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December 5, 2016

The crusade has deciphered our fates and that is a slow agonizing death. One of sorrows and pitfalls that, not only reminds us of our own ineptitude, creates our place in the universe as a colossal Fool’s Errand. I’ve been trying to find my place in this place called humanity and I seem to be just on the outskirts of it. The catastrophe that is humanity is our inability to keep things simple and precise. We make our feelings grandiose on both negative and positive fields in order to rid ourselves of the trivialization that is our lives. I could just DIE! Well, no. You could, but you won’t. There has to be a word for this and it must lie within our mainstream social media. I say this because it only occurs to me that social media and a pulpit or soap box that announces our feelings, desires and disgust. It’s all about the subject of ‘Me.’ That is a sore subject, and I mean that by stating that the subject of me has been fucked in the ass for more than six thousand years. We are self-obsessed creatures that do find time to think of others, but I find that to be a rare quality. Perhaps this is more telling in my own self. My failure to acclimate to the ability of being a decent member of society. My pessimism is my own inner self-hate of my own feelings that seem to be deep-rooted in my past. The hate of my insecurities.

Perhaps my anger is more rooted into my own self that I attack the narcissist, because I am the narcissist.

The heart beats an insipid sound. My brain streaks an insipid thought. The body sighs a sad sigh of relief once it’s gone and I lie to make myself feel better. My feeling of dread pulls on my chest like a marionette and I feel like the lack of compassion has put a pause on me. I want to present my argument once again, and let’s be contextual about it. The trivialization of life that I referenced is my own. The feeling that I have found a calling that will also lead to a path of depression and despair. The mainstream media’s lack of attention on my pathetic rants and posts mean that I might really have nothing to say. Perhaps it’s not even worth reading. My sore subject is my  view of the world that has been painted by disillusionment and bewilderment. I failed myself. My self-destructive nature has put me at a lost, which is where I seem to want to be.

I feel it. In any other time period I would have been killed, crippled or successful. This particular time I’m just crippled. Oh woe is me. Fuck, the idea that I pity myself is both accurate and devastating. I always felt that the wings of poverty would slowly drive me insane. Insane with the lack of aforementioned friends, family or well family. The only people I have ever felt that would love me for who I am are my children. Sadly, they don’t exist and I must dwell on the idea that they might not. I’ve lost sight on the goal. I’ve gotten lost in my verbiage and my ability to bullshit. Perhaps I’ll do what I plan on and release a series of books that people love to read or love to hate. Perhaps not. I might just be that guy that was talked about long after he is gone for being a character. If the latter is the case, well then let’s hope for a quick turnaround rate. This sickness is just getting worse.

The self-pitying needs to stop. A good cry sounds phenomenal and therapeutic…

I just can’t cry alone, so this’ll dwell in me for a few years more.

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