Imagine this: Nearly 15 years ago. I first wrote something here. And somehow it still exists. Nostalgia is a beautiful thing. It's been years since I've thought about this here journal. But giving deep new thought to old relationships is healthy. Keeps the soul alive.

It's good to write. Behind every good man, is a good diary.

"Slowly, my feelings started to shrivel up. The few that managed to survive the constant beatings staggered around like wounded baby deer, just biding their time until they could die and join all the other carcasses strewn across the wasteland of my soul.

I couldn't even muster up the enthusiasm to hate myself anymore."

what will grow crooked you can't make straight.

What do you do when you realize there's very few people you genuinely like anymore?

"I've been working on my rewrite, that's right
I'm gonna change the ending
Gonna throw away my title
And toss it in the trash
Every minute after midnight
All the time I'm spending
It's just for working on my rewrite
Gonna turn it into cash."

I walk down the staircase,
Magnetic pull.
Back to the other place
That I cannot go.
I'm sending a chopper,
To steal you away.
The pot is full,
Let me take control,
Let me take control.
The pot is full
Of secrets to be told,
Secrets to be told.
Out of orbit
And I always will.

We've all squandered it.

 Rushdie's a genius.

Once infected with nihilism and omnipresent existentialism, where does one turn to regain all that lost motivation?
 When you've seen the virus of the daily matrix, how do you paradigm shift?

I revel in reveries and perpetually scramble for distraction. Everything is a distraction.

All matter is a monkey on the back.

"If making love might be fatal and if a cool spring breeze on any summer afternoon can turn a crystal blue lake into a puddle of black poison right in front of your eyes, there is not much left except TV and relentless masturbation. It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die."