Originally Posted: 9/24/10
Yesterday was a million years ago...
In all my past lives, I played an asshole.
I'm departing from the poetry and back into reality. Abstractions are only distractions that cause you to think. So enjoy, if you will, the wild ride of ebbing tide that waits until you turn your back to shatter levies and drown your fucking cats. Poor kitty kitty. Should have evolved the ability to swim. The planet's 90 percent water for fuck's sake. How hard was that one to figure out? Probably not as difficult as God realizing Lucifer meant to turn Man against him. But that's neither here nor there.
A wise man once said: "My life has become an endless stream of words and music." That wise man was me. I said that shit yesterday. Shawn (Mother Fucking) Sevin will vouche for me. Alibi solidified. Its true though. I find myself wandering worlds to the backdrop of Earth's various musical forms. A strange combination that. Exploring these primordial worlds, through preternatural darks and impossibly beautiful forests, my only anchor in mortality being the ear shattering soundtrack I've chosen to haunt the cobwebbed corners of my mind.
The shifty-eyed denizens of cold, dank places gawk at me and wonder from where I come. They have never seen a creature such as I. Not since they were made in my image. In a way, writing is a bit like playing God. Alright. It is playing God.
I'm a storyteller. End of story. Hm. Maybe that was a poor choice of words. But in the end, the words are inconsequential as long as the story is told. My stories tell stories, my poems tell stories and the endless songs scattered like the rubble of a crumbled Tower (and/or castle wall *haha*) throughout my life tell stories. Thus, I am a storyteller. And you can take that shit to the bank. If they say it has no monetary value, then exclaim in a psychotic rage that you always told those lying teachers that knowledge was bullshit and that the only real thing of value was cash money (niggaaaaa). When the police show up, calmly apologize, explain that you have an acute case of paranoid schizophrenia and go about your business as if the police don't exist. Which we all know is true, because I never created them.
I have lovingly shrouded you in light, white like bones bleached neath the august sun. To keep you from harm in the vast, twisting dark. Stay on the path, you'll be safe that way. Or my name's not Orville Redenbacher. In other words, I love you but you're most likely fucked. I'd like to make it a point to say here that I'm just kidding.
The Heavenly Stair has been taken. Flee now, into the Void. There is nothing left to stop the Enemy.
I am just an actor on a stage. I arrive, speak my lines, and die like the rest of the world. Problem is, I've taken to so many stages, I can't recall who I really am anymore. My identity is lost in a convoluted sea of imaginary people. And every one of them wants to claim me. Can't blame them. Don't we all just want to be real? Abhorrent as it may seem, all things crave the knowledge that they exist. That they aren't simply imagined facades, hollow things bled from the mind of something greater.
One last note: I fucking love joining arguments on the internet and then winning them with my wit and brutality.
Hold onto your sex parts, we're going on a wild ride.
Wasting away with you,
S.R.
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