rambling of a saint

we don't have much left. there is nothing we can do. the speakers have spoken and we are cast out. vampires!!! what can i say about vampires that hasn't already been said about afghanistan. i never thought it would be like this. the line is so cliche but I seriously never considered the fact that it would be like this. until of course it was like this, then i had cause to worry. smoking cigarettes in the garage. smoking cigarettes on the porch. getting drunk so i can understand myself with the forlorn hope that one day, perhaps, one day, i will be able to understand others. i wonder what doyle brunson thinks of all this. fuck that, the guy is old. but i've always thought that those with an innate knowledge for anything at all are blessed with the fruit of humanity. an innate knowledge of games or sport, an innate knowledge of humans themselves. these are things to consider. perhaps people can rise from their upbringing, but perhaps not. i think that their upbringing makes them everything that they will become. my own upbringing was infinitly desolate, but i suppose everyones is desolate somewhat. infinitly so is a little superlative. and then, perhaps i am making nothing into something with my constant thought about nothing. the tides of time are like playdoh to me, i make them into whatever the fuck i please. this isn't healthy. and perhaps a bit on the arrogant side. for this blog itself is simply a rendition of loneliness and despair. and so the tides of time shift to form a destiny of woe for me. i cannot defeat it, it is in itself self defeating. and to think that i actually hate melodrama. i like to think i hate it, but the fact is that i revel in its simplicity. it is easy to simply hate everything and everyone that you see. to only see sadness and hatred is so very simple. to see love and joy is harder. to feel love and joy is perhaps just a delusion of the heart.

god, i always hated that. how people refer to their soul or their being as their heart. it is not your heart. your heart is an organ. it beats blood. it will kill you when you least expect it. you should make up a name for the quickened pace that you feel when anxious or drugged. your soul. your being. everything that you are. don't degrade it with the crass falacies of a worthless existence. imagine that the things that make your heart quicken and beat out of your chest are intermediaries to a greater existence. to transcend! that is the goal. not to simply to describe. to say nothing is better. it is the best. to say something is to open yourself to critisism of the worst kind. the kind that is very very true.

and to you, the imagininary audience, i open myself. with all my heart.