constant contradictions, holding onto fictions and fake facades, a spirit hidden within, finding it’s way out through words, sounds, lines and marks. controlled chaos found in generalizations lifted beneath dusty fixtures surrounded by silhouettes. contained algorithms in broken tools of technology speak to me daily, i’ve limited myself through empty apparatuses and archetypes held high by universities lack in knowing am i continuous stream of consciousness unsure of what to do next broken, my nonsensical side or the muse, has drifted far away from me, leaving me empty. medications are killing me slowly, making my brain reduce backwards. is this a cry for help? i don’t want to be a victim. i simply have to step into an office and work and call and type and sit and stare, but still think. i don’t want to think, thinking is for thinkers. i’m not a thinker, i’m a dreamer, i prefer to sleep. i’m pretty sure my hand held device is demon possessed. what is the purpose of this? for me inspiration correlates with what is around me. i’m not gifted with creativity. i can only see things and rearrange or interpret. this post is becoming boring. i can’t blame anything for it, it simply is what it is. i thought i would write despite my lack of inspiration. we’re relational beings, i probably should stop with the seclusion and go out and actually make friends. chemical imbalances, fear, anxiety…let the music play. i do want my words to bring joy to people. what other purpose is there? past participles, converting latin words to english, boredom brought upon by a mundane existence, seclusion, entertained by well dressed celebrities made up to look a certain way. the standard, so cal is full of shit why do i live here, there is nothing but superficial assholes and crazy bums filling the streets with words and piss and rotting pieces of flesh. real suffering and art is hard to find, everyone is running out of time.