Tuesday, February 14, 2017

The Sky


Mornings. Cold, sudden, and all-around a tumble down an especially jagged mountainside.

The thoughts come yet again with each passing one. They have no actual weight, besides the distress of hearing them once more. Knowing full well I am above them, yet still aching from having to read through them once more.

Considering that I am not bothered by the issues beyond a mere state of annoyance, I have a strong suspicion that they are but one of the many attempts by my former self to leech any newfound consciousness out of my skull, spitting it out like gummy chewing tobacco on the concrete. It's a single remnant of who I became; an unrealistic, unmoral dreamer, set with his sights not for the stars... but for everyone else's.

At the risk of narcissism; a criticism I've never felt truly held water, especially considering the human traits of individuality; I must say, it can be dark at the top. When one feels as though they have severed an irradiated, disgusting extra limb, one also feels the sting from the slice. They have removed the cancerous extremity, but they can't help but reminisce on the oh-so fun days of being a deformed mutant.

Yearning for the days of old, when disease had your fate sealed with a kiss. For when your constant therapies were truly only in support of the sickness, perpetuating it further. The depressing nostalgia of seeing that illness fester within you, batting at your unwilling flesh with each opportunity... ignoring it's pain, hoping perhaps one day it'd simply float off. And, of course, the longing to imagine one's self, now clean and healthy, as simply another dying patient.

We miss being dead when we have risen. We miss the limb, because we have decided to let ourselves believe it was a natural being. As it lays upon the sterile medical floor, rotting, oozing, we wince at it's true form. Without our giving blood, it reveals it's true self. Purple, bruised... only a matter of seconds, and it has morphed into the limb of a person long dead. Perhaps we were the one thing keeping this parasite palatable.

As it shrivels and shrinks before our offput eyes, we must accept that the extremity we once had was no more than the grotesque corpse we now see writhing. It's significance to us was masked by a veil of ignorant acceptance, making us desperate to love it's presence - for our own sake. Now that we are free, however, our blood recirculates once more; for the first time in far too long, it crosses our entire being, no longer being siphoned into the louse we once carried. As it grows crusted to the linoleum, we turn and walk from it; it's sizzling and popping fading into the void as we nonchalantly return to the lobby, and into the sunlit day.

The sting fades as the air of the clean, bright world paints a layer of warm honey over it. Our ghosts pass on to another, as we breathe in the springtime mists. The horrific death we have just witnessed is no more than a mere inconvenience, now; as we rev the engine and push the gas, the wind in our hair shakes free the shamefully imbecilic tendencies of our old selves.

No boogeyman can suction the darkness back into your mind as you zoom past 60; No demon can grab your wrist and leave you scalded. You are the holy driver; and now, it's time to high-tail it to the next destination.

And, as you reach your airport, receive your ticket, and hit the skies, you shall never see the twisted world far behind and beneath you again. The sky's the limit, and you've only just began your flight.

Monday, February 13, 2017

Some Of Us Will Never Sleep Again


I sometimes feel as though I am no longer. My thoughts are so thick, so abundant; constantly a blur clouding what I once preferred to accept as a clear, upfront reality.

The subversive mumblings of higher control - my life itself being nothing more than a means to develop my own end - haunt me. Questioning why my illusionary choice of ignorance continues to pander to me. Wondering, when will my mind revert to the state it once inhabited... yet, unabashedly sure that none of these questions are worth their advertised weight. They are mere ghastly spirits, dragging me down to the depths with their dark intents.

I rise from a figurative dead as did the resurrected man in 80's horror flick Hellraiser. Stitch by stitch, I resew what ought to be, and snip away and the fringe. It is not a mere costume to hide what I have devolved into - it is a naturally given rebirth.

My thoughts are the single exit to the neverending hallway of evolution. An image of a proud, enviable individual; an image I am fully aware is not out of my perception. Focusing my eyes as the literal, truthful cameras that they pair with my mind to become, I will proudly carry on as I once did, soul in tow. Parading toward a future fit only to my desires, waving the dazzling flags of my own concerns, talents and beliefs above my head as crowns.

The mindless world seems to have an intent beyond my understanding. A certain knack for grabbing innocent minds, and warping them to the twisted, gullible, and simply pitiable creatures that form our major society. It is a machine designed to keep the existential gears in some sort of motion; designed not to oil the machine, but instead to corrode it. To chip away at it's inner workings, until the very structure collapses into itself - awakening to the sad realization of what it's done.

However, this is not the machine of us all. This cannot happen to the machine that governs our universe, no matter how brutishly hard it is pushed and tampered with. Many fall to the warm, yet cold grips of fate; sealing their own Earthly beings in a tomb, and surely endangering their eternal selves/

Some of us do not sleep. We never sleep. We hold ourselves with the hardest, strongest fists imaginable; through each element, through each pitfall. Should we fumble, we are caught before we crack. And as we are polished and dusted off, we somehow manage to shine even moreso than before.

As I diverge, I reemerge. And proudly so.

Sunday, February 12, 2017

Tommy Pickles


The end of the day is always one of my least favorite times.

It's when I reflect on what I've done with my past waking hours; when you finally count your income, and recount your stocks.

In the most literal sense, a recount of the day; waking relatively early for a brisk walk around the park to the upbeat, enjoyably sugarcoated rock bonanzas of Blur's more poppy tunes - B.L.U.R.E.M.I., We've Got A File On You, Charmless Man, and a handful more of the like - followed briskly by inquiring various locales about job opportunities, finally knocking out some self-improving exercises (yes, despite my track record of reclusive calmness, I'm finally pitting myself into the world of physical improvement), and later absentmindedly sitting back to the various programs I've put off for far too long.

Yes, in short form, today has been far more lively than I often would assert; more often than not, my recent past has been spent dwelling near entirely robotically behind the tainted, aimless screens of what the newest generation may call the 'other world'. In a dramatic tone, I was an Everyday Robot...

Everyday robots just touch thumbs
Swimmin’ in lingo they become
Stricken in a status sea
One more vacancy

A vacant, obsessive brain in a jar. Pickled among distilled souls, seeing only the oversaturated, overabundant realities of others. Setting aside any, if not all strands of intellect in favor of simplistic laughs, or undermining settlements. A mind willing to embrace it's vacancy simply because, surely, this emptiness is what defines sociality; what defines the very concept of emotion, by pure relation. 

Amongst all my oversimplified relations, my blinding faiths, my neutering approaches, surely there must be a 'heart' to accepting oh-so-very less? There is a core, there's got to be... 

Surely, I am the one on the journey. I am the one discovering the truths in ignorance. The very institution of reality, of clear-cut understanding, is the very obstacle in my path to enlightened appreciation for the world around me, Surely, that world is not encapsulating me; not jamming my own spirit amongst a vat of sour, though sometimes nice with perhaps a meat or tangy dish, vegetables. 

Alas, I was wrong. Such a pity, reflecting on what was surely an accidental trip into a figurative pit. I was kidnapped and brainwashed by a cartoonish duo of dastardly capabilities - force fed the evil propaganda of an oppressive force, and thoroughly dumped onto the grimy, yet enigmatically - and intrusively - and illusionary - welcoming streets. I was a Hitler youth, proudly flaunting my genuine Aryan infant, blissfully ignorant of- - - err, no, no, totally unaware of - the implications of my works. 

Though the back of my mind continues knocking rather rudely, reminding me of how well I knew said implications, I do find that explaining it in such a way has a nice, glossy ring to it. A tale of woe, an infant dropped from the cradle and into the crosswalk. 

However, as I shut the door, dim the lights, and lay quietly amongst the warmth of a candle and the eyes of the stars, I must admit to myself. As I prefer to always commend my actions as understandable, and entirely aware, I unfortunately did make that trip. I fell behind my own speeding bullet train, a few hundred feet away from Tokyo, and only a few inches away from the warm, cuddly, disgustingly radioactive and horrifically corrosive toes of the Smog Monster. What upsets me is that, though I proudly embraced this fearful foot of foreboding fate (and, as I back off from the comparative writing style), I always had inklings of doubt. Knowledge of my actions. Understandings, that - perhaps - though I did choose to dive into the jar, perhaps I really ought to swim back for air rather than drift even deeper. 

Unfortunately, I made the oddly out-of-character choice to not only sink heavier than a cement block, but to embrace each and every moment. Replace my internal being with the soaked entities surrounding me. Become one... with the gherkins.

Cutting ahead many paces, I now have washed myself thoroughly, applied a good variety of obnoxious perfumes, and seem to be all-clear of any noticeably pickle or Kaiju related stains. I am the diver, once again, perhaps now packing his large Adidas bags and planning the rest of his night. Wondering why he chose to swim in what may have been the world's largest pickle jar, now quite aware that removing all-encompassing hues of green is hardly as easy as one may have thought.

What I've learned from this Suess-esque experience is simple. Don't do the absurd just for the hell of it. Don't choose strictly on your inclination. Don't always trust yourself with what you're sure may have been a blast for others... because, unsurprisingly, those who prefer to be pickled will have quite the time in a jar.

I don't even especially like pickles, by the way - they're usually very nasty, unless just the right kind. This is not a strange play on my own hunger. How about we call it an abstract projection, instead?

As I sum up my day; my recurring thoughts, as has turned out; I see that nothing, however, in quite in our hands. My dive was planned, my slip was pushed. I have returned, but I have not proven unscathed by my experiences. However, I do not bleed. I only understand.

Knowing that I am no longer in the pool feels comforting. Anything I find myself feeling nostalgic for, or, really, feeling any emotion for, can be sufficiently countered by the honesty of... you're missing stagnant veggies. Anything you'll miss from a jar of stench, surely can be found in a similar, yet far better place.

Looking in the mirror nearby, as I lay thoughtfully, I see my own face in the amber lights surrounding me. Tired from my swim, eager for tomorrow. This face I am bound to shall forever look me back as I rest from another long chapter of my life. The beacon the drove me back to the surface of the bog.

Thus, there is no concern to return. Now I must begin again, with my face - and mind - in tow. 

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Februrary 'Foughts


One month of life - that's pretty good, considering this blog itself really came to be without any exact directive. It's really more of a means to putting articles and features out into the world, which would otherwise be lost to the obscurity of forums or comment chains. It's essentially a variety bag of whatever I feel I want to write; in the long-run, hopefully a way to practice this skill to advance to even further heights.

Wastelnd's 'birth' was a result of a very thoughtful, introspective time; my late-December trip to New York, during which I managed to find many personally intriguing thoughts and opinions. If I had to cite one upfront inspiration, cartoonist John Kricfalusi's blog seemed to catch my personal eye with it's honest statements and focus on personal interest. I distinctly remember truly, honestly considering a blog of sorts after flipping through some of Kricfalusi's more (appropriately, and fairly) one-sided posts. Simply for the novelty of it all - whether one must be controversial, or not, to simply release words into the endless ether of the Net has a lonely, yet paradoxically comfortable effect.

Since, the focus of this blog itself has grown far more in an alternate direction; reviews, pop culture, the like. Which, of course, I do highly enjoy - however, with each month I hope to set a new goal, whether encouraging, or totally unique. I hope to dig to the root of that inspiration and bring forth more personally, thoughtfully driven posts - hopefully ones with even artistic merit, a pastime of mine coming back into the forefront as I currently scurry away on another digital art creation. As my own self seems to face highly different and impactful events in my everyday life, this unbiased, unabashed outlet grows all the more desirable.

But, let's be totally honest; Come Hell or an empty wallet, I'd ever be able to cast aside my beloved, warming obsession with flicks and toys.