Rambling @ 3:45 a.m.

This isn't going to be a work of fiction, nor is it poetry. Just what's going on in my mind at this moment. I've been suffering from writers block; there has been no amount of doing something else, or letting the subconcious mind gnaw at it, that has been able to break the blockade that is occuring in my misshapen head. Seems that sometimes fiction turns into fact, or that imagination can -at times- become self fulfilling prophecy. I've been thinking of starting a journal, which would seem to make the most amount of sense for someone like me. The problem with that is, it reminds me of a joke I heard from a comedian a while back. He joked that every single guy needs a porn buddy; someone that would come by his place, in the untimely event of his death, to clear out the smut before the family showed up to clear the deceased's belongings. I think I'd need a scary thought/mental illness/admitting to weird shit buddy. Its not that I've committed crimes, nor have I engaged in anything that would have them drag me off to the Hague to convene a war crimes tribunal; its simply that if I let some of the things out of my head, some of the darker things, or stranger thoughts and emotions, the ones that live behind the constraints of the governor that society and upbringing and peer pressure has saddled me with, those things that bump into eachother in the dark waters of the psyche, of the mind, out, and put them down in a journal, that would be some mighty big bad juju. If those things came to light because I died in a wreck out on the road, or if genetics and the abuse I've put my body through over the years caught up to me, I'm worried that a journal would simply be a warehouse of the dark things I've inured myself to, but which would shock the people I would leave behind. Obviously, I wouldn't care, nor would it really affect me; I'd be dead. But the the living thought, the one that scrambles my noodle, is thinking of how that may affect those that I know, from the perspective of being alive in this moment. But that's all just worrying about nothing. I may as well concern myself with the thought that maybe Napolean just needed a hug, and to be told that being vertically challenged isn't necesarily a bad thing. All of this is neither here nor there, its all wrapped up with a bow, pulsating under the christmas tree I've never bothered to take out with the rest of the detritus that clutters my mind. Now that I've alluded to some of that, I'll move on to something else. Quality of life. My life, obviously, has taken quite the change in the near past. Things that others, and ultimately myself, knew were going to come to their final flaming conclusion, did. Its not really a good or bad thing, simply another step on this journey of life, but one I was hoping wouldn't come to pass. Whats really got me in a funk of sorts is: what now? By that I mean, I did everything the way you are supposed to; put in the time and effort, be accomodating and open to compromise. It was doomed from the start, and thats fine. But when you follow a blueprint that is burning to ash at its edges, it throws confidence in the way you thought was proper when handling things right into the big porcelain bowl with a quick flush. I have my freedom, great! Now what? Nothing seems to pull me in this direction or that. Its a big pile of ennui. I'm not sure that I'm overwhelmed with all the oppurtunities or possibilities that have become recently available. Or if this is some sort of accepted malaise that I've programmed myself to. I'm waiting for the sky to crack open, and for the explosive epiphany to strike me righteously right upside the damn head. Way too many movies in my past. I don't want to drowned it, or worse, in the way I've handled things in the past. But everyday is the exact same. Its a dark, existential sort of Groundhog Day. Except that Bill Murray has a filthy vocabulary, and thinks some really weird shit, and laughs at things you are supposed to tsk tsk about and shed crocodile tears for. Maybe this is just the manifestation of the disassociated, disaffected way that my generation deals with things. Or maybe its just me internalizing things without my even being aware of it; maybe the lunatics are in charge of this asylum? Is the warden staring down at a calm courtyard from his cherry and chestnut wooded office? Safe and serene, but not realizing that the door is locked, and all the really heinous stuff is going on behind the building? I'd flip a coin on that, and be completely unsurprised by the outcome either way or anyway. Thats enough for now. Salud.