Consigliere

and I believe I am here to finish it. They torture us but we don’t surrender, we say fuck you and spit blood on their faces. Calloused is my heart that was once so tender, and my coalition shall consist of nothing but nut-cases. 

You evaluate me yet you haven’t observed me, so when you talk of me, in actuality you’re speaking of what you know not and what you never cared to investigate. Listening to yourself bullshit not only others but also yourself must be the most narcissistic and pathetic way to waste your time. 

If you really want to waste the most valuable commodity, please do it in style, my soul’s stomach really aches from me laughing inside listening to people like you. 

Self-talking individuals thrive on their rhetorics, what they know not is that in their triumphant and often lamenting words, we hear self-doubt and egotistical insecurity rather than self-assurance and self-worth. It is us, the meek, who lament the loud. They hint at what they hide, by simply denying its’ existence a word or two too much. 

As long as you keep on taking shit out of context, you will always be right. 

I always wondered what you saw in me,

I never blamed you for quitting me.

I only blamed myself for having had false hope

In your words so kind, and your smile so heart-warming.

I know this will hurt me, but I need it to cope.

At least my vice isn’t deceiving, it comes with a warning.

All I hear out of your mouth is “sorry.” You sorry-ass son of a bitch. You’ll never stop being a small time piece of shit until you stop making yourself having to say sorry. 

In this realm of fortune, we understand that no man is better nor worse, just lucky or unlucky. So gamble why don’t you, it won’t be your fault whether you win or lose. Only potential fault of yours would be the habitual hesitation that turns into permanent withholding due to your lack of courage. If, one can lack in such things by volition, that is. 

Be jaunty, for death is imminent and now definitely is the time to live a little in consequence of our impending doom, which is coming our way as sure as God’s vengeance. 

Don’t fucking give me that corny bullshit, “everything happens for a reason.” Reasons are impersonal, indifferent. Mere by-products of our skewed perception and poor intellectual faculties that constantly amount to something sloppy and never-good-enough called our reasoning. I will repeat that phrase to you when a couple of murderous thieves break into your house and rob you of your most valued, precious possessions. Lives are taken, would you still have the heart to say everything happens for a reason? Why of course, there’s a cause behind every movement, little fucking variables and big fucking variables  that make up your surrounding and everything you are, inside and out, the actions before reactions, but that’s something we all know, and we all can’t help but still be sad comprehending what we always knew, subconsciously if not consciously. Naturally. Because that doesn’t mean shit to us, because knowledge means knowing and if knowing is understanding why you are in the shithole that you’re stuck in, only thing you can hope for is from that understanding, some how learning how to get the fuck out of your shitty situation that may very well be perpetual in its’ life-sucking ways. It is definitely not something to be desired, learning how to appreciate the reasons behind your imprisonment in hell. You don’t have to be positive. It’s okay to be angry and sad, just be you, do you, don’t fucking act, don’t fucking turn into a counterfeit happy person, it’s fucking unsettling in its’ artificiality, like a botox-face, surgically-plastic-fucking-fake-ass face.

I was never good at taking what I desired. I would much rather look at it and wish I could have it. When I could have it if having it was all I wanted, if it was really as simple as just having it. But nothing is ever that simple. Having it meant acquiring it the way I wanted to take it, and having the means to prevent its’ loss. But you and I know damn well that I’m nothing but a two-bit loser, and winning comes by as often as Christmas for me, and we never really celebrated holidays like the people with people do. We live it through in a numb and careless manner the people dead inside do, people who didn’t have much nurturing. We don’t know how to make a Christmas list, so when we do get a chance we can’t really think of what we want, so we write down with our short stubby pencils what we think they want us to want, what we reckon they would be glad that we wished for, but what they really want us to want are things that kids our age wanted, things that we saw in advertisements that helped us escape into the world of God-awful anxious feeling of wanting away from the reality in which we had nothing to have but want, things that they cannot afford, things that they wish they had the money to purchase with, so in the end Christmas brought us nothing that any of us ever wanted, but we acted like we were happy, happy at the mere fact that we were together and we were family, but that’s never enough to make a soul content, even for a second. So when you told me you’re happy, brother, in that unsure tone of yours, I wanted to slap you. I wanted to slap the shit out of you so I could have a person to cry with at night for wanting, for missing what I wanted in life. But your face stayed untainted by my dirty, spiteful hand, and I always just said “that’s good.” When I knew deep inside that nothing was good.

This is what I am, this is what I’ve become. And this is who I’m leaving behind a piece by piece whenever I am taking things that I desire. But sometimes, the old me turns up like a bad penny in my ways of action, and I suddenly don’t feel entitled to put my hand on the prize, the belt, the pride and joy. And I become paralyzed in confusion. And it does not matter a damn thing how long that paralysis lasts, because in a second or two a man makes his fate, and this is the wretched condition in which a thinker resides in, he could make the grandest plans, he WILL make the grandest plans, for that is what he does, but execution of these plans requires actions, and thinkers sometimes lose themselves completely into the process of thinking that he never finds his way back out of that mental maze of ever changing patterns and colors, never soon enough anyways to act upon his will, his desire. 

So ex nihilo the memories are seared into our head. And it is that emptiness that gets full of regretful sensation, and screams at us for action, decisiveness that is of use no more, but sorrowful in its’ uselessness that is poignant in its’ present state, for its’ present state is suggestive of its’ former state which could very well be the usefulness, fruitfulness. 

But ah well, hell with the memories. God hates me so he left me with nothing but memories, the hauntings of the images from the past. So maybe, that is why I deprive myself of sleep. Because I want to feel stupid. Because that is as much as I’ll ever allow myself to dumb down my intelligence, which is practically my life-line regarding these big dreams and hopes that carry me on in this definitely potentially hopeless and forever-night life of mine. 

I carry on no more with a sense of duty, with a youthful conviction, I simply live because I cannot die, because I know that tomorrow might have something great in store for me. Because that’s all I’ll ever know. 

Very soon, you’ll be nothing but a painful memory, a dull ache in my heart that’ll grab at my attention now and then, in the midst of blinding sunlight which resembles the love we shared. Love that left us blind with faith, love that attempted to fumble its’ way out of the center of this slaughter-house, the world we live in where youthful dreams and hopes get mercilessly killed. Until ours, too, like the others, were finally caught in the hands of fate and torn into grotesque pieces. Oh how terribly sad it was, failing to escape the inevitable, having to acknowledge the fact that we fought a losing war. Maybe that is why you don’t ever want to see me. Maybe that is why you’ll be nothing but a dull ache in my heart, a painful memory that’ll grab at my thoughts now and then, very soon.