Some Nihilist Prose

I am a bullet. I rip through you with no regard for the damage I've done. I barely slow down on my way out. Why should I be bothered? There is no future for me. If I slow down I will die. And I will slow down. It's just physics. So this is all there is for me in the end; do as much damage as I can and take something out with me. Get out of my way if you can.

And what? You want me to feel remorse for what I've done? I was always headed for this moment. I was created for it even. To live a brilliant flash of a life, gone faster than the blink of an eye, but with more excitement than most people experience in a lifetime.

But I still love. I still feel. You could say I'm having a bit of an existential breakdown here in my brief moment of glory. I think of the ones I left behind. I think of how little lies ahead. I speed on to oblivion but, even now, I feel my rotation begin to slow. My trajectory starts to fail and I am in free fall. What kind of legacy am I leaving behind? Who will remember me when I'm gone? Just the ones that I hurt as I flew by them. Isn't that how it goes though? The ones that remember you the most when you're gone are the ones you left scarred.

And now there is this. I am a bullet. But I am also a man. Get out of my way if you can.

*disclaimer* This was inspired by Showtime's "Californication". It does not reflect my own feelings on the world but I just finished watching the series and felt I needed to get this out.

No Matter Where I Start, I Always End Up in the Same Place

Fatigue sets in at the most unexpected times. Sitting at my computer, laying on the couch...driving down the freeway. But almost never when my head hits the pillow of my bed. Truth is I've always struggled to find sleep when I go looking for it. Why is that? Perhaps it is symbolic though. Often the things we seek most in life elude us. And it is not for it's elusiveness but for the fervency of our seeking.

I've heard it said many times that love comes when you least expect it. And though it's bordering on cliche (the analogy of holding a butterfly in your hand comes immediately to mind, followed shortly by my dinner to my throat), I have actually observed the phenomenon on many occasions. But if this is true, it's just another example. When we seek after love it eludes us until we cease giving chase. Like dealing with a frightened animal, we must calm our spirits and allow the quarry to come to us (love is the animal, not women).

But why? Why is it that the things we seek are nearly impossible to grasp until we stop reaching for them? Sometimes it's simple. In sleeping, my concentration and single-mindedness keeps my mind focused. Focused on a single thought my mind is unable to let go. It's not until I stop trying to sleep that I finally find it. Love on the other hand is more complicated. A lot more complicated and surely, as one who has yet to experience romantic love, beyond my abilites to relate. But I shall try nonetheless.

Whether you believe in it or not, let's suppose for this discussion that there is such a thing as destiny. Destiny that says, "In my life I am destined to find a single person to love for the rest of my life, and who will love me in kind". We desire this notion and, as with most things man desires, we set out to acquire it. But the pursuit of this person makes me do, say and be things that are not right. That are not true. That are not me. Perhaps God, or fate, or the cosmos or whatever/whoever is behind the notion of destiny, works the timing of these events so that we encounter (or meet for the first time) the perfect person for us just as we have let go of the pursuit and can no longer be run by our neuroses and insecurities.

Many who seek love fancy themselves chefs. They follow recipes and study all the books so they can learn how to prepare their own slice of love, soaked in their marinades and spices to become what they want it to be. But those who have loved for a lifetime know that love does not marinate. It can not be cooked or prepared. No, rather it is the marinade. And we marinate in it. It soaks into us and changes us to the core in irreversible ways. It changes our flavor. But only when the timing is right and when the chef says we're ready.

My Thoughts "In the Middle of the Night"

When people tell you you're not good enough for long enough you start to believe them. I can't write, I can't do good work, I'm not attractive, I'm not smart. Sometimes it's like my mind is a fortress and these doubts are clamoring at the gates. When enough of them line up they can break down the doors and run roughshod around my mind. Sometimes the citizens of my own mind turn against me and join the intruders. My spirit, my heart, my soul, whatever you want to call it, is the besieged king holed up in the deepest tower. He has a single window that shines rays of hope and beauty occasionally into his world (art, friendship, etc.) but his surroundings are an ever constant reminder that his own citizens have begun to turn against him. Can anyone save him? Or does this revolution just need to be weathered like every passing storm? Alas that I am not alone in these troubles. And they will surely be forgotten as wartime in peace when the veil is lifted again. But they are worth noting and I do so here (though the hour is late). The better to defense myself in the future.

I haven't been writing enough. Writing is therapeutic and relieves my wearied mind. It puts my thoughts in order and gives me a full view of the battlefield formerly obscured by smoke. Writing is good. I think I have a tendency to put far too much pressure on my writing to be good and meaningful and noteworthy when really all it has to be is there. It doesn't have to be a script. It doesn't have to be a blog or news article. It just has to be. Writing isn't relevant on purpose. I'm going to start writing more.