when i went back in time

a silent but ever-grateful nod to felicity's mistress and the dwindling solipsist [i'm sure you two know who you are]; i seem to have unconciously begun immitating their blog titles (all beginning "when" or "where" or something to that effect), but i feel like time every once in a while must overlap itself, and here it goes:

all these people are just people, absorbing the air of recreational inebriation, corporate flagellation, cognitive dereliction - we are all slowly wasting away in the wake of our artificially consumed splendor.
we grunt and we struggle and clap our hands together for food and a place on the ladder - a foothold, something that guarantees we won't fall and crash and give our bodies to the earth, to the night, to the clear ocean.

we crawl through vents and seep through living rooms, permeating our foul knack for hate and destruction. throughout this room, this house, this voice, we make drug deals on cell phones while injecting our veins with languages of false hope and tears of indifferent apathy, the love of hating, the joy of murder - we kill ourselves, slowly, with our toxic emissions.

i'll never understand the chemistry of money, the freedom in torture, the length in eternity, the brevity in fleeting thoughts - nothing is everything and thus all is the same, close or far, tangible or idealistic - we are all drowning in this chasm of nonexistence.

i am tired of living and not dying - can there be a stop to this progressive participle, this movement - there is no constant. i am tired of expecting less from more when i'm expecting the sky but i'm on the floor, when i count to three because i can't count to four, when i want to leave but can't find a door; i don't want to sell myself but i still feel like a whore -

can anything intervene?

and everyone i meet i either think of killing them or fucking them - the questions always result in life or death - can you really kill someone without allowing them to live? can you fuck someone without killing them a little? how do you define yourself? a murderer or a lover? is there a difference?

(we do not speak our own words - we just echo the universe with our own voice - but how can i echo what i have never heard, when i have no sound, no voice, no desire to be heard? i put some thoughts on paper and burn them with my eyes, sealing them into my mausoleum of nomadic loneliness - some, dark and disturbing, sheepish and childish, i keep in my mind and do not even say to myself in the mirror - words exist but are meaningless everywhere.)

so we wander around aimlessly, empty, curious as to where we are going, where we have been, what is, what isn't - we are unconsciously erroneous in this imbecile system - we are grains of sand on the shores of the smallest ocean -

our conscious mind fills our internal lapses with illusions and shadows of the beautiful world and our monetary lives, dictated by numbers and ladders, a random accumulation of unstable radioactive LCD images, plasma to our mind, shit to the earth - meaningless, we allow ourselves to be protean beings and meagerly absorb everything we are spoon-fed or brainwashed with.

we do not alter our mind with chemicals, we alter chemicals with our mind, until we are left with the flagrant perception of life.

and what is funny is that all this takes us nowhere.

(written sometime in may of 2006)

another note (i am fond of notes):
i chose this over another rant i had written.