Monday, 13 January 2014

Youthful Angst

Emergency blog today, due to recovering from drinking port till 5am with my oldest friend in celebration of his 40th birthday (Happy Birthday John!). Normal service will be resumed tomorrow (err, today). In the meantime, here's some things I wrote when we were in our prime.


Within the shrouded mysteries of life are sights too few of us notice. To glimpse, even for that briefest of moments, a sight of life’s truths will change the strongest of souls, reduce the bravest of heart to tears. These are not the tangible worlds that explorers seek in order to conquer, nor can the closed mind ever hope to see what will always be foreign to him.

To see is to know and to know is to be aware. With awareness comes a wondrous reward, life with purpose. In its absence a meaningless existence is all which any soul can hope for. All cultures, all religions are but embodiments of this greatest of gifts, their entrustment inherited by fools who see little and know even less. Our time has yet to come. The meek have yet to inherit the Earth.



No one ever had to teach me how to step outside the boundaries of this disillusioned autocracy. I find myself wandering through a shallow, ink drawn world, callous and oppressive. When will colours burst forth into this desolate wasteland, alleviate the blindness and guide us towards our ultimate future?



Someone once told me that young people tend to think there’s more to life. There is ! If you’re prepared to go out and look for it. We spend our whole lives searching for perfection and settling for second best. And when we do see a glimpse, for that briefest of moments catch a sight of perfection personified, it disappears forever: Our lives can never be the same again.

I used to have a set of ideals which I, at that time, thought were important. I now know better. And if the months of despair and depression induced loneliness taught me anything, it is what is really important. I wonder what will come from there this time?



Do you know what I keep hearing? Be realistic. Be realistic? You mean be ordinary? I never tried to be different, never set out purposely to awkward as some people seem to think. The fact is, I am different. I couldn’t care less about car engine capacities or how pissed I’m capable of getting, my mind needs more tangible stimulus. I see things differently because I see them for what they are and most are completely fucked. That kind of honesty breeds a fear in certain people, they can see in my eyes a sense of purpose and they try to drag me down to their level. It’s always guaranteed to fail. There is no vanity in me, but there is a sense of truth and it says I’m beyond them: Superior.

What most of us tend to forget is we’ve been given a life and we waste it. Mediocrity is accepted, after all, it’s been hammered into us from the day we were born. With me and my ilk he plan falls through. Our individuality wasn’t stifled, it flowered. Not content to work in an office or a factory, we see these for what they are, just more obstacles to overcome. And when those challenges are scaled and conquered we can, for the first time, lay our virgin eyes on the true realities of life. These are not the false trivialities lesser mortals accept as the norm. They are real living.

If a less than happy childhood had not alienated me from most of the world, I may too have fallen by the wayside. As it is I find myself content to be me, surround by fools. I see them as moles: Secure in the darkness, blinded by the light.



Help me to understand where these feelings come from; the rage anguish; frustration and fear. Is all that’s left inside of me self destructive? Slowly bubbling to the surface, an exponential growth of chaos, ever perpetuate by each new soul destroying put down, failed relationship, death all around, wearing down my resources, killing inner-self. Or is this all another step of ascendance to that person I need to be?

These feelings need to be dissipated, yet I know that first I need to expose the world to them or they’ll always remain, and I hate the shit that they dredge me through in their awakening. I cannot live without passion and I feel dead, sick of the never ending stream of non-important bullshit that infects my mind and keeps me from achieving the things I need to achieve. Looking to when this phase began, it is fitting that that night I dressed in the dark robes of death and yet I find that I have become that which I seeked to mock. I hate fucking irony.


A Voice in the Black

Into the screaming fire which burn in these veins, cascading waterfall, surging, bursting river, the essence of light, forging through the dark. Creation’s struggle over destruction, calling form the warm, still air. Give me the inner chasm’s emerging strength, to take this fight to the last, confident swagger. Heal these wounds from battles past, energy to destroy the gods, their myths and little minions here on this terrain who burn the truth with every breath. Rage for the horrid overseers, fuelled by the truth from all around, the deceit and charade in ever chair, every seat of power, every church and school. Grace of thought, never to be deprived clear sense, given to the brave, forged from within. For if you destroy my senses, I can still think.


Corridors of Deceit

Burn the truth, destroy the pure, with every breath force feed the lies. In darkened shroud are we content to let the demons run amok. Enemies to everyone and everything that is not you.

A horrid palace of demons, basking in you ignorance as they ride to work on the backs of the poor. A new class of slaves, ever more productive. Manipulated marionettes.

Even the best production lives go awry. How fitting that I am but a reject, thrown into a corner and forgotten. An so I sit here, emerged in your self-perpetuated abyss, eyes wide to the twisted, joyless domain that you create, we maintain. Screaming and crying, I dream of the knife wet with your blood, instead of these tears of rage, as the slaves are boxed, labelled and shipped to the four corners of the Earth. And from all around echoes the laughter. Automatons never answer back.


Souls such as we tread a lonely path. Seeking a realm we can never hope to find, journeying despite ourselves, meeting few others along the way, and then only fleetingly. Sardonically our goals seem in sight, sprinting to chase after that far off domain, the vision fades, aroused from another troubled sleep. Reality an illusion, we live through our fantasies, a never ending exploration. For it is better to die scaling an unreachable peak than to live it their shadowed foothills.

Get it done.

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