Currently Reading Essays and Aphorisms (The Penguin Classics) By Arthur Schopenhauer see related

The holidays. I have to admit, I have enjoyed them more this year than I have in some time. Something has clicked, or ignited, or dissolved within me. Maybe a little of each, maybe none. It feels like I've been pushing a deformed version of myself through my mouth and movements. This maimed, misconceived form of altruism that i've tried to maintain has compromised my self into a writhing, silver-tongued statue incapable of being a true friend or an honorable enemy. But something has changed.

For three days I have submersed myself in steaming water and had the vision that my words are hooks, attached to strings, attached to my insides. Consonantly, the hooks slice, sink, and stick to those that hear them. Oh well. You can imagine what that would look like, and I think that may be the most important part, despite what it may mean.

I love my friends, I'm just tired of over-extending my social life. I love potential, but I'm tired of the kinesis of a black, faithless hole in my spirit. I love to celebrate, but I'm tired of waking up gut first into my days. I love music, but I hate caring about people hearing my own. I love going to school, but I hate not having finished it.  So...

From now on, my closest friends are the only ones im fighting for with my hands, the hands stuck on my arms, and the hands stuck on my clock.

I'm going to continue to marvel at the endless wonder of all a boy can be, but for now I'm going to be me, here, now.

I'm going to celebrate, and suck memories into my guts, but I'm not going to take just anything that comes along, compiling so many that I forget which ones to hold on to and let them out at a rapid, sometimes projectile pace. What I mean is, less is more.

I'm going to start buying records again, and really start enjoying them, I just want to enjoy things again. I've had this whole "self-destructive" thing going on for too long. And it's odd the pathways it takes into seemingly harmless areas of your life, such as music.

I'm going to finish school. I'm enrolled for this spring semester and in a position to get where I want if I will just be where I am and enjoy things. If I finish, and still feel like going under, always distracted, wandering aimlessly around this country, relying on good luck and fair weather, seeking the wise in dark places, then I will... But not yet.

So, here's to all of the bullshit and hardships of this past year, and to all of the bullshit and hardships to come. May I actually be here to enjoy them this year.

I have to stay up a little longer. I've strawberry ice cream to digest before laying my head to the west, eyes first to the sun through the slit in my canvas womb. I'm stranded in an aural ruckus of cognitive dissonance; the product of that quality which lets man know he is both of the dirt and of the gods. That insane texture in a mouthful of tobacco--preceding revelation. The task seems too great to proceed, being miserly and insecure as I am. I need all of you, and I won't do it without you. But please, prepare a bed in your ears, and let my sincerity sleep, even if it be a restless sleep, in the hollows of your brain. I've plucked for you all the wings of angels, and we'll use them to fire up the pit. They burn forever, you know. I promise its all that we have left. 

The world doesn't need any more successful people. It needs healers, storytellers, and lovers of every kind. The greatest test of our conscience will be to sacrifice something for lost children whose thanks will never be heard by us. One drop of water existed in the unfortunate, arc-snuffed landscape of coastal India. One enough to drown a Vipassanan in practice. To cause multi-billion dollar corporations and their presidents be grateful for an instant, with perhaps an ounce of pity forming beads of sweat while their right hand grew eyeballs and watched their lefthand donate a custom leather couch to "x" common good. But still, that ounce of pity. What I mean is, We are universally composed of a limited blood and bone. We are products of consumptions of products of consumptions, and we are one of us enough to introduce a flashlight into a dark alley.

Read: "To hell with culture. To hell with the artist." The word culture was born with the machine, and with it, the knowledge that we've lost it. Culture belongs to the past now. And artists! Artists are not special men, as fucking bold their strut or esoteric their sleep. Since when was a painter more dear to its national exhibitionists than a construction worker? or vice versa? No, men are all, strutting or sleeping, artists.

Okay, its been long enough. I can go to sleep now.