i become lucid after about 18 hours of wakefulness.
random thoughts break through the dam that is my conscious, rational thought,
which appears to have become a barrier of sorts.

i will not and cannot write any longer about what i have not experienced
i can go no longer without becoming what i have so longed to be
i need to discover the true self, and above all i need to become the nobody,
the everybody.

wanting to live is not living
living to want is not loving life
its a dead end street with nothing to give

i am in the great divide i am
myself is who i want to be
a wolf in sheepskin loving lamb
bleeding tears onto your sheets

does sleep keep me sane
wakefulness lets me maintain my lunacy.

you just want to be okay
wheres your other
to tell you don’t bother
your sister or brother
to brighten this new day

songbirds always screech
or sing
depending on feeling
are you bent over by ceiling
did you think you were dreaming

too many people will tell you
whats wrong

so with suffering in my heart
i feel like a constant runner
attempting to achieve a coasting, comfortable high
not for enjoyment, but so i can continue onward

sadness is sickness
and drugs are self-written prescription medications

live in tunnels and backseats of cars
got that junkie body
know you want it
know you want me

taste like cigarettes
you’re up its four in the morning
looking gaunt and run down
i been searching
i been all over town

you know i
wanna make you
you know i
wanna make you

a little beat up
still in good shape

if when potential employers are looking up dirt on me,
somehow they find this blog,
and then say to themselves,
“what a loony young man,
he simply will not do!
he thinks entirely too much!
he speaks his mind from time to time!
he cusses thoughtlessly all over the internet!”
or something like that.

i suppose if thats the case, i guess all i can do is laugh until i cry.

just posted this for my user biography. thought it was interesting how it just sort of came out. and even more interesting that it came out completely out of character, but also completely true.

i’m a struggling kinda guy.
i just dropped out. lookin for work. lookin for a scene. fed up with all this fuckitall one opinion to rule them all nonsense. trying my hardest to be real with every cat and just dig it. and by ‘it’ i mean life. and by life i mean whatever the fuck it is i’m doing right now.

i’m not a mean person. i’ve just got convictions. i’ve just got standards. i’ve just got habits and addictions and passions. and thats all i’ve got. ain’t got no money, ain’t got no car, and currently, ain’t even got no job. i’ve got a girl, though, and she’s the prettiest damn thing you ever seen, thats a fact.

i write. i sing. i play. i make all sorts of things. its a wonder to create. i like to take pictures. i wish i could find some goddamn polaroid film somewhere other than the internet. i smoke cigarettes. and i feel, truly, that conversation is the very best pastime of them all. yes, even better then the television.

so i dropped out. long story short, i procrastinated and partied too hard. i was having too much fun. apparently there is such a thing (who knew).

now i’m off in the world, but not alone. i’m living in my parents’ basement currently, and i’m not sure how long i’ll be able to stand it. all the freedom of college contrasted with an 11:00 curfew and a seemingly never-ending search for a job. if you can imagine it great, if not, just know that i’m writhing and cringing and tossing about with restlessness. i need to get out of this place.

currently, my job prospects look somewhat promising. i sent a resume to the family business, but they don’t like to hire young kinsmen. apparently they think i’m trying to take advantage. which, remarkably, is not the case. somehow all the stress of failing all those classes really did some damage to my laziness. i have a burning desire to do something with my life and i intend to. i’m a bit upset at the situation because i’ll be working my ass off. 40-50 hour weeks, which wouldn’t be too bad if i get that gig with the family business, but some of the other jobs i’ve been applying for could be downright shitty.

i applied for a job at coldstone creamery, where they make icecream cones and sing to customers for a tip. i think i’d feel a bit like a whore working there. smug highschoolers from sibley and sta are surely frequent, and certainly enjoy dropping a buck or two at an icecream shop to see some drop out sing a tune and pretend to like it.

today i’ll be applying for jobs at all ends of the spectrum. next week i could be an orderly, caring for some rich old cripple, or welding pieces of metal together with a mask over my face to shield my face from the hot hot heat. i was also looking into this ad recruiting “animal lovers” for kennel assistance. i mentioned it to my father and he commented that the job probably entailed quite a bit of scat cleanup. if only the ad had said “shit lovers.” that way i wouldn’t feel like they were trying to reel me in without disclosing the true nature of the job. if they had put in the paper “pick up shit for 10 hours a day at $10 an hour! all the shit you could ever want!” i would have called immediately.

but all the ads are a bit vague. oh well. i can handle a surprise.

in spite of all this reality smacking me in my face, i still can’t help but dream. i think this summer, with a large amount of my free time i’m going to make music. i’ve had tunes in my head, and my lyrics are improving. i think the sound i’ve been pursuing is close. but i need people. i hate having to bust my ass and play all the instruments, one track at a time. so hopefully i’ll be able to locate some musicians that wouldn’t mind my pushing a certain sound on them. i hate to sound like i think i’m some sort of musical prodigy, because i’m not. but i have that frontman syndrome i suppose. i want it to sound the way i want it to sound because i think if thats the way it sounds everyone will like the way it sounds and if thats the case then we’re fucking rich and famous. and wouldn’t that just be grand?

its awful when rats sing like birds.
a terrible screeching sound, like a knife on a windowpane.
though rodents are organized and rational creatures,
some wander into the public eye songfully,
lured by the pleasures of the disharmonious terribly truthful cry.

such an atrocious squeal for ermine eardrums to bear,
but the pigs all listen thoughtfully.

i seem to eat,
at some point.

we’ll have to do something about that.

[the following is something i felt compelled to write after my experiences this afternoon/evening]

We were six young men mad to live. High on the fumes of illicit plants. Plants that the man up top decides god didn’t mean to sprout. Plants like the tree of knowledge, whose seed must have been sown by none other than the hand that sew the hand that grasped its own forbidden bounty.

All laughing and crying and screaming. All racing with each other to keep up the conversation, which all knew was to direct result of a foreign substance. But these were not the judgmental souls, nor were they the religiously convicted. These were the kindred godless heathens of a Wisconsin college campus. Discussing, planning, plotting their deepest dreams and desires, which at the present moment seemed entirely within their grasps.

We raced laps around and out of the room. We timed the laps, we were in a friendly competition of vigorous souls filled with the fire of youth. Like animals, like cavemen, yelling and screaming, yelping in foreign and nonexistent tongues long forgotten by the sad sullen decline of youth’s golden years. We were all steadfastly holding onto this moment of reckless jubilation, for we know that in the back of our minds, the lawman was still brandishing his billy-club with a frightfully sadistic glee. But put at the back of our minds, he seemed a mere midget show-clown in the circus of our lives.

We entered into a car with intentions of further intoxication and adventurous curiosity. As our lungs bellowed psychedelic exhaust, we discussed destination after destination. Laser tag arenas, arcades, strip clubs, gas stations, head shops, stores bearing all varieties of contraband and pornography, and finally planning for the later evening, pondering which acquaintance’s residence our deranged parade would eventually reach.

Eventually, a consensus was reached. We were pound for a park. A park of solid steel amusements, fused by plastic and Plexiglas, the stomping grounds of young children. And how fitting. How young we all felt. How invincible. How immune to the many problems of the world. How uncouth we had all become. We climbed trees. Staggered at the views presented by multi-meter-high mountains of snow. The bullshitting was thick in the air. Gas was passed and asses were slapped in joking, choking, jackassery. At one point, a large blue bull was spotted, wrangled, and mounted by two of my companions. Radiating victorious beams of light, they rode high and waved their hands to the audience. I fell to my knees, and then flat onto my back taking pictures of them, barking orders for all various poses as they complied.

Suddenly, the park’s novelty had run dry. We needed something completely the opposite. A path too scandalous for the short stride of a child. It was decided that we were to depart to an adult superstore. We drove for what seemed like months. We drove in circles, triangles, and all sorts of geometric shapes, finally culminating in a grand spiral that lead us directly to the center of our soul’s desire: a pornographic wonderland.

Unfortunately, as we approached the fiendish wonderland, one of my companions let out a sigh of utter disappointment. He had forgotten his federally issued identification card. We prayed to whatever god, if any, that ruled the skies, flats, and the souls of dirty novelty shop owners, that the proprietors of this fine establishment would accept a college identification card as ample proof for passage into the erotic cave. We entered cautiously, hoping for no inquiry as to age. But our hopes were promptly dashed as a dark, elderly woman sporting wide-rimmed glasses demanded we flash over our licenses to smut. We held all bit our tongues as the college identification was presented, and our spirits broke when she informed us that she was powerless against federal law.
Our friend took one for the team and waited while we browsed the vendor’s wares. This store offered all the means to sin against a Christian god. The only tools missing, it seemed, were the holy image desecration kits. Pornography of all varieties. How raw would you like your pornography, sirs? Do you prefer blondes or brunettes? Racked or flattened? Happy or sad? Consensual or forced? Tied, bound, or chained?

The selection of pleasure power tools was exhaustive. We chuckled at the especially large phalluses. Massive icons of all-too-familiar American just-too-muchery. Plastic and rubber penises larger than my own legs. I felt compelled to pick them up and wield them as weapons. I wished for a medieval swordfight right then and there, with the large bouncer-looking man leaning half-imposingly against the glass counter that shelved scores of marijuana smoking devices. It would be an epic, worthy of Hollywood camera-film. But blinking lights and moaning noises distracted my attention as I noticed my friends moving towards what looked like a dungeon. A black hall with many rooms, each accompanied by a curtain. We peered in, fearing some horrible sight, like a transvestite lying spread eagle beckoning with a leather whip. Instead there was only a television screen surrounded by neon colored flashing buttons. There was a slot begging for dollars from whatever horny patron might have wandered into this dark, dreary place. It felt like a trap, I felt I had to escape. That, I told myself, must have been the reason for the sticky floors. “They don’t ever want anyone to leave this place. They’ve trapped us god damn it!”

Before we could further examine the surroundings, Neal had inserted a dollar into the device. The blue screen flickered for a moment and we stood our ground, ready for whatever image the 14 inch screen was about to display. It was not so grotesque as I had assumed it might be: a blonde being violently thrashed about by a muscular man sporting tribal tattoos. He seemed to be giving it his all. I looked him in the eyes, and I did not see love. I saw money and masculinity. Pure rage infused with the joy of plowing what he must consider the lesser sex. The woman bore a memorable visage. It was an expression of pain and pleasure. Two things that church-going folk believe ought never be combined. I saw her eyes through blonde hair and the blackest eye-shadow. I did not see love.

Our friend was still outside waiting, and we were growing weary of the oversexed atmosphere of this Pure Pleasures store. We resolved to step out, have a cigarette, and discuss our next move.

Three cigarettes were lent out by Trent. He had been waiting on us, but did not look impatient. He looked as if he were anticipating the next move. He wore the semi-expensive clothing sold at the name-brand stores in the mall. He had a habit of looking average. However, once one gets to know a fellow like Trent, his image changes entirely. Trent is one fellow, who I believe to be mad to live. He stretched his hand out palm-down toward us, three cigarettes protruding, and inquired “What’s the score, cats, what’s next?”
We contemplated the question to ourselves briefly as we took up the cigarettes, and passed lighters around, dragging deeply with satisfaction. It had, after all, been a full fifteen minutes since we had a smoke break. We shuffled about, looking at our feet, exhaling and sharply dragging. It was about 7:30 and the sun had nearly set. It was growing dark, and we all knew that the struggle to sustain the high had begun. Finally Matthias piped up “I need gas.” We all nodded in agreement. Gas was a necessary commodity for this journey to continue, and the decision to travel to a filling station had twofold significance. The car had been our vehicle of travel all day, and thus was the springing ground of all the fantastic events thus far attended.

Not more than five seconds after entering the car, an idea unexpectedly materialized inside my charged cranium. I turned to Charles Dwayne Cassidy and asked him “at precisely what hour does the city of action close its gates?”

The question generated mass hysteria in the car. The destination was set. We were on our way to action city. The word around campus was that fifteen dollars would buy all the entertainment any wanting mortal could withstand.

And there we were again. Striving backwards to childhood. Dreaming of bumper-cars and laser-tag. We wanted to jump about and scream. How unfortunate, then that we never got that chance. We called the action city, and were met with a sadly sobering response: the doors have been locked shut friends.

I slouched in my seat. Déjà vu. The beginning of the end of another wonderful night. Always striving, we were always striving for the perfectly wonderful night. That fated night we all dreamed of. The night when the fun never stops. The night we will make the pact to finally sleep when we’re in the ground. “This life’s for living,” we’d tell each other, and we’d clasp hands and jump down the rabbit hole, in a free fall for what would seem like an eternity until we finally land on a deck of aces. And that will be the day that every hand wins, we’d be forgiven of all sins, and all the enemies would turn into the most beautiful friends.

But dreams of utopia are fleeting in this bunch. And no one dares speak that sanguine prophecy. We realists will crucify the optimist soothsayer.

We arrived in an upscale dorm room filled with cats digging the atmosphere. Hip-hop music and mixed drinks set the mood. Basketball played on the television, but no one was paying any attention. Jumbled words, out of context, bounced off the walls and confused me completely. Small talk, small tales, short quips begging to relate, histories and futures discussed by loose tongues. Everyone was so comfortable, I felt a bit out of place being such a soft-spoken individual. My silence was met with comforting looks from my comrades, who had before traveled to this residence, and were wholly familiar with its residents. They shot smiles, fist pounds, and “what’s happenings” my way. I remained continually reserved.

“What is happening, really?” I asked myself. We were here. Socializing. But why? A question I had begun to ask myself frequently. Certainly there was some underlying purpose to this happening shindig. The psychology major inside me began to slap labels and roles on everyone. I identified the leading man. He poured drinks and told outrageous stories. I felt compelled to be his friend. I identified all possible sexual partners, and the possible matches, assuming that only two people would be engaged in an act at any given time. Including possibly homosexual pairings, there were 64 possibilities. I scolded myself for such thinking. I was bordering on survivalist rhetoric. Which of the many people in this room would survive in a jungle with nothing but a shovel? Who can hold their breath for the longest? These questions seemed completely necessary, for my heart weight heavily under an ominous cloud of negativity.

In retrospect, all that negativity was in all likelihood an illusion. I think I tend to get (for lack of a better term,) overtly-sketchy around strangers.

Charles Dwayne Cassidy approached me with a grin on his face. “Did you see that blonde man?” I surveyed the scene. There were multiple blondes. I saw all three of them, and thus deduced that I had in fact seen the blonde my friend had indicated in his inquiry of my knowledge of the surrounding individuals. I turned back to him and nodded “yes.” He leaned in closer. “I think she digs me man, I’m getting vibes.” I had no idea what he meant. “What are you gonna do about it man?” I asked, genuinely curious, and I was. Charles had a knack for the ridiculous scene. However, I had to take into account that he was not intoxicated on that most vile and poisonous potion known only as bourbon. Charles was without a doubt a hairy-chested brown-liquor man. He also happened to be a ladies man. How he does it, I don’t think I’ll ever know. He has a boasting unavoidable nature that draws people to him. Later, I saw the two holding hands and hanging on each other, but I doubt they ventured much farther than sheepish middle school gestures of flirtatious nature. The party was growing loud, and Trent and I were hungry for a break out of the scene, some time for reflection on the evening’s mayhem.

Matthias offered us a ride to the two tall towers that Trent (and so many others) called home, the massive complex of 15×15 rooms complete with bunks and dressers. We entered through a side-door, and were greeted by familiar faces bearing uninviting and grim expressions. The immediate warm sensation brought on by the sight of the crowd was abruptly shuddered by the sneaking suspicion that something was amiss. How right I was, and how unfortunately I felt about my correctness. Trent has a knack for delinquent behavior, and the reputation such activities all too often entail. In spite of his likeable nature, the friends of Trent could not deny that inside him there was a capacity for treacherous scheming, the motivations for which no one knew. Being his closest ally and partner in crimes of all sorts, I enjoy a unique vantage point into the psyche of the enigma that my friend had become over years of conditioning.

The darting glances of Trent’s dorm-floor wing mates shook me, and I prepared myself for a dramatic confrontation.
Let me introduce myself. My name is Elijah Reid, and I am eighteen years old. I am currently enrolled in a college in the Midwest area of the United States, the exact location is insignificant to my tales, as they could very well have occurred in your own quiet hometown. They could have occurred at the peaks of Himalayan Mountains, or deep in salty seas within the confines of a nuclear submarine. The point of the ramblings, I assure you, sir, are simply to assert the uniformity of youthful experience. The report I give to you from the many environments in which my writings take place is merely the blueprint of the contemporary truth-seeking young man’s coming of age, enhanced both with the brilliant colors of celebrations and new friendships, and the dull shades of violent dark gray and blue and red , hurriedly splashed with the raw and intense emotions of betrayal and undue hatred as the direct result of our egos, our irrational fearful flight from the true love of a true friend, the result of our inability to become literate beings capable of communicating our honest intentions.

Standoffish is what they were. They were at the foot of the stairs heading upwards. They held the door without saying a word, and let us pass. We traveled briskly up the staircase and into Trent’s room. The accounts events that followed, interesting as they may be without the proper introduction of my associates and myself, must be put on hold. For in the character of those involved, lies the true moral of my story.

I was brought into this world on the first of August, 1989. I came out swinging by my father’s account. He said it seemed I simply felt I was leaving my mother’s comfortable womb entirely too soon. He said I looked like a miniature man being kidnapped out of his own home by strangers who shouted and bellowed that my evacuation was entirely necessary. The whole ordeal was confusing and rather bloody. Being only an infant, I did not evaluate the situation. These men had massive hands wrapped in some sort of synthetic plastic. They wore masks, presumably to hide their identities, for should I ever grow into a strong man some day, a likelihood they had surely discussed in secret with fear and jagged breaths, I would in all probability hunt down these rude awakeners and life-givers. A proud moment in my life, I think, the very first emotion I decided to whole-heartedly act on: the immense rage induced by momentary separation from my mother.

After delivery, life moved about slowly, smoothly. I was an average child of the 1990’s, raised on Barney the Dinosaur’s incorruptible, repetitive mantras of friendship and respect in my early years. Then when my parents felt I was of proper age, they allowed the Power Rangers and the Transformers to instill in me the elementary notion of justice: the good guy always comes out on top. At some point during my tutelage under Zordon and his teenage superheroes, my parents introduced me to my sister. My mother had undergone a strange metamorphosis over the course of the past few months; it had been difficult not to notice. She was a bit more emotional as I recall, and considerably less mobile about the house and surrounding city. Then, after months of slowly growing, she was transported to a place unknown to me. Then, one day, a week later, my father informed me that we were going to where I had come from. I asked him, with worry, if I was going back whence I came? He laughed and laughed, then told me that quite contrary, instead, we were going to meet another just like me, from the same place.

I was there when she was delivered into this world, in the same screaming, crying, fiasco of an operation I endured. It was horrifying. I stood frozen in the doorway, only to be pushed out of the way by a nurse rushing in with a cart of supplies that must have been utterly paramount to my sister getting out of this gory mess alive.

I felt a bit sorry for both of them. But to be entirely truthful, my own wellbeing was what I worried for the most.