vegetation

oh the insecurity
random impatient dane: "stop saying sorry all the time!"
"sorry.. i just don't want to be a dick all the time."
he was a young one. 21-22 or whatever. i am soon to arrive at thirty. apparently my millionth second here on earth is somewhere in that age. perhaps thirty-one. i'll probably forget to celebrate it.
"saying sorry is meant to communicate that i am humble and aware. it's nicer for people to know that than to percieve me as a self-obsessed cunt robbed of any regard for my surroundings."
his reply was to look at me with obvious mixed feelings.
i reckon he's secure in his life. not lonely, not isolated, not primarily alone, not alienated and fucking terrified since he doesn't really belong anywhere. that's me, though.
the age difference means that i have endured more hardship thus far, the result of which; i am damaged goods.
my eagerness to reflect endlessly over everything and then never arrive at any conclusion apparently sends me into this dazzled state of confusion and paralyzation. i halt in every turn. forever cornered by my overactive brain. how very fucking fantastic.
i can call it a habit. but, whether it's bad or good - no idea. not a single clue. (that's convincing, anyway.). i probably need to think about this some more. yeah.

i panic a lot. lot lot lot.
in the grocery-store. on my way to the grocery-store. at the bus-stop. on the bus. in the car. on my way to the car. inside my house when somebody obviously sees me through the window. what is actually happening in my body? brain in overdrive. distortion. hard clipping. brutal clipping. "oh shit, what if (insert any individual) thinks this and that, what did i just do, how will they react, everything i do is wrong in every way, i am toxic waste, people deserve better, what the unholy fuck am i putting them through" etc. niceness, that is. i spiral into a heavy adrenaline-rush and cortisol chock. my pulse triples. heart exploding. billions of neurons committing suicide.
i do, however, search for a way to change this. it is difficult to find a more justifiable approach due to my relentless insecurity. hah. moronic paradox.
i truly am stressed right now, just thinking about this whilst trying to relax on the couch. since i can't shake this intense sensation of being painfully wrong in them previous sentences.
oh well. all is not well. or is it? can't decide. won't decide. in my experience, people benefit greatly by my absence. what else does one need to consider.
the end.

OR IS IT.

decide to revive

i am beyond caring, yet intrigued. the paradox is quite and quiet. cooking food at a rapid pace, getting by has never been easier. stuck in routinely habituation. vegetation. an epidemic of comfort, none the less, neigh to be disapproved. nothing consumes more time than nothing. getting older is a blessing, of that i'm sure, becoming a cynical beast truly does make any day and every situation a breeze to handle.

severed limbs along the railroad

persuaded by insanity
the x at the corner of all things

how to recognize passion
choke on a pint of liquid books

sober and bored
got to stay stuffed

everybody laughs, nothing is real
being social feels like work

trust is blindness
the stench of future slaughter



(an edited version of previous texts which has now become lyrics)

needs make us needy

hurling towards extinction

the chance at life is lost on us

fighting over the remains

clear visions of oblivion

clogged wormholes

carbon wasteland

the endless stench of bullshit

all is gold

until you look for it

trial and error

banks without locks

crawling out of corners

the pattern of logic

has become random

absent without leave

everyone is biased by everything.

i hated one show at the bukta festival. and, i appeared to be lonely in that opinion. war on drugs did deliver, somehow, yet did nothing to meet my expectations. i stood there wondering (since i haven't listen much to them at all, only heard stories of those who had), is this band overhyped? why were my expectations so high? why can't they meet them? and why the fuck is there a saxophone-player on stage if i can't bloody hear the fucker? the sound-mixing was godawful to my ears. way too much bass from the drums and, duh, the bass-guitar, thus making the songs appear way too monotonous. way too subtle vocals, they got blurred out and i weren't able to pick out any lyrics. way too early in the day. they played at 17:30. it was impossible for me to enjoy the show. which pretty much infuriated anybody i talked to about it. i thought it sucked, everyone else though it was the most brilliant thing ever to happen at this festival. or to their life or something. whatever! the feeling i was left with went in a lot of directions. am i wrong or am i just a horrible person for thinking and then saying it sucked? etc.

even though i verbalized my reasonings, the enthusiasm people tried to communicate suffered a quick yet horrible death when facing me.

i've noticed a trend. i know absolutely nothing about music anymore since i can't concentrate or bother to remember/categorize whatever i might do research on, yet i'm quick to utter my quasi-opinions on whatever band people claim they like. why? what the fuck has happened. i've just devolved into a complete douche and i have absolutely nothing to back it up with, apart from the obvious constipation.

"oh you like *that band*, you think they're great and are going to their gig next week? well ENJOY, they SUCK and i feel sorry for you!" pretty much sums up every conversation i've had about music in general these days. unless they talk about a band i actually like. then i'm all pink and pretty and overly spastic in my halfwitted attempt to describe what i think i think.

this worries me. this trend is absurd. i've gone from being well knowledgeable and rather pleasant in discussions about music to be 'that guy' who put an immediate end to everything by storming ahead with an underdeveloped so-called opinion, which only causes anyones respect for me to plummet into a rapid extinction since i won't quit. a hateful crank. that's what i am. (or maybe just overfed and sick since i go to a lot of concerts)

i also hated dropkick murphys. they live well and somewhat prosper by making songs for rednecks who think a cheap, overdone imitation of keltic music and the irish pub-culture is cool. only because gimmicks sell in the us of a shitpile. we only need one of those bands, and flogging molly does the best job turning imported keltic influences into punk. but what do i know, i'm just a wannabe poser.

and don't even get me started on imperial state electric.. since i left the concert after being tortured by them for three songs or more. i don't even know. they all sounded the same. and they all sounded like the first page in a book of cliches issued on the first day of any course in "how to be a pleaser for crowds who think they like rock-music!" i know that the main guy in the band has a shit ton of merits on his resume, but that does not mean his pet-project of the moment is a heavenly compilation of well-crafted originality that really hits home on a deeper level than "look how shiny and oversized my hat is, look how many faces i can make during a performance and look how loud i have to yell." bitch please, go jerk off in your wardrobe and stop annoying us. grin grin grin gimmick gimmick gimmick and a me that gets physically ill from standing anywhere near the reach of their immense need to make the crowd dance euphorically.

and... the worst band i've ever had to endure a concert with. the notoriously shaite skambankt. luckily i'm out of words to describe how much i hate them at this point, so i'll just trust that mentioning the name will repulse accordingly.


sorry.
sorry sorry sorry.

signed
sorry

other than that, the festival was incredibly awesome. a decent special brew for the occasion on draft, a beautiful outdoors environment, free dried cod if you were willing to hammer it edible by yourself and an otherwise stunning lineup. how can you go wrong with names like gallows, mastodon, spidergawd, pentagram, opeth, patti smith, the bronx and even mari boine. holy utter mindfuck done exactly right.

equivocate

fathom bomb
a doctor who somkes

climbing ladders just to get elsewhere
the probability of failure or success

there's no stopping
round shapes are fundamentally natural
circles, cycles, eyeballs, planets

i'm all done, nothing more to write
this was once a genuine need, now it's only faulty drivel to pass time
it gives me excuses to hate myself even more
a cancer
every word is forced these days
don't mark them
cancer, pus, residue
dead moths
an ego so big that the world's in orbit around it

yes, we're all lucky to be alive
but happiness is only found at the end of hard work
it's a job



all this drama
all for nothing

there's a switch

that turns itself on
i do not know where it's located
but when off,
i spend all my time trying to locate that switch
which sends me straight into outer space

i'm obviously not in the cockpit
instead, prescribe me drugs mixed in a cocktail