I'm finally at home.
When I was "home", I literally slept the entire weekend away because I couldn't stand it.
It just hurts too much to go back to a place you haven't been to in so long, and every thing is so familiar, yet you just can't picture yourself there anymore.
It's like the scenery pushed you out of view, and you can see whispers of yourself in every square inch, but when you try to inject your self you just feel dejected.
So I have come to the conclusion that home is more of a feeling than an actual place.
Still, it would be nice to walk those streets, my streets, and feel a sense of belonging.

On the flip side, I am at my real home, or rather my dubbed home.
The weather is finally picking up, and hints of spring is interjecting itself  into every day life and it's just fucking AWESOME.
Winter is always too long, but right when you cannot stand it anymore, a gentle breeze laps at your neck and you know that the wait is almost over.

....and as I type this, I can hear a cat barfing.
God damnit, cat, I'm trying to be deep here, and I can't do that with you horfing in the background.
I guess that's my cue to stop, aye?
Cheers.

Living the (pipe) Dream

I am no one in particular.
I began this for several reasons, some concrete and some abstract.
I want to express the come-tragedy that is my life, that is everyone's life. I am not better off than you are, nor am I worse. I believe everyone has a story to tell, real or imaginary, pathetic or all things beautiful.
You will be bored, you will be entertained. You might even be enraged. I welcome all of that. After all, I am nobody and so are you, and everybody wants to be recognized. It is my hope, then, that I might encourage you. Like most bloggers, I have the pipe dream of being an author. Maybe this will lead me there and maybe it won't. But if by some twisted chain of events you might stumble upon this with the same dream, I only hope that it encourages you to try. It might be because my writing sucks and makes you realize how talented you are and to finally put it out there, but at least you did it. (Just PLEASE mention me. You don't read too many novels that have dedications like: "To whomever the fuck you are, thanks for sucking, because it made me realize that my talent is eons above yours and deserves to be published". Hilarious.)
Anyway.
I am doing this  because I'm milking the fact that humans like gossip. And hey, if you want to laugh at my life, go right on ahead. I aim to entertain. I will be funny at times, melodramatic at others. Boring, intriguing, far too contemplative, sometimes sadistic and maybe a bit too blunt. My goal is to speak, uninhibitedly, about my life and the events that lead me here and will (hopefully) one day take me there. Sometimes I will post art that inspires or enrages me, and more often I will post quotes, because I appreciate those who said it better than me. Everything else is me, me, me. I apologize ahead of time.

However, the main reason I began this was to put an end. Prior to this, I could best be described as the non-writing writer; making mental sticky note after mental sticky note of the seemingly profound things I came up with because letting them flow from my finger tips onto keyboards or notebooks makes it all too real. The truth is, I'm scared. Just like you. But if I could pull the plug and let those thoughts rush to print, maybe I can force another to feel, or think, or plant a seed. It might also give me some peace. That's part of life, isn't it? A little give, a little take. We all have a story to tell. I hope you enjoy mine.

As I said earlier who I am is not important. Why and how is what matters. But since you've read this far, I'll tell you a little about myself.
I'm purely, exhaustively, in love with words. I am one of the few blessed with the ability to see words in color, and I cannot tell you how much more vibrant that makes my life. I love reading. Novels, magazines, poetry; you name it, I will devour it and ask for more. I also love art, even the art that I hate. I believe that art speaks when words can't, and I love to listen. I like laughing when I'm sad, and crying when I'm happy. I like all things raw, dripping with the beauty it was encased by. I think I'm really funny. I say things to make myself laugh, and if you find it funny, all the better. If I had a swear jar, it could easily feed a third world country AND find abandoned animals a home. Heck, maybe I should try it, then it might put a stop to those devastating commercials of puppies and children crying. I fucking hate those commercials. I also hate ignorance, arrogance, mushrooms, and jam bands, but I love when bands jam out. I'm brutally honest and painfully realistic. The cup is neither half full nor half empty, it just is. Because, I mean, we don't even know what's even in the proverbial cup. What if it were pee? Think about THAT, optimists.

I love irony, probably a bit too much.

I also like the truth.

And the truth is, my ass is killing me.

I've been in the car for the passed 4 hours on my way to help a loved one.

As much as it sucks dragging myself out of bed at six a.m. to play angel, someone's gotta do it. But, as Jonathan Safran Foer puts it, " I [can only] hope that one day you will have the experience of doing something you do not understand for someone you love"*.

With that, I bid you goodbye. As much as I'd love to keep writing, I wasn't joking about my ass hurting.

...because it really does.

*quote from his novel, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.