Easter songs.

Yes, I hear them.

So I figure this moment is as good as any to write about waking up dead. 

I know.

Hush.

Listen.

It isn’t phenomenal.

Nothing as sensational as it sounds.

Just another day. 

You wake up... eyes crusted with disgusting junk that only too-much-sleep knows how to bequeath.  Yeah, I said bequeath - a gift given, and one you can’t rid yourself of.

Ever.

You can barely move - not for the reasons you might think though - no, this is strictly from dehydration. 

The dryness within.

... Feels like you’re a god-damn sandcastle. Ignored by tides too long... soaking up too much sun.  It’s both painful and an all-consuming numbness... so brittle - stiff, yet too airy... too light... too heavy...

... and the taste in your mouth, it’s a horrible, horrible thing.

Depending on how long you’ve been dead, it varies.

The first time for me it had been awhile.  My mouth was left open, and I was on my back, face-up. 

Let me tell you, if you plan on waking up after you die, this is not the way you want to do it. 

Dust, dirt, things blown by the wind, and things that want to crawl in - it all ends up inside you. 

A side-note here.  The things that crawl in - if you are meant to wake up, they know it.  For the most part they leave you be... you might become a nesting ground temporarily, but you are never food.  They might take trophies for reasons unknown... a chunk of the tongue, a tooth or two, hair from somewhere, fingernails - it’s all up for grabs, but for food?  Never.  Somehow they just seem to know.  I watched over a dead acquaintance of mine for... well... I’ll say it was months (many, many months) - not once tending to him. The things that crawl, the things that fly, and even the things that come from far below - for the most part, they just let you be.  I can’t say if it’s out of respect or fear, but they know.  They just know.

The taste in my mouth that first time falls short of an appropriate description. 

If you’re the experimental sort, take a day or two away from liquids. 

Lay out in the sun and bake, mouth open. 

Let chain-smokers ash their cigs in your mouth. 

Eat dry earth. 

Then, when you are done experimenting, when you’ve finally had enough - know that it only gets worse as the days, weeks, months, and years pass. 

Time is never your friend - alive, or dead - she will sodomize you unending, and make you taste every god forsaken minute of it.

And after awhile, the junk on your eyes, you will eat it.

This is where I laugh.

It’s not funny.

Not really.

I know the thought of eating eye-crusties seems disgusting, but trust me - there are far more disgusting things we, both you and I, do on a daily bases.  We’ve just become accustomed to them, so we tell ourselves that... they aren’t disgusting. 

But when you are lying there.

Immobile.

Waking.

Instinct is your survivor’s manual.

And you *will* eat it. 

Roll it around on your tongue...

... The moisture dissolving... 

Your mouth, consecrated.

And throat, grateful. 

And you are suddenly reminded of fruit.

Odd, that.

Fruit really is the first memory that hits you. 

And it hits you like an eighteen-wheeler.

Before you remember how you died.

Before you remember you are alive.

Before you remember who you are or who you were - you remember fruit. 

The sweet liquid rushing into your body.

Not acidic.

Maybe slightly bitter.

Mostly, though, it is sweet... and gushing.

And you remember somebody handing it to you - the brush of her fingers upon your own.

And you remember a tree.

And the sun.

Then, everything becomes a quick blur.

A cascade of memories returning.

This part is never easy. 

People, places, names, faces, feelings, emotions, experiences, wars, plagues, family, and dregs.  Some more prominent than others, but you  remember.  Names of items that you’ve never held, names of places you’ve never been, names of people you’ve never met, and names of friends that were never really friends.  An encyclopedia of everything, both real and unreal - an encyclopedia of the dead.

The last thing you remember is love and hate.

Two emotions that collide and override nearly everything else. 

Really, this is the second instinct from the survivor’s manual.

The only way I can describe this is to use an analogy.

Put de Leon’s Fountain of Youth, Christ’s Sangraal, and Wall Street’s Fortunes in front of a starving babe - then, bring to it the face of its mother.

The rest will always become unnoticeable fodder. 

Love and hate are the backbone of a genetic database which regulates the most valuable of all your memories.

The face of the woman that gave birth to you wipes millions of memories from your head, instantly... collectively.

The last place you called home negates millions of trivial architectural wonders you recalled only seconds ago.

The moment the most sacred lover turned her back on you washes away all the other women of lesser greatness.

The face of the man that killed you.

Billions of memories wash away in a deluge of the few that were most important to you.

And then...

... the third, and final, instinct from the survivor’s manual...

... You try to stand.

This isn’t a new life, and you aren’t a new man... it’s just another day.

You do what you can.

Aum, or amen.

Whatev.

-----------------


A) Yes, this is old, if you have seen this before hush - I don’t wanna hear it.
B) I didn’t draw these wonderful images... I found them scattered about the internet.
C) Yes, I did provide the wonderfully drawn speech balloons and ever so charming captions.

Love me.

Accidental sociality is weird.  I love it while it exists and don’t know how to get back to it once I walk away.  Everything is so near, yet so distant... I fear being in it too long lest I fall victim to social overkill.  Again.

I’m a rocket-man.  Burning out his fuse.  Up here.  Alone.

Balance is key, yet, ode to the yoga master, that verb is an ever elusive mystery.

Balance.

I’ve finally obtained, if only momentarily, the inner peace I’ve been searching for.

Finally.

Serenity in thought - acceptance in simply being.

Which is extremely difficult when the outer palace is crumbling and collapsing. 

I guess I’m suggesting I’ve found inner peace, but have yet to find the balance needed to harmonize it with the outer misery.

Which suggests that I haven’t found inner peace at all... but I digress.

There was a WWII documentary on tonight.  History Channel.  Western perspective.  And a U.S. veteran was speaking about watching all of his friends die in front of his eyes.  Victims, at the hands of "merciless Japanese planes".  He then followed this by saying he didn’t know what to do other than kill as many Japanese as he could.  A man, just another man, trying to make sense of what he’d just witnessed... what he’d just experienced.  And the only thing he knew to do was to mirror what he’d seen from them.


Ghosts of the past rearing ghosts of tomorrow.

At what point does killing ever justify more killing?

I’m not a hippie.  Far from it.  I’m a progressive thinker, or at least I believe myself to be.  I don’t want to see our species destined to living the lives of yesterday’s passed. 

Progressive. Thinking. Ever searching, both inward and outward.

Killing doesn’t justify killing, and guns don’t justify guns.  These things, they only bind us to our primordial roots.  Progress is, in theory, to ever expand outward from those roots.  We can embrace them, hold them sacred to our place in being, but we must then grow from them.  Always.  Else we will become static and find ourselves in a constant state of repetition.

I do admit that life itself might just be a constant state of repetition.

But, this - what we are doing now - is this really the acme of the repetition-loop?  Or, does the rubber-band stretch further before snapping back upon itself? 

I think that there is more.  That we can be greater than this.  Perhaps this is why I can’t find that balance, or why it seems so elusive.

To believe that vengeance and greed are not simply instinctual staples to be accepted, but, rather, old-world concepts that can be recognized as such, and overcome - isn’t that our greatest challenge today? 

A challenge we personally accept daily?

Embracing technologies and new biological understandings, while carrying with us the memories of what we were - resisting some of them, embracing others amongst them - and ever reaching outward for the greater things we dream can be. 

Is this really too much of an abstract?

For society?

Our bodies are speaking to us, as loudly as the exterior universe - in characters... and numbers... and... I’m trying to listen. 

I’m trying.

But the unchanging tribal-discourse between the past and present are rather distracting.

Style Account?

Yes.

I’ve had two personal accounts prior to this.  (Not counting a few lolaccounts along the way - never fake accounts, mind you, just humorous accounts which people always knew was moi.)  I then ducked away from "sociality" in the off-line world, and on MySpace, because at heart I’m simply an extremely gregarious recluse. 

I love people. 

And I love shadowy corners which allow me to escape from people.

That’s just who I am.

The first account still exists, but I wiped everything from it save for a blog or two, simply because everything was too overwhelming.  I regret having done that.  Because the comments - the back and forth - the everything, it’s still very sacred to me and I still hold it close to my heart. (Yes, even if it *is* MySpace - ugh.)  I couldn’t ever apologize enough for deleting heartfelt comments that were left for me.  But, I *am* sorry.

The second account still exists, but is private. I was forced off of it because somebody jacked my email password and seized the account. (Douchebags aren’t just mythical creatures that exist as American Idol hosts [Hai, Ryan] - THEY ARE REAL.) Asspips.

So, this - this style account - the third - it is one that I’ve had for ages but simply used as a testing grounds for my hardcore, elitist "profile designs" (another, of-which, you will probably be blessed with shortly - I know you are just DYING to see it).

Right now I’m just totally digging on the fact that I call this my style account and it is completely unstyled.  It makes me lolz.  Lots.

And, well, that is all.

You are up-to-date on le Trenchisms.

Say Om.