth. Truth is the people I thought I knew fairly well have deviated from who they portrayed themselves to be, or how I perceived them to be. Either I am incapable of insight into peoples personalities, or their true colors are bleeding through their facade. Whichever way you slice it, it still leaves me with an awful taste in my mouth, the taste of divine retribution I suppose.

Blogging and my morning.

So, I've made my way into the world of blogging. I can't honestly say that I've ever blogged before, or understood it's purpose. However lately, this whole documenting my life thing has become more of a priority to me. There have been so many instances in life where I wish I knew about this. So many faded memories that I wish I could just jump right back into. I'd feel like steve from blues clues. Traipsing about through photographs and paintings, entering different realities.

Today I was awoken by the sweet aroma of french toast with cinnamon, only to become dissatisfied with the fact that it was 6 am, and had to be at work in two hours. I sat in bed for a minute, gathered my strength and threw myself from my sleeping coffin, and made my way upstairs. At this point i was still in what my mother calls "zombie" mode. I sloppily hurl myself across the hall into a seat in front of my decadent breakfast. A breakfast such as this surely would wake a bear from hibernation. The fragrance of the french toast softly ascended to my nose, which of course, lead me to the maple syrup,followed by the apprehension of my trusty fork and knife. I'm not the kind of person who savors excellence,I lack the self control. Needless to say, I finished my french toast quite quickly, chased it all down with a glass of milk, and made my way to the shower. Nothing extraordinary about my shower. Shampoo, condition...that endless routine.

I then returned to my cave, found some clothing that I found fit for work, combed my hair, and made my way to the door for my morning cigarette. This mornings cigarette was especially enjoyable. The sun was shining down on me while I lit my "cancer". I laid back in my somewhat comfortable lawn chair and embraced it all. I was relaxed, yet ready to jump up and go in a minute. Five and a half minutes later, I arose from my chair picked up my bag, threw on my "H&M" name tag, and headed out the door for another day at the grind.

Red Hands

So the summer has begun. I feel as if I have completely eradicated time in every shape or form from my mind. It's become foreign. Like those cashiers at the convenience stores you can barely understand. With this concept of time being lost, I began to question so much. Unfortunately, I conceive more fucking questions, rather than answers. Nothing is more misleading and confusing than answering a question with a question. Anyway. So far, this summer has been almost dissatisfying. Throughout school, we all fantasize the adventures, and misadventures of summer. Over-glorified, it sits on the highest of pedestals, and for what? I cannot fathom a reason as to why summer is great. Sure, you have no rules, or at-least a lessened amount, but what other redeeming features are there? For the first week or so, it feels great, I will admit that much. However, I find myself struggling to keep myself entertained. Every day is the weekend. So difficult to differentiate weekdays from weekends. I miss weekends. A sigh of releif at the end of every week, a means to an end. So satisfying. That, I guess is what I miss. Satisfaction. Apparently, I've adopted a skewed perception of what that is. Drinking and partying temporarily fills that void, but it strays by the end of the night, and is long gone by morning. The "summer lifestyle" will make an alchy out of me. I need a sweater, its fucking cold in here.

"I was pulling out my heart so I could pin it on my sleeve"


I feel lost. I feel like a mess of yarn woven together to make a sweater. I want to get out of my skin. Peel it off like a fucking orange to rid myself of bruised skin. It's time to renew. For the first time in a year I feel this need for rebirth. Who am I? I feel I've changed on the inside, but the outside is still spewing out the same words, and accepting the same ideas. I'm sick of drugs, I'm sick of all of it. Creating a false reality, and for what reason? I have nothing to run from, it's not an escape for me. Drugs were always an experience, and I feel that the people who once shared those very same views have forgotten that. Maybe I'm clenching too firmly on old ideas, but they seem healthier than what's happening now. I question, is this in reaction to fatality? Ingest as many chemicals as possible, fuck with our minds, and health just because we may die tomorrow? Sure, I too am a firm believer in living life to the fullest, but when your life becomes nothing else but a false perception, is that even life? Life,to me anyway, is a string of experiences somehow knitted into a web connected together through people, objects, animals, places ect. People seem to trump all of those entities I just listed. Friends and family are the most important people in existance to me. One thing I am quickly learning is that true friends are hard to come by. Every so often, someone waltzes into your little web that you feel you can truly trust. You tell them you're every secret, you're feelings, and everything else in-between. Then suddenly, it all goes to shit. Some sort of adversity strikes, and suddenly you become exposed. Left Naked and frail,blown wide open, as if there was a copy of "Your life" in the hands of people you would never want. Funny thing is, they're now the editors. Mind your own fucking business. None was to tell in the first place, so keep your dripping snotty noses, and drooling lips out of the damn book. Christ. Seems to me like family are the only trustworthy subjects in existance at times. Atleast they'll be there no matter what, opposed to "friends" who seem to be leaving in flocks to avoid the distortion of their "image". People, grow up. Shed those 5th grade ideals already, you're practically governmentally bonafied human beings. Do something better with your time, like aquiring a passion for something other than enjoyment through human suffering.Learn to paint! maybe then you can colour those Red hands white.