On the real, when I really think about it, my friends who have died young haven’t missed a damn thing. The world hasn’t gotten better, music hasn’t improved, folks haven’t become more understanding or sympathetic. Overall, ain’t shit gotten significantly better since “the College Dropout” dropped.

If anything, it seems to me that whether they died from drugs or violence, I’m the one whose life should be mourned; They lived and died exactly as they wanted – I can’t say the same for myself.

Time, Weather & Trains

Time is a strange thing… Why does a week sometimes feel like a month? Why does a few months sometimes feel like a year? Why does ten years sometimes feel like half of that?

Combine that with a long memory and a habit of sometimes being overly sensitive and depressed, and you’ve got yourself a life of self-reinforcing feelings of suffering and sadness. Every old memory feels like its brand new; every loss is daily accounted for and additive; every mistake and regret is demands constant rumination. Tell me: How can a heart stand such things and live?

As my last partner was breaking up with me, I was told to “Try not to be too hard on yourself.” The thing is, I really do. I try my damnedest, all the time. But every new experience makes it harder and harder.

These dreadful memories are sucking the sweet life out of me.
The sunshine of a late autumn afternoon washes away the depth of colour in the changing leaves and my pale grayness of feeling makes duller the vision of connectedness that I used to have in the world. Winter is coming, as they say, and I’m not sure how many more winters I can stand.

I’m still hopeful – its just not the hopefulness of youth. Instead, its a shallow feeling of hope. An almost laughably weak feeling that maybe I’ve still got time to change directions; that maybe I can once again feel like I’m the conductor of this train of life… The thing is, trains can’t turn around on their tracks and I’m not qualified to drive.

#TinyStories 3

I probably won’t be able to look forward to summer for a long time. My chest will hurt. My tears will be overflowing. But this warmth in my hands and these summer memories will live on in my heart.

Are you listening?

How many of you are real? All I see are “likes” and status updates and opinions.

How many of you are robots? Google bots and algorithms masquerading as people, trying to make humans feel as if their writings and ruminations have a purpose, a reason?

The future is now and it’s a sad and lonely lonely place. I have a screen, not friends. I have a website, not a community. I have a blog, not a conversation with individuals.

If I died right now, would the robots notice? Or, would I have a whole bunch of “likes” and followers on a blog that nobody cares about? Does it even really matter?

Give me the red pill. I liked the illusion better than the reality.

#tinystories 2

…This is me as a part of your life. trying to understand that life and you, drinking beer with your friends, drinking beer by yourself. Drinking beer before work by yourself. Smiling with your friends and smiling at your work and sitting dead-eyed and silent for hours in your living room wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts, crying without making a sound or moving, the silence of tears down your slack, boyish face…

This is you and I’m trying to understand.


Memories are ghosts. They haunt a beleaguered soul. Torturous monsters that are first drowned, then thrive in the cup… The delineation had never been sussed.

Nothing to nobody

It seems this “blog” is lost and floating in the ether… This is fine by me. It’s an accurate reflection of the author’s worldly experience and it should reflect this, no?

To that end, this “blog” shall be the author’s new avenue to spill random thoughts – depressing as they may sometimes be – in the form of “Tiny Stories.” I’ve no longer the time, nor the inspiration to write long form poetry; the Genie has moved on and I plan to spend the rest of my earthly time in the drink and typing random things on this site.

*Fair Warning*

If you are not interested in the random ruminations of a drunk and depressed individual, move along. I’ve reached a point where I no longer care about the opinions of strangers. I have no interest in impressing people or worrying about status: I’m old. Perhaps when I die, this site will serve as an insight to the folks who wish to know about the inner workings of my mind.

…and now, on to other things.