I wanted to write something clever, but I think my brain is hanging out with my stomach. This modern world climate drags me down. I read things and I think, "People need to start dying a lot faster a lot sooner starting now," and I become aghast at my selfish ideology because, naturally, I don't want to include myself in that Great Purging of the Human Beings that nature needs so badly. In truth, nature will win in the end, because nature will still go on even if this planet becomes a lifeless hulk rivaling that of her orbiting tomb we call the moon. Man will lose. So, why gripe about the possible loss of drinking water for the next generation of bunny humping carbon wastes? Why feel a moment of desolate isolation when confronted with the sad, same old song of the rich getting richer and the poor helping the rich get richer? Really, why care about anything at all?
Well, if you don't care then you become a husk of a thing, dry and crackling. You shrivel up and resemble nothing but that which should be rotting in a pine box six feet under the ground. There is no true revolution without blood, but the sight of blood makes me nauseous. Should I become like our world leaders? Get some grip of lunatics to do all the killing for me, and leave the statistics for my eyes only? Nah. That's hard work!
Why am I writing this? I dunno... I'm okay. Life seems fine. I'm, like, still relatively healthy and happy in my marriage. I don't live in constant fear of my well being or for those I care about the most. The world just seems like a blacker place to me these past several years. The sun's trajectory seems to slip closer and closer to the horizon daily. I am poor. I have debt. I try to mend these things as much as a man who is unimpressed with the materialistic things of the world can be motivated, which is to say hardly. I fancy myself an intelligent man, but conversation has dried up. Magazines and websites ring the same bell of doom every day, the world gets uglier and uglier, and people get more and more present and more and more fat and more and more and more and more and it just gets to be sharp enough of a thing that it punctures the thin layer of a scab I have over my heart and--BAM!--I write this shit.
So, yeah. I'm fine. Thanks.
Well, if you don't care then you become a husk of a thing, dry and crackling. You shrivel up and resemble nothing but that which should be rotting in a pine box six feet under the ground. There is no true revolution without blood, but the sight of blood makes me nauseous. Should I become like our world leaders? Get some grip of lunatics to do all the killing for me, and leave the statistics for my eyes only? Nah. That's hard work!
Why am I writing this? I dunno... I'm okay. Life seems fine. I'm, like, still relatively healthy and happy in my marriage. I don't live in constant fear of my well being or for those I care about the most. The world just seems like a blacker place to me these past several years. The sun's trajectory seems to slip closer and closer to the horizon daily. I am poor. I have debt. I try to mend these things as much as a man who is unimpressed with the materialistic things of the world can be motivated, which is to say hardly. I fancy myself an intelligent man, but conversation has dried up. Magazines and websites ring the same bell of doom every day, the world gets uglier and uglier, and people get more and more present and more and more fat and more and more and more and more and it just gets to be sharp enough of a thing that it punctures the thin layer of a scab I have over my heart and--BAM!--I write this shit.
So, yeah. I'm fine. Thanks.