It’s 4 am, I’m a little buzzed and all I want to do is write some before I crash in bed. There’s no better foreplay to sleep than a downright honest rant (like a confession, except our lives are so absurd that a confession at 4 am would sound false and exaggerated by noon). No wonder they say the past is gone, the future unknown, and all you got is the present which simlutaneous to its being lived – disappears or embellishes itself. All that we are left with are interpretations. That makes us the translators of our lives. And if your vocabulary sucks or you’re not good at re-interpreting, which is a downer because the lack of expression will render you incapable of delivering to others what mattered and moved you, you will most likely end up an unknown, a loser, a bum, unable to do any good to the world that ’shat’ you out in its polluted maggoty sphere.

Ok so I am on bum status currently. Because I sleep at odd hours, prefer tasteless food, possess zero desire to go out and impress people, find myself a little incapable of taking orders for the sake of authority when it doesn’t make any sense, wonder where exactly superficiality ends because I see people lying constantly to each other and themselves about what they want and how they pursue the contrary, because I want to live as I feel (each moment as I go my way) and not be a LIE. ALso because I am a little slow (earthworm?) tending to process and think what people say to me, why they say it, and how I can respond best unlike an automated machine.

Alright. So life is random. strange. meaningless. a little fucked up. twisted. mean.  It does not have a beginging and obviously no end. However I have a begining, I know what fucks me up, makes me mean, strange, meaningless and random. Thus upon the palm of immortality, the human soul breathes, subsists on nothingness, yet shackled and imprisoned by the merciless demands of Time, often chokes, sputters, and cries. Dillusioned that the end is near.