Soaked in Being

I think I'm happier when I sleep. Don't worry! This isn't some suicidal blog sneeze. It is worth some consideration however. Happier when I sleep. Obviously using the antithesis of sleep will help to unfold its secret. The more blaring question becomes, why am I so unhappy when I wake? Consciousness is a prison, of sense and law, all weighed down in being. Every awakening is a silent oppression in the grasp of reality. Every awakening is a yielding to the rules of the game. It is our strength to adapt to our surroundings, evolutionary magnanimous to have been given such evolutionary benefits. It is a teasing compliment which we take so readily. We have lost in our refusal to lose. It is a loss to refuse to play, written in the rules, but we cannot win. We are blinded by rewards of success or heaven, this is a lie. We trick ourselves into thinking we live for the journey, this is a lie. We live to be free, or we die to be free, but once again this is a mocking parting gift, as we accept that we must use the game to leave the game. We are prisoners still, conscientious objectors at best. So I'll sleep, I'll wait, for I can't am.

Leaves Upon My Floor

There are leaves upon my floor. I say 'my' floor, in the same spirit they are my leaves. Unwanted but mine. I wonder of all the ways i could dispose of these leaves, the bin, the window, might even carry them outside. Yet then they would never have been mine. I can't rid myself of 'my' leaves. When I move out, it will never have been my floor. When I breathe out the air would never have been my own. When I die. The leaves stay on my floor. My leaves own the gaze resting upon them.

Plucked From My Brain

To my immense embarrassment at times, the following passage was written, using the first words to come to mind, one Sunday morning at 3 am.


Rainbows and butterflies, waiting for food at the church singing carols. I waited all day on my bicicleta. I ride so fast, my legs burn, insane. Father Christmas is in Southampton. Imagination is the key. Coins fill my belly and give me sleep apnea. Compulsive shock therapy. Matt was my best friend, why is my insecurity paralysing me like Pikachu? I used a sharpener to circumcise an elephant. Torpedoes are sailing but infringe Exclusive Economic Zones. The Greeks are suiting up, I am a traitor, silly enough to get gangrene. Why is my mother so fat? Strawberries are beautiful. Coldplay is gay. Transceiver seduces wifi through my ipad. Daisy is a cow. Why not eat my penis? Oh how I laugh in embarrassment. Today/tonight is going to be good. Healthy apples. Sikh temples in Manchester. Oh my god I've done it again.

Prologue

'How can a toe hurt so bad?' Maelearr thought to himself as he staggered across the path. He had stubbed his toe on a boulder which he noticed earlier from about 5 feet away. He had still managed to walk into it anyway. The young man convinced himself that he was getting stronger. It was happening so fast that he could not control himself, soon he would be making earthquakes when he jumped! Next time he met that boulder, it wouldn't stand a chance. In actual fact, Maelearr was no very strong at all and if he had been a little taller, he would have been called skinny. All of the other kids were taller than him and they made sure he never forgot. The only one shorter than him was Namimi, but 'She's just a girl!' they would say. Maelearr sighed. He was relieved no one had seen him walk into the boulder, this was no time to be embarrassed. He just had to be a man today and all his troubles would soon disappear. All that he had to to do was just kill one person.

It seemed as if light was sifting out of the forest as sunset approached. The cold stillness of the night was coming, and quickly. Maelearr grabbed at the tattered rag he called a cloak, and held it close to his goose-pimpled skin. He then placed a hand onto the left side of his hip and frisked. The concealed dagger was still there. The belt shifted uncomfortably when Maelearr's shaking hand wrapped around the hilt. His hand didn't stop shaking when he held it up in front of him as well. 'It must be colder than I thought' he said in his head and laughed.

The so-called path, that Maelearr was told about, was no more than a dirt track through the forest. The forest was thick, and Maelearr could feel eyes following him. It was well known that all sorts of spirits and wild creatures inhabited this forest. Naturally they could only be witnessed alone and at night time. Maelearr picked up the pace, he was not planning to get eaten tonight! The path was narrow and straight but once so often there was a sharp turn. At the end of the track was meant to be the target. Part of Maelearr hoped that this wasn't true, but he knew that what he was told was going to be accurate.

Maelearr started shaking his head and kissed his teeth, he was wondering why he had not brought a disguise, or at least a hood. What if someone saw him kill the guy? What if the guy escaped? He suddenly started thinking that he had a really recognizable face with overly distinct features. It was too late to worry over such things now since Maelearr had come to the end of the path. He stood in a clearing in which only a single, and rather small, mud hut lay ahead of him.

The hut was cylindrical with a pointed thatched roof. The whole thing looked rather flimsy and probably had one small room. Maelearr guessed that even a gust of wind could take the whole thing down. 'I could just burn the roof and everyone will thing the death was accidental!' Maelearr pondered as he stood motionless. Then he remembered the specific instructions given to him by the Fists. He had to stab the man in the neck in order to send a message. What that message was did not concern him. Maelearr took a deep breath and then approached the hut.

As he took cautious steps forward, he recalled how he had got himself into this position in the first place. He had made a few mistakes. Mistake number one: He had assumed that the Fists would primarily use their fists. The Fists were meant to be mindless thugs, not contract killers. Mistake number two: He had told the Fists why he wanted to join. All he wanted was to get stronger and gained some protection from their company and street credibility. The Fists now knew that they could physically and mentally bully this boy just like the others did. Also it meant that they had to test the boy to see whether he could be of any use to them. Mistake number three: He had used his real name. Names are useful, the Fists could use his strange name to track him down or use with the authorities so that he be used as a scapegoat. Within ten minutes of talking to the thug lieutenant in the market, Maelearr was in too deep. He had dived into the ocean and then traded his lungs for gills without even knowing. There was no way back for him now.

The door to the hut was open, in the fact that it was barely a door at all. The entrance to the hut was covered with a single large piece of bark, which hung onto the walls with rope which acted as hinges. However, Maelearr was taking no chances. He braced himself and then put all his weight behind a kick to open the door. He then clumsily drew his dagger and peered in. He wasn't sure what to expect; but he had certainly not anticipated there being four men being cramped inside this small space. He just stood there in front of these men, trying to figure out what to do.

"Kicking open the unlocked door, with dagger in hand, when you don't know who's inside or what your target looks like. All of which without concealing your identity. Both clever and subtle." the hooded man said. The two armed men either side of him chuckled as he said this. The old man on the straw mat said nothing, he just lay there, perfectly still.

"You are Ma-li-ah, yes?" The taller of the armed men asked. He wore leather armour with a plain iron helmet. The shorter, plumper man, wore the same. Maelearr guessed that there were the city guards but he had never seen them wear helmets before. He straightened his back and replied,

"It's pronounced May-lee-arr." Only after the words had escaped his mouth had he realised that these were not the best circumstances to tell strangers how to pronounce his name.

"Fucking Staeralyllian!" The plumper man scowled before spitting on the floor, "You cunts think you're fucking better than us just 'cause you put like sixty vowels in your bastard names!" The robed man raised an eyebrow as an awkward silence filled the room. Although Maelearr was used to this sort of xenophobic abuse, he said nothing. Instead he calmly sheathed his dagger, in a way that he thought most impressive. He also did his best not to let his head drop, he could not afford to let any fear of his show.

"Are you not planning to stab the old man then?" The robed man asked politely. Maelearr's gaze flashed to each of the guards and then back to the robed man. He still said nothing.

"Right...well then tell me boy, why do you plan on joining the Fists? It is a life long commitment as you know, and you are still so young," A small smile had lingered on the robed man's lips ever since Maelearr had entered the hut. However, this had faded as Maelearr continued to say nothing. He wondered how fast these men could run and how much of a head start would he get if he turned on his heels and ran right now.

"You'd never get away. A boy's legs are no match for trained men. Plus, you'd be running down a straight and very narrow path, not exactly an ideal route to lose someone." The robed man's eyes never left Maelearr's stare as he spoke.

"Instead boy, take this," He held out a small wooden dice with no number on. "Do what you want with it" Maelearr looked at the cube. 'What the fuck am I meant to do with this?' He thought. He was expecting to be cut in half, not looking at pieces of wood.

"I don't want it." he finally replied.

"Because you don't know what to do with it? I suppose one wouldn't know what they should do with something thrust upon them at random. Yet here you are acting like you know what you should do with your life." This had stopped Maelearr's fear, replacing it with confusion and anger. This fool was talking nonsense, in a really weird way and in the most odd circumstances.

"This fool is saying, that one cannot simply choose to join the Fists. You cannot give your life to the Fists. However, life can give you to the Fists."

"Look! They were looking for recruits! I was looking for work! I don't see the fucking problem or know what the fuck you're on about!" Maelearr snapped.

"God the young are so rude these days. And so very eager to grow up in this cruel world. Right I've heard enough, this one is getting shipped. Get rid off the old timer as well. Respectfully this time!" The robed man said to the guards.

Maelearr was already falling before he had a chance to turn and run. He had not noticed a third guard who had sneaked up behind and hit him on the back of the head. He was out cold.

Summer Blues

I can't believe it's not butter. I wouldn't have cared but now that they've made that highly suspicious and rather suggestive name, perhaps it is worth another look. I mean if THEY can't believe it isn't butter, and by the way, that's a much more usual way of saying it, in my opinion anyway, I mean if I say I can't believe it isn't raining, it sounds much more natural than if I said I can't believe it's not raining, the latter way of saying it makes it sound as if its been raining for quite a while....actually I don't know where I'm going with this, and any normal person would've deleted this sentence. Like I said, if THEY can't believe it is not butter, does that mean they know something we don't, like that it is actually butter. Or is it a double bluff, or a single bluff? I have to say I'm a bit more confused that normal at the moment. All I wanted was some toast.

So I'm thinking about getting my mum a crack pipe for her birthday. Of course it's not for her to ingest illegal substances but rather, it would amuse me for a while to see her struggle to figure out what it was and then to find a completely legitimate alternate use for it, like to help her flowers to grow straight or some mum shit like that.

Seeing these 'riots' in London and other parts of the UK recently, you see right now it is August '11, and I say seeing, I only saw some in London, well I just don't know what to think. I am a big supporter of the 'there's no meaning to life' camp but come on... and that's all I can say really. I mean clearly these people have no purpose in their life (they are bored) so they go around and find something to feel important. Why not? Why not go around and loot? I don't have an answer so I'll get back to you on that one.

The Search for That

I'm a bit a jealous actually. Other people have things that I want, or is it they look happy with what they have and I think 'hmmm I'd be happy like them if I had that'?. Maybe the reason I don't have that is that I expect that to come to me, I think it would be better if I went for that. If it was so easy to get that I would already have got that. So I get up in search of that, and so I have to do this and to do that to get that. And before I've gotten to that stage, I then have to do more this and that, and start to realise I no longer want that, I now have this, I no longer seem to think I need that. I look back at that person with that and think why did I what that in the first place?. Then I realise that that was just an explanation for myself that I had no direction and so that in moving to that I get more this's and thats until it comes to a point that I have other this's and thats and that that was never so hard to get because in searching for that I got that, but not in the way I thought that that was meant to be gotten. To be honest I'm not that jealous anymore.

Sorry for the wait

So yeah you know you're overdosing right if your crap is fizzing in the toilet bowl. I don't think suicide watch really works to be honest, sending guards to go watch people committing and criticizing their work makes the whole situation worse. Yes as you have no doubt realised this post is really late and I apologize, I had actually written several versions of this post on paper but ofcourse I was always going to wing it like I am now ^^. Osama died this week, in years to come when they make the memoirs of wategwann they'll look to see my perspective on the whole situation and I release this statement: It will be awkward if they bury him without his turban, noone will recognise him. How many monkeys does it take to change a lightbulb? It takes evolution for the lightbulb to be invented before they can change them. I like how dogs have the swagger to go out in public and act like they're balls aren't hairy. I particularly like the dogs with the balls to go out when they no longer have balls. So much like us ^^, peace.