Some environmentalists will tell you otherwise,
The world is filled
with so many people
who are true to nothing
especially themselves.
the who-whats and
when-wheres that cruise
from crisis to crisis
pointless and all,
never stopping
to smell the fresh morning
roses or look into
the mirror and create
their thousand truths
their goods
their evils
and destroy them with
every night.
Yes, we march and
march and march
to someone else's
heartbeat
someone else's
drum.
These people resign from
life.
they retire, before ever
experiencing what life really
has to offer
for these people I
have no words,
for they have already given up
on themselves.
But for you,
young poet - young reader
or boxer, or lawyer
I can only give you
my blessings
for in your hands is the fate
of this filthy race
we call
humanity.
Live your life fully
and each day like your
last.
look away from
the preachers
of death,
child:
There's beauty in the struggle.
I want to pause the poetry to take a second to reflect on my self and my own growth and downfall over the past few years and more importantly the past few days.
I was always a restless soul, even before I met laura. Always concerned, or overconcerned about my identity, my place in this broken puzzle I came to call the world. Always searching fort he answer, I found myself trying new things. I was never satisfied with what I had so I kept searching for the next distraction, the next platform to take my chance with life and learn something new.
Rollerblading, BMX Biking, skateboarding, band football, philosophy, and debate
it was all the same.
another crutch, another quick fix another shot of existence that made me feel warm inside - Like morphine on a winter night. My passion was living and my canvas was life. And now, only now have I found my true freedom, my calling my skill and my destiny.
and my paintbrush, most of all
for now there is life in all of my writing
poetry has set me free
from my worthlessness
for now I write with my blood!
instead of etching with pointless utencils
--the most impersonal of all expressions.
I do not think I could appreciate
anything more than I do now.
A cold winter night,
a warm cup of joe
and a pen with which I write
my own
destiny.
"now do I fly
now am I light
now ther danceth a god in me!"
as i stop at that
worn old stoplight
at the corner
of nowhere and nothingness
and take a long drag
of that burning red death-stick
ironically called life,
I turn to my left
and then to my right.
then realize this:
I have something in common
with these broken
heartless
fucks
who stop aside me
on the left, or the right
it didn’t really matter
there was no gradient here
at this broken
fucking
stop light
that here,
at eleven thirty
on a Sunday evening
we were all in similar places
in this endless journey
we call life
we were all
sleepy, restless
and miserable
fucking souls
racing our metal extensions
into night
into destruction
into destiny
none of us really expected
to see
tomorrow.
Some racing
to a broken fucking
place that
someone decided to call “home”
hell, it was them -
at some point or the other
but now,
now these people knew
hell, even their deceased mothers knew
that this was just another place
like any other
to rest their broken little
heads, on broken fucking
nights
the ironic part was,
that every night was
broken
we knew nothing of
the happiness of a goodnights sleep
Some were racing to
their end
following an endless road
looking for their checkered flags,
or crystal meth, or some black
tar – anything, really that keep their
hearts going bump through the night
it was really all one in the same;
and they knew it too,
that sooner or later,
they’d be too tired of racing through
these broken streets
wishing, hoping
dreaming
of the night they would hear their
little metal extentions screech
to a final stop
because they knew their hearts would soon follow
and death would dance
to the sound of twisted metal
and broken fucking
bones
Others were racing
to their night job
wishing, hoping
dreaming
that the supervisor wouldn’t
notice he was late
fearing that day
that he would have to turn
to his wife
his children
his parents
and tell them that this was the end
that this was the day
their comfortable lives
came to a screeching fucking halt
and they would be poor,
empty, and oh so fucking
broken
like last Tuesdays garbage
or the newborn waiting in the dumpster
for a mother
someone else’s problem, now
left to face that cold world, alone
and isolated
without a soul in the world
to care, just care
fate wrote death on their
gritty warn palms,
and destiny,
was a bastard.
Me?
frankly, I felt
This corner simply wasn’t enough
I was racing into nowhere
into nothingness
we all were, in a sense.
but me,
I had no destination
I was racing
to the sound of my own heartbeat
until my little metal extention morphed
into the little engine that couldn’t
wishing, hoping
dreaming
that this rock was flat
and I would fall
off the edge of the earth
into nothingness,
Into nowhere,
before that needle hit the red.
But everything
remained the same
we were all running
from something we all knew
at heart,
we could never escape
not even on Nietzsche’s birthday
but surely,
That didn’t stop us
cuz’ that broken old stoplight turned
green
and we put the pedal to the metal
and the sound of
tires burning and
engines roaring
permuted the air
and death
also lingered
we were cold,
and tired,
and broken.
fucking broken
and we were all racing away
from our own
reflections
Never before have I seen
a race
so arrogant and
snotty
as to hold the power
to destroy themselves,
their unborn children
their pets
hell, even rip mother earth
a new one!
and be as bold
as to look god strait in the eye
and promise that this,
this nightmare
was really for
world peace
this was, of course
the biggest joke of the twenty first century:
"technology,
was the solution to
all of mans problems"
we built and built
and built
-- Machines, Factories,
Prisons, Schools,
Trains, Airplanes, Cars
and of course, motors
to run those trains, airplanes and cars.
"Stronger, Faster, More Efficient!"
this was modernity's mantra
growth was no longer an option,
it was a condition of life.
"by whatever means necessary"
we thought,
as we raced to our death beds
sure, the trains were on time
but overnight
we had death camps,
biological warfare
and an arms race.
everyone was finally ready
to fall asleep for the very last time.
Shit,
we can't blame them
how were they supposed to know?
that those motors
would propel trains
with people, or less than people aboard
to their final demise
but nevertheless,
on time.
with the same science
that created that wretched bomb'
we aimed those missles into the sky
and fired
fired fired!
blowing our own savior
right out of that fucking sky
God was dead,
and we had killed him.
what waters could we turn to
to clense our hands
of the sin to end all sins,
the murderers of all murderers.
"what festivals of attonement
would we invent now?"
they called to the heavens,
but no one answered,
so they built offerings to the gods
iPods and Attombombs
Trains and Deathcamps
Cars and Resource Wars
Sex and Sexually Transmitted Diseases
this was our festival
but their holy water remained wine
or crown n' coke for that matter,
for science was their new god
their new idol
and there, that night
in the shadow of their befallen god
everyboddy just wanted to get a little fucked up
because there was no
fucking reason
to live
any other way.
we had already built our own coffins,
and now there was only time for one last puff
of our final death stick
as we drowned ourselves
in the blood
of our new
god.
This world needs more people like us:
Poets,
Writers,
Idealists,
Dreamers,
Artists,
and Artisans
maybe then,
we could paint beautiful wars;
with epic beginnings and tragic endings
instead of waging wars
with greedy beginnings
and no endings
at all.
Black, Dark
On winter days,
even at the heart of the gulf of Texas;
Sugar Land, Texas
to be exact
my mother always told me to
stay inside
where it was warm and safe
where the bitter cold,
or the murderers or the rapists
or life
couldn't hurt me.
but I knew better
than to listen to her words,
of caution, of reproach
rather,
she had taught me better.
I am an honest man,
or at least I'd like to think so
I am not ashamed of giving credit
where it is due.
But who wouldn't?
(like to think they were honest men, that is)
the murderers? the rapists?
surely they had mothers too
who had nurtured them
taught them the virtues of an honest man
surely, they were honest men too
at least
some of
the time
this was this,
and that was that
until one day
I met a man with a burley black mustache
the most honest of men, perhaps
who showed me what a lie I was living!
he knew nothing of this "honesty"
i spoke of
but seemingly knew all there was to know about men;
and women I suppose -
this man, and his black burley mustache
showed me this was that
and this, was
nothing at all.
there are some that take pleasure in being
what they think, is an "honest man"
spending their entire lives
inside
next to their mothers,
where the cold or the rapists
or the murderers
or life
can't hurt them.
and they are honest men, too.
for what do they know?
(that with every day, every step
every breath of their comfortable
petty lives, they are lying)
To themselves.
And this profound conclusion
was made possible by that man
with the burley black mustache
whom I met on the philosophy shelf
at a bookstore no one has ever heard of
at the corner of nowhere
and nothingness.
It took a man of real honesty
to show me
that my only mother was fate
and it was my destiny to remain
forever by her side -
no matter where I went,
what I did
and what women I slept with.
Now I see
my mother taught me
how to be an honest man
Sure, I steal sometimes
and lie even more often
and swear wilder than the
rowdiest of cowboys-turned sailors
I am an honest man,
(to myself, at least)
Some men, who claim to be honest.
Also claim we need more compassion
more love, more humanity
more Jesus
and less aboritions
but in my honest opinion,
all this world really needs
is a few more honest men
with
burley
black
mustaches
Creativity is a virtue like no other
the mother of love
and the father of meaningful existence
but it is a virtue for which too few have
the heart
For some, it is easier to follow-
to sit in the back-seat of life's carriage
making passive comentary on a life-
-they were too weak to live.
Me?
I hunger for life's underbelly
I drive on an empty gas-tank
and fly kites only in thunder storms
with every action, I write my own destiny
following any road without a who
or a why
or a fucking care in the world
Some people drive to their destinations,
I drive to loose myself,
without any direction.
why?
becuase there's beauty in the struggle.
An artist I am, of words and ideas
my colors are boundless experiences,
unconscious desires,
potential for meaning and lack of direction.
No, I am nothing like the others.
With a stroke of honesty,
I paint with my thoughts, conversations
and actions, of course.
What do I care about paintings of mountains or canions?
or people who have long since deceased
or triangles and squares and circles
and such
I am an artisan of the twenty first century,
with nonsense, I fight the good fight
my canvas is life, and I'm painting my own mosaic
Immortal Combat.
What a title for a semi-profane return to the internet scene. Not to say I had followers or even chronic readers - fuck, I didn't even have a direction -- I just feel its important to note that I haven't written here in fucking ages! Only adding to the irony is that I've written of similar epiphanies quite often in the past few months. Fuck it. Life remains an eternal return of the same - what else is new??
So shit. Let's not play games with excuses. The real reason I haven't been writing here is a little blury to me - but I have a few theories as to why not.
1. Business.
2. Laziness.
3. Self-Conceousness.
4. High Expectations.
5. Debate.
6. Utter Shit. (pronounced: Other -- for more: see raving idiot, Emanuel Levinas)
Now, on to more interesting news...
I think I've come to yet another profound conclusion about life. Although I am conflicted on whether or not whether it's a conclusion or simply another beginning. A new marker in the journey to self-appreciative unconditional affirmation of who I are. (I know, I keep it fresh like Whole Foods.) This conclusion, however simple, I know, is a difficult perspective to uphold, a truth only for those brave enough to forge their own way through nothingness. I have yet to meet a person so brave, and I must add that I in fact do not see such a figure in my own shadow. Enough with the buildup, most of you have probably heard me say this sometime or the other: "life is a swirl of eternal meaninglessness."
ok, lets stop. Before you egg my house or send me nasty emails telling me "My life has meaning; ya douche!! [insert trail of profanities]" let me clarify what it is I am attempting to so publicly declare on this here internets. (and yes, you're welcome to use that as an email template) I began pondering the idea a few months back, but I never really understood how cold we were in the shaddow of our befallen god until pretty recently... Have you ever filled up a condom with water due to a lack of water baloons? .... becuase I haven't. But I think that if such a condom were to break before my eyes, I would be a witness to perhaps the greatest metaphor for a Nietzschean Big Bang (Pun Intended); That is, a giant cataclysmic accident that dispersed the forces across the great cosmos in an endless swirling game.
Though the joker often poses "why so serious?" I have yet to see a plausable victim take his questions seriously. Heath ledger was a phenominal actor, and I think that this kind of dismissive discern is precisely what drove him crazy! Just because the fucker had a clown mask on isn't a reason to not take him seriously. I Tried ; Thought; then Failed. Until I realized... maybe there was no good answer. Ask your self, "Why So Serious?!?" Who ever knew that a played out batman line could represent something so profoundly Nietzschean. Why are we so serious? :: About school, about work, about church, about friends, about our beliefs?! We pious fools have bowed before false gods and now do believe that there is a certain way we "ought to be." Has the madmans message not yet reached us? Why do we still choose to stand in the shaddow of our god? I'll tell you. Although god may be dead, and our hands - tainted with blood - We still embody the weakness that we so fundamentally clutched on to for so long. The lies that we call truths promise a new world - the greater kingdom of heaven where there was only good, and the bad stayed away. Well I've got a question for you world, What if it isn't that simple... What if there are no white and black? What if the only color on gods palet is toumbstone grey? Should we still chose to live our lives in seriousness and piety to the weaknesses we have dubbed strengths? I personally think not, but it's up to you to decide your position on that one.
"Why?" - Not only a good band, but also a tricky question. Being a curious goerge fan, I posed this question as often as possible -- although i was never really satisfied with the answer. Why was the sky blue? because god made air particles. Why are they blue? because air particles reflect light. No matter where I looked, the heavens or the bare hands of human innovation. I consistantly discovered "how" but never "why" things were the way they were. Until one night, in the very room I sit in, it hit me like a train. What did? Silence. The same silence I had felt when I asked why the sky was the way it was, or why people die, or why every good thing has to end, or why I was so chubby. Although a familiar feeling had returned, it brought with it a revealing even heidegger would pay to see.
No. Not pics of Jessica Alba nude you fucking pervs -- the moment revealed that maybe there was no answer to the question "why?" that maybe the me, you, the world and it's moon are all just a small fraction of a glorious accident who's reverbrations we surf and call "experience." Sure it's stupid, and you're right - i can't prove it. But something doesn't have to be falsifyable to be a "truth" for absolute truth was burried with god, it is only our fear which props it up today. I'm not saying we shouldn't have truths, just that we should be brave enough to forge our own. That always makes for the most interesting people.
So here we are. Meaningless, Unequal, Fragmented and Alone. But that doesn't mean it's the end of the road. Do the highest mountains cower in fear, or stand tall in all of their glory? Do the tallest trees shrink to be like their comrades, or do their comrads grow - to some day be even half their height? My point is, that just because meaning isn't legislated in our lives doesn't mean that we can never lead meaningful lives. I think it's better put as tabula rasa, a clean slate on which you must mold yourself out of nothingness.
Go ahead, I dare you.
If everything was permitted, what will you do?
Are you strong enough to part the sea of meaninglessness?
fuck.
Who am I?
A simple as the question may seem, I have yet to see an effective way of answering such a question. Is identity really so simple as such that it can be broken down into components? I feel that formal education has always pushed us to look outwards for answers, by rationalizing and mapping our material world and attempting to find answers to all questions through the process of scientific inquiry. As I reflect on all that I've learned in the past 11 years of school, I can't help but to question what the practical uses of what I've learned are. Honestly, when posed with a question so fundamental as that of identity, what good is "the process of elimination", what good are the hundreds of math formulas we've memorized, what good is my biological understanding of the the way my body works. I feel that formal education has always preached us to look outwards for answers to all of our questions, seldom have we ever looked inwards. I wish not to blame school for my inability to answer the question of ontology, but rather to trivialize the modern conception of "knowledge." To revisit the question, I believe that such a question asks not for an 'answer' in the traditional sense of the term, but rather a methodology by which we can begin to uncover our ontology.
The question to be asked then is not "who am I?", but rather the more geniological, "how did I become who I am." This is not to imply that Identity is formulaic, for that could not be farther from "the truth". Honestly, to define our being as the sum of the biological componants which construct it would be to deny our uniqueness, and thus deny our spiritual existence. I, for one, contend that we are the sum of our experiences. Who I am is shaped by nothing more than what I've experienced, the things that I've done, the people I have known the places I have seen, the things I have learned and the relationships I have had.
If we are to accept such a theory of our ontology, then what does it mean to feel resent? What does it mean to reflect on our experiences and wish to have never willed. To wish away our experiences because of the pain that memory of such an incedent induces would be to deny our ontology, or in Nietzsche's words - to deny life. For if life is nothing more than a collection of our experiences, if you and I are both defined by our relationships with others and with fate, then when we resent a particular moment in our lives, and resent the pain that that experience has caused do we not resent life itself? In wishing away experience, do we not wish away the life we have and will a life absent of that experience?
The past few weeks has tought me that decisions are decisions. And for better or for worse, we are defined by the decisions we make. Weather it be as intricate as a lifestyle, or as simple as what we choose to wear every morning - the conceous decisions that we make on a daily basis define our lives and I believe that instead of wishing to "go back in time" and alter the decisions we've made, we must accept those decisions for what they were, and in doing so accept their ramifications.
That's all I've got for today.
-Shikhar
Mood: 'Voxtrot - Sway'