Anagrams and Enigmas bound in the Wicked Truth

  Down in the midst of my rhythm, I felt a deep need. I needed a bullet in the head of every son of a bitch who didn’t bother to recycle his wasted opinions. Within every spoken stroke of faith I needed an equal dose of martyrdom to legitimize the risk that wasn’t there. I needed a solution to a solution. But pigs don’t fly.

  Life had winded down to a slow halt; I could see everything for what it was at that very moment. It was a Wednesday night, mid-week party night, and I wanted out. I couldn’t give a fuck for all the sluts, douche bags and phonies out there looking for a good ‘get your rocks off’ time. No, I wanted to escape this scene all together. The scene to be seen had to be done in, entropy had to reign. Strange enough, I realised, what undermines it is what made it survive this long. Drunken fervour’s entropy made it outlast itself far beyond its own grip. It was gone now. Euphoria had lost itself to itself. The spiral had begun long ago, and now I wanted it all gone.

  It’s nights like these that remind me why, exactly why, I need to screw over every smile, lie to every honest face and destroy any hope of a future. Things need ends, and I need to show no quarter.

  I found my life in a strange turn. I have reason to be happy. Everything seems to be going fine. Things could be better, and things could be worse. Overall, there is a balance. A balance in the balance. Laughing I recall the exact moment when I decided I wanted to live this out. I don’t want to die. There is no point to death, but there isn’t much to living either. So, why choose the one over the other? Simple, really. I have full control over what happens in my life; I am conscious. So, naturally, I might as well, out of interests sake, see this through to the end. See what happens, I mean, what do I have left to lose? What can I lose? Death is at the end, anyway, so go through life, see what’s it’s all about and then, when death comes, allow it its turn. Why not? Everything is an experiment. Relationships, labour, life; none of it is final and set in stone. The past is, yes, but the past doesn’t bend in the future, no matter how much we lie to ourselves.

  I have, from time to time, wicked thoughts. Evil, vile...Funny, evil and vile are anagrams. But I am serious. I think of taking selfish routes, leaving behind torn hearts, empty desires and people without dreams. I look at the world around me, and the only thing I find I can belong to is myself. I see no bond with family, friends, buildings...I want to break away, so to say. I want to be gone. I don’t take photos, and I don’t want them to exist of me. I need to possess my identity, because when I choose to disappear I don’t want people to cling onto physical proof of a memory shared. I want the memory to fade, as fragile as it is. I want people to forget me. I need them to forget me. I don’t want to be remembered. Not that I want to chew down some worms. No, never. I just feel that I need that bit of control. It makes me happy to know that I have a grip on that. Fortunately I have left so far few traces. I need to collect up all my traces and be gone.

  I see people going through life, struggling, to be happy. Sometimes it’s an uphill battle. Sometimes it’s the easiest thing in the world for them. I don’t want to be happy. Happiness is rather useless, yes, but that’s not why I don’t want to be happy. I want to see the earth curve; I want to feel the moon burn through my heart, I need to look back at the life I’ve led and see it all disappear under the waves. I need to be just another rain drop. Forgotten as soon as possible. My only request is that my actions stand on their own. The principles. I don’t want a name attached to what I have done; I don’t want my name there. If I’ve written a book, I want the book to last and flourish, without my name. If I took a photo the photo should be remembered, not for me taking it, but for its beauty. Give credit where it is due, and no, I don’t deserve any of it. In my life I’ve always been irritated by praise. It makes my stomach curl, turns my soul sick. I want to know what is wrong with what has been done or what was done right. I don’t care for a ‘good job’ or a ‘well done’. Tell me, honestly, whether it’s good or bad, what can be improved or undone.

  I realise now that this is the first time in weeks that I’ve been able to write like this, in a trance of sorts. Depression is a type of high, I guess. I don’t need drugs, alcohol or any chemical to get me where I can’t get on my own. If I can’t get there myself, then I don’t want to. I don’t need cheats. All I need is the slow rhythm of a breeze, a ticking clock or a rolling wave. I don’t need people. And they don’t need me. I feel alone, but comfortable. I am not depressed by it in the slightest, but I don’t feel liberated either. It’s a perfect harmony; balance achieved.

  I have to look ahead now, I guess. There is a girlfriend, who is fond of me. There is a mother, a father, a perfect set-piece collection, with their hopes resting on my shoulders, and their love pushing me from behind. But for some reason, I still feel, this slow, peaceful melody of melancholy and alienation playing softly in the back of my head. It’s growing stronger. I think I have to figure out what I want, yes. First yes of this text, interesting. And now a second. What I want is that which is most important to me. Red is important. Red is the rhythm, red is the grip on life, on being that I need. It’s sad to note, that red is slipping away from the world; one by one. Not even my girlfriend is red. Not my family, not my friends, red is elusive and rare. Last living thing that was red is gone, now there is only me. Black and neutral; I am above and beyond. I am one and I am all. Zen to ichi, ichi to zen. Not always a bad thing. It’s just sad, that there isn’t a red heartbeat for me to live for or look for. I miss her. Every time I think of her it makes me cry.

The Curse of Rondo the Magnificent

  I'm never truly miserable. There is always a reason why I am depressed and I can to an extend trace it down. Depression is a temporary state of being, and most people have forgotten this it seems. Pills cure diseases. Death is avoidable, to an extent, so why should feeling blue not be?
  This generation is subjugated to drugs rather quickly, I think. I'm personally terrified of the blank stares, the general lack of 'soul', if you will, in this world. The eyes are stale, stagnating and clear of thought. Words lack flavour, their intent is routine and managed by the social Zeitgeist. There is no thinking involved. It's all left-right-left-right. Going through the motions, rather than actually fully participating in them.
  There seems to be this ideology growing that it is completely undesirable to feel any pain whatsoever. Fine, yes, depressions sucks, but fuck it, at least it's a goddamn emotion. If you want a salary you have to work for it. If you want to girl you have to muster up the courage to ask her out. This is all rather pathetic. It's denial. I am not saying embrace depression and be depressed all the time; rather accept it as a part of your life and through creative means try to manage it. Management is the word here, because we fluctuate between moments of bliss, misery and in-between flights of being. The only reason why I don't croak myself is because I know it gets better after a while. Nothing lasts forever, and thank Mikhail for that.
  Recently I have been told by a close friend that I need to either see a Psychiatrist or seek anti-depressants. Now, the thing is I will do neither. I have seen Psychiatrist, and honestly it doesn't work for me. I'm better off on my own in that extend, because I do on my own what I do with Psychiatrist anyway. I have my own insights, epiphanies, and so on. I can argue, debate and converse with myself. I don't need to chuck a sum of money at someone to do that. Thanks, but no thanks.
  And the pill thing scares me, honestly. I will not deny my sadness at the cost of my happiness. Pills don't remove the problem, unless the problem is a chemical one. Bi-polar people need not worry; this is not an attack on you. Taking pills because you're a Bi-polar 'victim' is like taking painkillers because you suffer from a broken leg. Sure, there's other ways too, but pills work.
  So, why do I have such a problem with anti-depressants then? Well, first off, it's too often an early and unneeded solution. Oh, I'm sad, pop a pill. No, I will not do this. We are too trigger happy with our pills. Call it premature ejaculation, or shooting without asking questions first. It's all the same. It does not solve the problem; it does not look at the issue at hand and ask why? All it does is drown out. I have been told there is no shame in taking anti-depressants. Of course there is no shame, you had no choice. You had a gloomy day so pop up, shoot up and drop out. Fuck, that is over reacting to a response to the situation.
  Secondly, I enjoy being in-tune with the world. Drugs are to humans what autotune is to music. It creates an artificial being. And make no mistake, all these beauty products are also drugs. Fake and plastic are words often used, but I would like to replace them with my own; deceitful. When I use the word in-tune I am talking about the proper response to a situation or scenario. Now, this proper response may be called something or assumed to be a response of pure politeness, or something along those lines. You act correctly. No, I don't believe this. The proper response is the response that is uniquely your own. Our actions speak for; we show the world who we are through speech, deed and response. We need to be a part of our action. How do we respond properly when we are too drugged out and numb to even know ourselves?
  Fuck, no. I'm not taking pills to drown out myself. This is a choice between two evils. I can either accept and tolerate my misery (that only rears its ugly head every now and again) or I can choose to lose myself completely and follow the mob. I'm going with the drug free option here. I need to be myself; I need my creativity, because my creativity relies on my ability to understand the situation, to see the proper response. I need to be in-tune with myself as an agent in the world, and not as some numb, dumb, deaf and blind spiritual leper. I refuse to be an emotional cripple. I'll brace the storm and enjoy the ride. You have to. Buy the ticket, take the ride and watch the swine chase you through life. This is the curse of Rondo, but hey, it's going to be fun. We got no flag, got no home, and this is the army of none. Every man, woman and idiot for themselves.
  But as always, unto each his own

Truck-Truck-Trucking

  It was another sleepless night that led to this terrible saga of words and text. I've recently started reading Hunter S. Thompson's Hell's Angels, and I think it best to express to you all that it is most definitely an excellent book to read.
  But this isn't what's been keeping me up. The fact is, I have no idea. I have mere speculations, which is annoying, as speculation doesn't really soothe the mind, it only leads to more troubled thoughts which increases the speculation and it snowballs from there.
  Optimism is in the air again, and this worries me greatly. My mind doesn't handle optimism well. I'm fine with pessimism, it's easy to shake off and ignore, and indifference gives me the equal playing field I need for hurling myself at my interests. Optimism, on the other hand, carries with it a fear of falling. It's the darker side to it most people ignore and when they experience it they usually swear against becoming optimistic ever again. I enjoy optimism in the same fashion as one would enjoy crucifixion. Sure, it makes a great symbol for other people, but it sucks being the one with the nails in your body.
  But I'm not ready to embrace some form of nihilism either. Rather, I'd prefer to keep an open mind as far as possible. Screw negativity along with positivity. I remain indifferent so I can embrace the negativity of a fight, or the positive light in a conversation.
  Perhaps this is what's been keeping me up all night so far. Or perhaps I've got some bug I need to sort out. All I can say is, Vamos!

Shut up Knave, let the child speak

  And so it's time for a personal revolution. No more sitting around taking punches. No more feeling a bitter sting and having salt thrown upon my wounds. This is an uprising, and you'd be best warned not to steal. To put it more simply; I'm fed up and it's war on thee if the challenge arises.
  I had an epiphany recently. A simple one really. Pisses me off that I hadn't realised it earlier, but oh well, these things come to shore as the tides and waves allow it. This is once again on the topic of being a 'nice guy'. A 'nice guy' is basically just someone who offers help when asked, but is not inclined to accept taking advantage of someone. Now, there is a distinction between taking advantage of someone and accepting their help. Extortion, for personal gain, that will lead to some negative effects on the other person, is taking advantage of someone. Nice people aren't inclined to do so because they themselves are used to this type of behaviour. Think of it this way, a nice guy is always the friend you can trust to put him/herself last and you first. Your concerns come first and they will help you to realise those concerns even at their own cost. Of course, this is an extreme version of it.
  Now, what I have noticed is that I am also a nice guy to an extend. When asked to do something for someone I usually oblige. Of course I haven't been thoroughly tested in this. No stranger has ever come up to me and asked me to help him or her with something grave, like burying a dead body or changing a wheel. No, I can only use my relationships with my friends and family as an example and a realm for my 'niceness' to roll around in.
  So, here is what I proclaim; I am done being overtly nice to people just because I know them a little bit. I'm going to learn how to say 'no', a lot more properly than I used to. I am only going to be pleasant and helpful to those who deserve it and are equally selfless. Maybe then things will go right. I don't know. All I know is that I am tired of being a carpet to an extend. Fuck, this was a childish piece of writing, don't you think.

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Pen and Paper Ramblings

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Pen and Paper Ramblings: "Depend upon it, Sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully. – Samuel Johnson A blank p..."

Pen and Paper Ramblings

Depend upon it, Sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully. – Samuel Johnson

  A blank piece of paper transformed from its stark blank stare into a doodle, a sketch or a painting has more pleasant epiphanies for me than most conversations. You learn to appreciate curves with a better understanding. Shadows are not of the devil, but are needed to show you where the light has cracked in. Smiles are as beautiful as flowing hair, grins as striking as a solar eclipse and every iris a blooming flower.

  Art is a reflection at times. It’s a combination of the outer and the inner. I sketch something, a flower, a mountain, a dog, a woman, because I’ve reacted to it internally. I see a glimmer of soul in a mountain range that resonates with an inner working of mine, it compliments a certain outlook, whether through contradiction, absurdity or conformity.

  I found myself in the strange position tonight of returning to a situation I had left abandoned for years now. I sat down and I sketched. I drew cartoonish creations of my friends, I experimented with a self-portrait of myself in shadow and coal, and I sketched a beauty that makes me anxious, hopeful, and self-doubtful and a nervous, smiling wreck. I appreciated all these more with every stroke, trail and scratch of the pencil and pen.

  Now I face an internal dilemma. I sketched something, or rather someone, beautiful to me. The problem arises that what I know of her seems at times beautiful, and other small, minor bits I might detest. My problem is that I know too little to really experience her as beautiful. Skin, flesh and collected bodily adornments have no part to play in my criteria of beauty. The body is not a standard of beauty, nor is it a candle that shines in the dark.

  Beauty is knowing, understanding and feeling the rhythm of a person. This is a beauty that grows with time, that stretches and expands itself through experience if the person, or thing, enhances his, her or its better aspects. It can also recede, obviously. Where there is growth there is the obvious chance for both death and recession to get their crooked, but well meaning, feet in the door.

  This all seems very clichéd to me at times, especially it seems more so hearing it spewing forth from my tongue. But the words jump off without little effort, and there is hardly a hold or watch on my tongue to ensure that I do not embarrass myself. My words are true. I mean every letter’s curve and trail of it.

  Now another problem arises, just as one is considered another raises its head to jest, stab and in plain Saxon; irritate the fuck out of me. I do not trust others enough to believe that they would agree with my viewpoint on this matter. I have found myself agonizing over a girl. A lovely grace, I think, and one who has quite an influence on me. She fills my thoughts, and it is a sweet, melancholy torture for me at times, because right now, and for the past few weeks I’ve been unable to act upon my intentions. Now, now; I’ve not cut my head off and thrown myself at the mercy of a woman just yet. I know too little of her to fully embrace the thought of an eternal love scenario. No, rather, I’m open to a risk. This risk is what I’ll call a leap of faith. Maybe in the religious sense of it, but also in that ‘fuck it all’ sense. Yes, I’ll risk throwing myself off a cliff very soon, but I’m planning on falling into an ocean, so if I hit the waves at the very least I’ll feel a sudden cold and experience the battering coastal rocks, but I’ll survive.

  There does exist that paranoia that I might just be embarrassing myself miserably. But that is the risk. What this infatuation has caused is a growth within my own sense of self. A deeper understanding. On one hand, I’ve realised that I am indeed a spectacular catch; I’ve got a sense of humour, I’m dashing and charming to an extent and highly likable if I desire to act so. Sadly, on the other hand, I’m also strikingly weird, isolated at times, silent and indifferent. I’ve found myself wanting more, but not acting because I feel myself a burden unto others. It’s that whole ‘treat others as you want to be treated’ guilt trip. I wish not to be burdened by other people, so I feel I should not burden them. The problem is people are on a whole to nice, quiet and secretive to tell me whether I am being a little shit, and so I’m left to speculate and speculation has hardly ever yielded a positive result for me.

  But here is my creed; I’m willing to carry a burden, any burden, for this girl and for some of my close friends. Fuck, I’ll even hang on to their troubles and help after they’ve decided to unburden me. I’m willing to take the punishment they have to endure. Simply reason why; they’d do the same for me. We’re not always aware when we’ve let go of a person in our lives, and often when we have it’s damn difficult to rebuild the bridge between us. Someone has to keep holding on, as idiotic as that sounds. I’ve lost great friends in my life for simplistically stupid reasons and some of it I regret. Now, I’m going to hold on and I’m going to risk some of my false dignity.

  In the end, there can only be one thought you die with, and I’d like mine to be of something red; a crimson beauty. For red is the colour of life, of a roaring existence. Write my name in the red book and mark it with black ink.

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Someone's in the Wolf; What a Killer Scene You've ...

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Someone's in the Wolf; What a Killer Scene You've ...: "'Yes, man is mortal, but that would be only half the trouble. The worst of it is that he's sometimes unexpectedly mortal - there's the trick..."