Captainqt
02-28-2008, 06:31 AM
Humble and helpless...I'm learning to pray
Praying for visions...to show me the way
These nights are becoming more the same. Even the air has the stale odor that occupies the finer vessels in his heart. What sadness this life has turned to! But, is really all this the fault of others? Of course we must all take some responsibility for the wrongs in our lives. After all, is there ever a true victim? We all participate in the general genocide of humankind as a whole, not to mention the solid conciousness that represents the thoughts of the universe. What a joke!
...Lewis blinks his eyes with the slowness of grass growing in the winter time...
No, it is true. I have something to live for. Don't we all? I claim no great purpose of course, but there is a purity within me that just screams for its moment in the spotlight. That moment may never arrive and I see the value in that statement. It is what keeps me quite sure of my mortality and more importantly my humanity. Perhaps one day, all of those terrible dilemmas such as hunger and poverty will just vanish and under the wide roof of the heavens only goodness and prosperity will rain down. The manna from God Himself will flower the fields of modern deprivation and sickness. We could all live as one in peace and union, but now is too soon of course. More of this blood lust must fall out from the gaping would of our dead souls, all amassed on a pile of ruin. The skies will never fall from their heights, and the ground will only shake once in a while to give us a good stirring. A simple reminder of who is in charge, or rather of who is not. Meanwhile, I'll just lie here and watch the show go down. My moment in the spotlight will come when I finally achieve the position of the final imbosile. There I will stand ato pthe highest mountain shaking my fist at all of those who stood and watched my demise. Well, my friends...I will watch your's as well and we shall see who gets the last laugh.
I had a plant one time, a gift from a friend. I suppose that I call him a friend out of some desperate desire to feel wanted and convince myself that I am capable to befriend in the first place. If neither is true, I could care less, but the point is no the man, but the plant. Throughout all of the world it has become a sad fact that most hold a much higher value on the life of the vegetables than on the life of another human. Let's save the rainforest! But, we'll just turn a blind eye to genocide...strange how we think, isn't it?
Back to the plant if I may. I accepted this gift with the ordinary gratitude that one should receive all things. I put on the face of surprise and then awe, as though not a man on earth, or woman for that matter, could ever bring me such joy. In all honesty, the plant was of the blandest species growing on this green earth. My first thought was of how out of the millions of possibilities for a gift of this nature, how could he choose this? It rose about eight inches from the reddish-brown pot it occupied. There were three thin stems that branched out from the thicker one in the center. Upon the branches were sparsely rowed fern-like leaves. I was annoyed instantly. This gift had become a chore in a matter of a simple exchange. I would have to take time out of my busy life in order to care for this shrub. Watering it and trimming it, allowing the sun to shine on it's sparsely placed ugly fern-like growths, and then of course the most difficult of these would be to do all of this as though it was important to me. All of this began very quickly to be overwhelming. Perhaps this was some cruel trick that this individual decided to play on me, knowing full well that my ability to care for anything other than myself was weak at best. Then again, he would not know that about me. The truth was probably that htis was a gift given to him, and received in the same manner that I had then been receiving it. That had to be it! He was pushing this pathetic gift on to me, for he obviously thought much less of me. He had decided to take advantage of my low place on the totem pole. What a fine exaple of a man!
I suppose that the point of this lesson, at least the one that I learned from it is that there is a great deal of credit that we give to those who supposedly do us well. I came to the immediate conclusion that I must abort this cruel, poorly presented vegetation and move on with my life, avoiding this so called friend at all costs. Now, of course I find it hard to fully believe that this man did this all to hurt me, but as I had said previously, he did it in order to save himself the trouble. It was a purely selfish motive, but aren't they all?
Show me the way to forgive you....
Allow me to let it go...
There is no longer one thing of good nature of which I can speak about a man other than that he dies. Everything dies eventually and that is such a relief in all of our cases. Let us suppose that death is the goal of life. I am quite familiar and indeed fond of the expression 'Born into the grave'. The decent of Man began when he stood up on hands and knees, crawling through the pit of this new wave of desolation and that 60 watt light bulb flicked on in his head, revealing the secret of bipedal motion. I walk, therefore I am. There is a certain amount of expectation that we all have for ourselves, which then becomes our motivation to live instead of die. Living for yourself is the only way to go through this wretched place without constantly consuming the mind with visions of a bullet passing thorugh it. Create a grand idea of how you build your empire, while cruching the heads of all of those who oppose you, and watch as the years roll by and you accomplish only a small percentage. It's the Law of Diminishing Return. Ah! Now you realize there is perhaps more to life than living. Maybe the living is not even a part of life at all, or else it would seem to fit in a little better than it does. In order for the plant to grow, the seed must die in the ground. But now of course you remember well my hatred of the plant world.
Two weeks ago I ran into the plant-giving friend, quite by accident in the supermarket. Such public places I rarely visit during the busy day time hourse, but on this specific occasion I suppose I was feeling a bit bold. I was strolling down the aisle with the frozen meats and before I had time to react, there he was. Our carts met with a dull thud and upon my recognition, my face flushed crimson, followed by the sickest hue of white known in the world of infectious disease. He attacked me first with his devilish smile and those eyes that just scream out murder. Out of some crude form of courtesy, he placed forth his hand for a shake and I stared at him blankly. Much passed thorugh my mind at that moment. It felt like a million opportunities for revenge were slipping through my fingers. My pale, ghost-like complexion faded back to it's original color and with the idiocy of a five year old, I smiled and shook the hand before me.
In the same instant that our flesh came into mutual contact, a chill ran down my spine and then back up again. It shocked my brain with the foresight that this would haunt me until the day I die. I was caught in his grip, surrendering to that which I did not wish to even acknowledge to be alive. The man had me, but by what power? I erased the thought as quickly as it came and then the conversation, the very thing at the least I wished to happed, came on in a rush of muddled sentences.
"How is the plant, old friend?" He asked this question with the nerve and arrogance of a guilty man who has been aquitted from a serious charge. I studdered around for a response.
I was appalled by his artificial honesty and disgusted over-all with this situation. The response finally came. "The...plant is just fine. I must be going. Good day now!"
I rushed away with the grace and speed of a marathon runner and without paying, made for the nearest exit with a cart full of groceries.
After the incident in the supermarket, I stayed indoors. I reversed my sleeping pattern from it's normal manner and from then until now, I have not see the sunlight. I've come to believe that it is much better that way. The day has nothing for me, and perhaps after much consideration, I have nothing for the day. Night time is full of mystery and curious happening. Even the beauty of sunrise and sunset has escaped my interest. All that I now crave is solitude and isolation from those Cretons of the public life. My thoughts had continually been turning to nothing but misery and despair. For hours on end I would sit in a silent stare, wondering about my own pathetic character. The thoughts were all the same. Murder and then cowardice. I could envision myself in the night, stalking my victim (of course the supermarket plant-giving 'friend') and waiting for the perfect moment. The blood was alreay fresh in my vision before the attack would take place. In the end it always turns out the same. He turns around and suddenly I slip th eknife back into my pocket. There I stand motionless, once again paralyzed with the fear and his paranormal power over me. He extends that hand and accompanies it with the killer smile and I run off into the night. Such cowardice!
Allow me to be forgiving...
Show me the way to let go...
What event occured in this life that caused me to turn out to be such a poor example of what a man should be? There is not a single shred of honor or decency about me. With absolute certainty I can say that I am a most wretched creation. It was along those lines of thought that brought me to the night when I held my life by a thread. I could find no reason in this fantastical imagination of mine to keep moving on. I no longer felt as though I was moving forward, or for that matter even moving at all. I was stagnate. There was little left of my being but a slowly rotting mound of flesh and bone. I couldn't even establish if there was any blood left running through my veins, keeping my heart from collapsing. On this night I reached outside of myself and looked for an answer, for a cure to this desperate existence, but I found none.
Underneath my bed I kept a weapon, for protection of course. I now came to find that I had been holding it for protection against my own suffering. I simply could not bear this burden any longer. Moving through life without an attachment to any other human. Even the ability to make these attachments or at the very least to make an attempt at establishing them had been taken away from me. I deserved much more than this surely, but I could see no other way to get what it was that I was searching for. I laid there in a cespool of my own self-pity and found that all along I had been trying to live up to these expectations that were never even given to me. I made them all up myself. The rules of the game were mine and yet I could still manage nothing in the form of victory. I stepped into my room at my now normal pace. as slow as death on a cancer patient, and knelt down to retrieve the hand gun. As my knee hit the floor I was overcome by the vision of murder once more. Perhaps it was that very thing that I had been called to this life for. What sort of Creator would give a man the destiny of becoming a murderer? I was my only cure for this sickness. I was my own savior and with this weapon, I vowed to take that destiny into my own hands and create my path.
I drank to excess that night, something I rarely did, and found myself in the same silence that had surrounded me for what seemed like an eternity. That is when the tears began. My eyes had not felt the moist tenderness of a tear in such a long time that it hurt to do, but at the same time it felt like the only response to this predicament. The bottle reached it's bottom and apparently so had I. The gun was loaded, that much I knew, but as for it's operational capability, I did not. There was only one way to find out. I could see it all in my head, as clearly as I could envision myself murdering that man in the night. The darkness would surely follow and then the flames. Laughter and curses rang through my ears as the demons of hell taunted me. I would be a weak man even in the depths of th epit. How I longed in that moment to understand love and the embrace of another, but I knew that that was far off for me, that perhaps I had already gave up my chance for that. After all, who would take claim to one as wretched as me? I had diminished my own life to a point where the sun hurts my skin when it shines upon it. I have become a vampire, yet I only feed off of my own past regrets and the cold blood that I had brought into my system. My life would end and the world would not care. Nobody knows me, not my name or my likeness, so who would care? It would most likely be days until my body would even be found. Love and life had escaped me and now it was time for me to administer the injection, the cure for life...death.
I raised the gun to my head and the tears continued as all I could think about was all that I had not been good enough to do with myself. All of the things I had lost as well as all of the things I could never gain flashed through me. My hadns shaking and my face wet, I simply could not bring myself to do this. The gun pointed itself towards the wall and I watched as three reports shattered the plaster and blood poured out from the holes left behind. I had once again realized failure and surrendered to the grip of my own cowardice, my own deceit, and my own cold, harsh character.
Praying for visions...to show me the way
These nights are becoming more the same. Even the air has the stale odor that occupies the finer vessels in his heart. What sadness this life has turned to! But, is really all this the fault of others? Of course we must all take some responsibility for the wrongs in our lives. After all, is there ever a true victim? We all participate in the general genocide of humankind as a whole, not to mention the solid conciousness that represents the thoughts of the universe. What a joke!
...Lewis blinks his eyes with the slowness of grass growing in the winter time...
No, it is true. I have something to live for. Don't we all? I claim no great purpose of course, but there is a purity within me that just screams for its moment in the spotlight. That moment may never arrive and I see the value in that statement. It is what keeps me quite sure of my mortality and more importantly my humanity. Perhaps one day, all of those terrible dilemmas such as hunger and poverty will just vanish and under the wide roof of the heavens only goodness and prosperity will rain down. The manna from God Himself will flower the fields of modern deprivation and sickness. We could all live as one in peace and union, but now is too soon of course. More of this blood lust must fall out from the gaping would of our dead souls, all amassed on a pile of ruin. The skies will never fall from their heights, and the ground will only shake once in a while to give us a good stirring. A simple reminder of who is in charge, or rather of who is not. Meanwhile, I'll just lie here and watch the show go down. My moment in the spotlight will come when I finally achieve the position of the final imbosile. There I will stand ato pthe highest mountain shaking my fist at all of those who stood and watched my demise. Well, my friends...I will watch your's as well and we shall see who gets the last laugh.
I had a plant one time, a gift from a friend. I suppose that I call him a friend out of some desperate desire to feel wanted and convince myself that I am capable to befriend in the first place. If neither is true, I could care less, but the point is no the man, but the plant. Throughout all of the world it has become a sad fact that most hold a much higher value on the life of the vegetables than on the life of another human. Let's save the rainforest! But, we'll just turn a blind eye to genocide...strange how we think, isn't it?
Back to the plant if I may. I accepted this gift with the ordinary gratitude that one should receive all things. I put on the face of surprise and then awe, as though not a man on earth, or woman for that matter, could ever bring me such joy. In all honesty, the plant was of the blandest species growing on this green earth. My first thought was of how out of the millions of possibilities for a gift of this nature, how could he choose this? It rose about eight inches from the reddish-brown pot it occupied. There were three thin stems that branched out from the thicker one in the center. Upon the branches were sparsely rowed fern-like leaves. I was annoyed instantly. This gift had become a chore in a matter of a simple exchange. I would have to take time out of my busy life in order to care for this shrub. Watering it and trimming it, allowing the sun to shine on it's sparsely placed ugly fern-like growths, and then of course the most difficult of these would be to do all of this as though it was important to me. All of this began very quickly to be overwhelming. Perhaps this was some cruel trick that this individual decided to play on me, knowing full well that my ability to care for anything other than myself was weak at best. Then again, he would not know that about me. The truth was probably that htis was a gift given to him, and received in the same manner that I had then been receiving it. That had to be it! He was pushing this pathetic gift on to me, for he obviously thought much less of me. He had decided to take advantage of my low place on the totem pole. What a fine exaple of a man!
I suppose that the point of this lesson, at least the one that I learned from it is that there is a great deal of credit that we give to those who supposedly do us well. I came to the immediate conclusion that I must abort this cruel, poorly presented vegetation and move on with my life, avoiding this so called friend at all costs. Now, of course I find it hard to fully believe that this man did this all to hurt me, but as I had said previously, he did it in order to save himself the trouble. It was a purely selfish motive, but aren't they all?
Show me the way to forgive you....
Allow me to let it go...
There is no longer one thing of good nature of which I can speak about a man other than that he dies. Everything dies eventually and that is such a relief in all of our cases. Let us suppose that death is the goal of life. I am quite familiar and indeed fond of the expression 'Born into the grave'. The decent of Man began when he stood up on hands and knees, crawling through the pit of this new wave of desolation and that 60 watt light bulb flicked on in his head, revealing the secret of bipedal motion. I walk, therefore I am. There is a certain amount of expectation that we all have for ourselves, which then becomes our motivation to live instead of die. Living for yourself is the only way to go through this wretched place without constantly consuming the mind with visions of a bullet passing thorugh it. Create a grand idea of how you build your empire, while cruching the heads of all of those who oppose you, and watch as the years roll by and you accomplish only a small percentage. It's the Law of Diminishing Return. Ah! Now you realize there is perhaps more to life than living. Maybe the living is not even a part of life at all, or else it would seem to fit in a little better than it does. In order for the plant to grow, the seed must die in the ground. But now of course you remember well my hatred of the plant world.
Two weeks ago I ran into the plant-giving friend, quite by accident in the supermarket. Such public places I rarely visit during the busy day time hourse, but on this specific occasion I suppose I was feeling a bit bold. I was strolling down the aisle with the frozen meats and before I had time to react, there he was. Our carts met with a dull thud and upon my recognition, my face flushed crimson, followed by the sickest hue of white known in the world of infectious disease. He attacked me first with his devilish smile and those eyes that just scream out murder. Out of some crude form of courtesy, he placed forth his hand for a shake and I stared at him blankly. Much passed thorugh my mind at that moment. It felt like a million opportunities for revenge were slipping through my fingers. My pale, ghost-like complexion faded back to it's original color and with the idiocy of a five year old, I smiled and shook the hand before me.
In the same instant that our flesh came into mutual contact, a chill ran down my spine and then back up again. It shocked my brain with the foresight that this would haunt me until the day I die. I was caught in his grip, surrendering to that which I did not wish to even acknowledge to be alive. The man had me, but by what power? I erased the thought as quickly as it came and then the conversation, the very thing at the least I wished to happed, came on in a rush of muddled sentences.
"How is the plant, old friend?" He asked this question with the nerve and arrogance of a guilty man who has been aquitted from a serious charge. I studdered around for a response.
I was appalled by his artificial honesty and disgusted over-all with this situation. The response finally came. "The...plant is just fine. I must be going. Good day now!"
I rushed away with the grace and speed of a marathon runner and without paying, made for the nearest exit with a cart full of groceries.
After the incident in the supermarket, I stayed indoors. I reversed my sleeping pattern from it's normal manner and from then until now, I have not see the sunlight. I've come to believe that it is much better that way. The day has nothing for me, and perhaps after much consideration, I have nothing for the day. Night time is full of mystery and curious happening. Even the beauty of sunrise and sunset has escaped my interest. All that I now crave is solitude and isolation from those Cretons of the public life. My thoughts had continually been turning to nothing but misery and despair. For hours on end I would sit in a silent stare, wondering about my own pathetic character. The thoughts were all the same. Murder and then cowardice. I could envision myself in the night, stalking my victim (of course the supermarket plant-giving 'friend') and waiting for the perfect moment. The blood was alreay fresh in my vision before the attack would take place. In the end it always turns out the same. He turns around and suddenly I slip th eknife back into my pocket. There I stand motionless, once again paralyzed with the fear and his paranormal power over me. He extends that hand and accompanies it with the killer smile and I run off into the night. Such cowardice!
Allow me to be forgiving...
Show me the way to let go...
What event occured in this life that caused me to turn out to be such a poor example of what a man should be? There is not a single shred of honor or decency about me. With absolute certainty I can say that I am a most wretched creation. It was along those lines of thought that brought me to the night when I held my life by a thread. I could find no reason in this fantastical imagination of mine to keep moving on. I no longer felt as though I was moving forward, or for that matter even moving at all. I was stagnate. There was little left of my being but a slowly rotting mound of flesh and bone. I couldn't even establish if there was any blood left running through my veins, keeping my heart from collapsing. On this night I reached outside of myself and looked for an answer, for a cure to this desperate existence, but I found none.
Underneath my bed I kept a weapon, for protection of course. I now came to find that I had been holding it for protection against my own suffering. I simply could not bear this burden any longer. Moving through life without an attachment to any other human. Even the ability to make these attachments or at the very least to make an attempt at establishing them had been taken away from me. I deserved much more than this surely, but I could see no other way to get what it was that I was searching for. I laid there in a cespool of my own self-pity and found that all along I had been trying to live up to these expectations that were never even given to me. I made them all up myself. The rules of the game were mine and yet I could still manage nothing in the form of victory. I stepped into my room at my now normal pace. as slow as death on a cancer patient, and knelt down to retrieve the hand gun. As my knee hit the floor I was overcome by the vision of murder once more. Perhaps it was that very thing that I had been called to this life for. What sort of Creator would give a man the destiny of becoming a murderer? I was my only cure for this sickness. I was my own savior and with this weapon, I vowed to take that destiny into my own hands and create my path.
I drank to excess that night, something I rarely did, and found myself in the same silence that had surrounded me for what seemed like an eternity. That is when the tears began. My eyes had not felt the moist tenderness of a tear in such a long time that it hurt to do, but at the same time it felt like the only response to this predicament. The bottle reached it's bottom and apparently so had I. The gun was loaded, that much I knew, but as for it's operational capability, I did not. There was only one way to find out. I could see it all in my head, as clearly as I could envision myself murdering that man in the night. The darkness would surely follow and then the flames. Laughter and curses rang through my ears as the demons of hell taunted me. I would be a weak man even in the depths of th epit. How I longed in that moment to understand love and the embrace of another, but I knew that that was far off for me, that perhaps I had already gave up my chance for that. After all, who would take claim to one as wretched as me? I had diminished my own life to a point where the sun hurts my skin when it shines upon it. I have become a vampire, yet I only feed off of my own past regrets and the cold blood that I had brought into my system. My life would end and the world would not care. Nobody knows me, not my name or my likeness, so who would care? It would most likely be days until my body would even be found. Love and life had escaped me and now it was time for me to administer the injection, the cure for life...death.
I raised the gun to my head and the tears continued as all I could think about was all that I had not been good enough to do with myself. All of the things I had lost as well as all of the things I could never gain flashed through me. My hadns shaking and my face wet, I simply could not bring myself to do this. The gun pointed itself towards the wall and I watched as three reports shattered the plaster and blood poured out from the holes left behind. I had once again realized failure and surrendered to the grip of my own cowardice, my own deceit, and my own cold, harsh character.