Dear Friend (endless)

Dear Friend,

Have you ever just gone for a walk? I mean, have you ever just got up and said to you, “I need to go for a fucking walk.” Well I recently did that. There is nothing more gratifying than blowing off some steam. Certain people have ways of blowing off steam that would detrimentally abuse the mind of a normal coherent individual, but me, I just go for walks.
No matter where I go, I try to walk off any inner anguish that I uphold in my inferior little mind. I went for a walk when I was at work. I work at a hospital for children. Children are the cauldrons of our world, you would think they would keep a little more upkeep going, but of course, that ceases to exist. As I walk delicately through the halls, as I work the midnight shift, I notice the color of the paint on the walls. The walls are this pale ale baby blue that screams out horrible tones that scare me, let alone a young child. I could see the walls reverberating with sounds of crying or inner angst of a horrific shot with a hypodermic needle. It really is that bad. Not to mention, the floors of the hospital look like a cockroach playground. As I yawn covering my mouth, so I do not spread germs, but I am really most introverted from this task because I do not want to test the waters of what might come in.
Like Red Jesus of Nazareth, a doctor springs from a side-paneled door that sits in the hallway at a 45-degree angle. He jumps out as if he is a clown trying to catch a young child to domesticate it. With his stringy black beard swaying in the wind and his red cloth scrubs begin to sponge up every little piece of body sweat, he dictates, “Hello son” “Hello sir” he continues, “Now son, Do you believe in God?” I was at a loss. I do believe there are some omnipotent beings, but not really the God. It is more like a God. The whole theological debate brings on a whole new part of my brain that I could like to keep philosophically repressed. Again, there is another reason for a walk.
Damnit, he kick-started the part of my brain that I wanted to refrain from, you fucking bastard, God, who the fuck is this God? I take ultimate pride in integrating the Origin of Species into my thought process. There is no way some being made people, the universe, the planets, the animals, the rainforest, and the smoky atmosphere that hits me in the face every time I go to a bar. It is just not plausible. I think the bible might even be an old folk tale that somebody decided to obsess over one day and resort to worshipping this book. Could it be? I gravely think so. Take the Lord of the Rings for example, it’s, in total, much longer then the actual bible, it holds stories, it holds poetry, hymns, and different creatures. Why can’t somebody worship that? I can make my own Hobbit religion that can form an omnipresent God that people 2000 years from now may get on their knees and pray to. Hopefully, it’s not a picture of me; I could not take that kind of pressure. What about Heaven and Hell? There is another walk within itself. I like to think that our bodies give back to the earth, which was made from the big bang theory because of the logical sense it makes. Heaven sounds like a five star resort you go to only if you have zero fun throughout your entire life because everything is a sin. Well you bastards, fuck you, I will be staring up from hell, smiling like the little demon child I become because I have fulfilled a logical, exciting life.
Back to walking, I recently found out that my girlfriend of 3 years cheated on me, but I didn’t even twitch a muscle. I told her to have a nice day and I hung up the phone. She sent me a voicemail saying that it was I and not she. I appreciate the avoidance of the cliché vice versa; she really gave it to me straight. Who knows? I probably just did not love her anymore. I mean when she sleeps, she sounds like a tow truck is backing over a hole filled with people, pumping methane gases into this hole, and everybody is struggling to breathe. Sometimes, I wanted to take chicken wire and just strangle her with it. This reminds me of the part in Night at the Roxbury when Steve Butabi, wanted to ram thick straws into his wife to be’s, brain. I did value her, I really did, She was the first love of my life, but you know what, love fades. When it comes down to the finish line, it’s all about you, there is an “I” in this team. That seems to be the mentality for many consoling citizens this day and age. What happened to the years where the women were happy staying home and men could get a respectful job right out of college? Your guess is as good as mine. Now women are poking around sleeping with any thing that walks, or crawls for that matter. For the women reading this, men are worse! I am not picking on you. Take what I said and add, some porno, a big screen television, and enough beer to kill a 10-ton elephant.
You would think that walking would make you tired, but when your mind is going, you are like a freight train going through sheets of glass. There may be some slight stops, but nothing to lose any motion over. My elders always talk of education being number one, whom unfortunately I agree, but not in the sense that they make it. There version of education is getting good grades and working your ass off to have the highest grade point average in the school, so you can put that pretty little report card on that fridge, but it does not work like that. It never works like that. Young adults go to school, so they can get a job because, unfortunately, this society requires that now. The apathetic idea of getting a job out of high school is extinct. There are very few jobs that one can hope on and make a decent living. Like, I said before it is not the 50’s anymore. This reminds me of J. D Salinger’s hit book, Catcher in the Rye, amazing book that downgrades the human psyche to a repressed child. The book is filled with melancholy quips followed remotely by conspicuous attitude changes by the protagonist. It was a little piece of 3-hour heaven. Why it reminds me of my point of education I do not know, but it does.

Hello Again, my close, close friend. I feel lonely in my life. I feel as if the world is closing tightly on my life like salt sealing up an open wound. Music is anything, but easy for me. I love music with all my heart, but when it comes to sticking with it, it seems impossible. I rely solely on the unreserved significance of my character to carry me through the difficult demons that spring in my life. I had a show last night and I was black- balled by somebody I thought was a friend. He said it was nothing personal, but he made it personal. I do not need the care of people who do not even console my inner feelings. I hope my loving cousin was not in on the egotistical debacle that ruined my Friday night and strangled my hopes for a tight knit wonder band, but that’s life, you win some and you lose some. The winter birds will fly into the night, whether the sun shines on their magnificent wings or the moon glares at that like God, looking in the eyes of an angel.
It is all right anyways; it is not my kind of music. I play folk and blues, I am old school rocker; Ray Lamontagne, Stevie Ray Vaughn, B.B King, they are the greats. Do not get me wrong, Steel Trap Mind rules and I was honored to be a part of the angelic choirs coming from the underground cave we called a practice space, but it is like the sirens of the sea. You hear the music and you cannot deny yourself from listening or being drawn to it. It is indeed the opiate of the masses counteracting itself swiftly into the psyche of my life.
Before I begin, I will describe my life on the moon. The moon is dark, lonely, and quiet, only the proud get to venture onto the moon with me. The moon is the resting place of the omnipotent Gods in which I imagine will significantly transgress any negative debacle thrown my way. The sun is in sight, but I am stuck in this Frio fifth war zone. The bottle shines into the sun like a kaleidoscope with the liquid of the saints. Saint Mercury looks at me with little to say. Well I concur sir, for you are just dragging me down with you. I see you have landed; welcome, I hope you enjoy yourself. The moon can be a quite fine place if you fung-schway some necessary details. What you will find is the mind of a mad man followed by a hollowed out shell. Now don’t be alarmed, I will not bite you or harvest your organs for beer money. I have more respect than that. You are invited into this brain that is ambiguous and up for interpretation. Collectively, the decision is all mine, but how do you know I am not suffering from dementia, or schizophrenia? Sybil looks like a walk in the park compared to me. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is a hop, skip, and a jump away from Candy Land. You are my sunshine, you are my earth, you are my darkness, you are my self worth, leave me to my thoughts because they will eat you alive with maximum intensity. I, again, concur. Welcome.
Love. Ah Love. Love is the clearly indefinable global emporium that everybody visits for the sheer thrill and leaves, man handled, by the utter stupidity that it brings. Love can pick you up off the ground and throw you into a world of neon colors and ruby red lips, but it can also throw you into a head first dive into a black hole that will stretch you apart and leave you breathless. Only a fool falls for love. Essentially, we are all fools. We are all hoodwinks. All we need is Love and that’s true. I am a fool. I am a fool for a girl that I Love dearly. I am a fool for a goddess that loves me back. She floats down to the earth with a grace that only few women have ever possessed in my eyes. Her lips are like soft breathes of fresh air touching every morsel for my flesh, leaving me in a daze that no physical force on earth could bare to break. Her body is carved from Helen herself; the beautiful sight of her curves and her subtle breasts that pierce through the air like R-40 torpedoes attacking a submarine. The hair shines blonde with the fierce attitude of an independent deity. She is almost a supernatural being to me. When I touch her, her piercing blue eyes that look through like medusa casting a spell debilitate me. I am interwoven in her metaphorical web with every faint breath she excretes from her illuminating red lips that glisten with an ore. I am a fool. I am a fool for this love. I am proud to be this fool. She is a fool too. A fool is also one with a marked propensity or fondness of something. I will be your fool, if you will be mine.
A skunk, a bulldog, a raccoon, a bishop, what do these all have in common? Well I will tell you. They are living beings, they are beautiful creatures put on this earth for a purpose. Everybody has a purpose. Not to the extent of following strictly Puritan beliefs. I do not agree with Jonathan Edwards, we do not hang by God’s hands until he decides to drop us. I hang by my own intuition and when I decide to fall I will fall. Again, I tricked you, trick statement, because I will not fall. I am the omnipresent sole integration of morals in my life. Any immorality will not void from my lips. My lips are sealed like the cold chains of a prisoner, in a holding sell after a bar room fight. I will over power any hate that is brought my way, for you will pay the pied piper if you believe otherwise. My purpose is this: I will live my life, I will love my soul-mate, I will love my interests, I will not rest till I am satisfied. Am I satisfied? Not yet, but I am just getting started. Look out world I am coming for you. I will take you by the love handles and shake every last good time for your flowery depths. Do it, I will.
It’s okay reader; do not take my depth personally. I come bearing gifts. I apologize for any mishaps that you may encounter. My life debacles and default princesses are part of the psyche that I like to introduce as my melancholy wonder world. Happiness is the soul for which humans assert to themselves. Now, do not drop your original plans, I have plenty to share. The rabbit is out of the cage, but I will be the owl, you need to be the owl to catch it, in case it gets out of hand. I am your prey and I am forever yours. The seasons change from dusk till dawn, but my notions will always linger into my busy fingers for your satisfaction.

I dipped my hands into the pool of the Gods today. I found the instant uproar that random leaves me perplexed. I love life at the moment; I have so much to look forward too. Sterling Anderson, an infamous television writer, came into my class Monday and gave some great advice, but one sticks out in particular, done. All I have to say is done. It may sound crazy, but it works. I hate my city and I hate some events of my life, but they are stepping-stones to a newer beginning. I was kicked from a band, in which I really did not indulge too much fun into. Some great times though. I felt like a weaning child trying to exist in a school of immortal patrons. The fountain of youth is only around the corner, people do not get older they get wiser, and with getting wiser means a smarter use of time. I need to spend my time writing, writing to you, writing to me, writing to anybody who wants to indulge in my lifestyle.
The hole is only as deep as you make it. I have friends who indulge in plenty of unnecessary substances. Aristotle believed substances are treated as attributes and modes or things. Well dependency becomes closely linked with substance. The cynical ideals from which substance abusers remain attracted to these “void filling wonders.” I just finished a book titled Candy by Luke Davies, who is a brilliant writer. He links the infirmity of love and addiction, and what dependency does to break this tie. At the end, the unnamed narrator always picks addiction over love, but there is only one way to interpret this dilemma. He loves his addiction.
The objectivity that comes with a substance abuser almost seems surreal or bizarre. Take for example, the drug heroin; this case of morphine can leave you high, but dry. The sublime initiation into a false world of carelessness can, and will, leave you in another separate world apart from reality, bull fighting with despair. Despair is such an extensive world, an extensive feeling. It just sounds like a boy losing his parents and falling into a life of crime and being caught with his misdoings and regretfully rotting in jail feeling ultimately lonely. He is feeling complete and utter despair. Why people love to feel these omnipresent mind-sets is almost catatonic to my mind. I cannot wrap my mind around the notion; it is almost as the way I think when I have had too much to drink. Like, trying to figure out a come back in a heated drunkard debate realizing your just fluff, a fake.
M.C Escher, very eccentric woman once said, “I don’t use drugs, my dreams are frightening enough.” I can relate to this with my own dreams. I have dabbled in my day, but have never built a dependency. My own thoughts provide a definitive mind fuck within myself. A crucial feeling from within me feels that these substantial “crutches” are just the works for a whole other set of problems, again to be hidden by drugs. If one can do drugs without relying on them to survive and get through the day, more power to you. If a man, can survive his life without being bothered by his deepest thoughts, somebody kiss the ground he walks on because he is the definitive alpha human.
I will share an experience of a person I knew. He was not to close to me, but he displays a set of actions that left me uncomfortable and melancholy. This man, who we will call, Popper, had a great job, engaged to a woman, great musician, has important goals, and pursues anything he sets his mind to. The only problem that Popper possess’ is his insatiable want for drugs. He will amount to 300 dollars per week in pills and if he feels really frisky, per day! Now that seems to be an unwanted problem for most people, but the sad thing is, it is the same for him, but he attained a dependency. He quit using for two weeks with the worst side effects of any other drug there is. Opiate withdrawal is a bitch. Diarrhea, stomach cramps, cold sweats, body aches, even hallucinations.
Popper gets off work and drives straight to his parents house and slowly bogs down his loving mother into lending him money, while she gets the purse he takes money from a cookie jar that is always filled with twenty’s. Alone and desperate, he drives to the vacant streets of southwest Detroit to purchase some of his tablets of destitute, yet he cannot wait to take them. He needs them. He arrives on sight like a maniac running from a crime scene of which he was the main culprit. “You got a card?” is what he would say before even uttering the gentle, kind words of hello. What the card was used for is to crush any pills so they can be taken through inhalation. A force that is soon to be reckon with. A deviated septum, ah who gives a shit? The card is a symbol of war, a smear of fate, and a mark of carelessness. The card crushes the pills like the union army crushing confederate arrogance from the depths of the Emancipation Proclamation. It forms the white powder strung across the table like an analgesic desert that provides bodily servitude. The fate lies in the hands of this card, this card that, in reality, permits one to drive, or to buy a beer. It creates a world of hunger, starvation for the next fix, that next essence to fill that void. Carelessness rings from this void. It is en empty hole filled with needs, pessimistic needs. Oh my dear, dear friend.

You always wonder what’s on the other side of that wall. It’s basic human instinct to behold that level of curiosity to nestles itself tightly into the depths of your mind. If you do not possess this than you are either dead or almost deceased. I found out that the old guitar player joined my cousins band today, poor soon of a bitch.
I am going to develop a little mini story that I think will sink into you:

In a small English village, there is a small boy with an imagination that only Lewis Carroll himself could tap into. Nigel Pullman is one of many children that possess a want to venture, a want to flee. The village lies on the southern bank of Liverpool, just down the road from the Albert Dock. The town has an assortment of activites to do that leave the children bored and lifeless. Nigel, along with his brother, gets out of school and ventures down the road to his house along the water. His mother a wonderful homemwaker and his father a brilliant physician meet he and his borther at the door questioning there antics.
“Where have you been?” says the mother
In a ghastly daze, Nigels brother blurts out. “Nigel was walking along the pier line again, I did not want to, but he made me do it.”
“Is that so?
“Yes it is”
In a swift, slap to the back of the head, Nigel falls to the wooden floor feeling a blurry blackness in his head that covers his eyes, the type that happens when you lose your breath.
“Ouch, he is lying.”
“It doesn’t matter you are both late,” syas the mother, “You are both going to pay for this later on, but for now get to the piano! Your lessons started an hour ago.” Scorned the mother.
The boys walk to the piano with the heads between shoulders almost as if they are trying to kiss their chest.
“Why do we have to play this stupid thing?”
“Because I said so!” roaring from the front landing.
The boys being to play the piano when a lonely little book falls from the shelf that protrudes behind, towering over the piano like a skyscraper to a convenience store.
Nigel flees from his seat to see what that ghastly book was. Nigel was not to fond of books, being that his mother spoon-fed them to him since birth. The book that fell was David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. Curious on what caused the disruption; he scans the potential culprit, but notices nothing out of the ordinary.
“Well there seems to be nothing, the piano must have vibrated the book pretty well huh?”
“Yeah, probably” says the brother.

I sit here lieing in the pool of wallowing looking for the cohesion between me and another askew indivdual such as myself, but I cease to find that person. There is always the notion of getting help, but who wants to see a quake? I mean what do they know? It’s not like they spend thousands of dollars to study the mind for no reason. I don’t need Dr. Helper; I have my music.
Music, nothing hits the spot like brushing off the dust on that old record player, popping in your desired record, and making love to the pleasant sounds running rampant in your mind. It’s the antidote that I need to cure this melancholy emptiness. Liam screams at me to hold on, hold on. Maybe he is right, why should I continue to cry my heart out. There are better days ahead of me.
I walk, languidly through the forest of the wooden boom. The trees intertwine like long sticklike fingers caressing the darkness. They possess an almost demonic smile that shoots through you like bullet cutting through flesh; it almost feels like that even. A creature runs by, but it is dark and eerie, definitely not light enough to go chasing it through the woods like a perverted paparazzi. Frightened, I reach in my cloak and de-cloth, suddenly feeling the sweat from my forehead drop to my forearm, but I remain chilled and idle.
The wing blows a kiss of death at me. I feel like I will meet Puritan Hester Prynne if I continue any further, but that is a risk I am willing to take.
I come to a mound of manure that seems to still be hot. It is scorching to be exact, continue on this path is the chosen rule. We’ll I walk I glance around the forest noticing every single tree that rubs it’s faulty fingers on the back of my neck and hair and feel violated by nature itself, but I cannot quit this notion. I must continue on my way. Every little branch and dried out fern cracks under my feet like a school of dried out bugs waiting to be sacrificed to the woods. Wait! I hear a noise coming from beyond that glistening maple tree. It is unusually shiny for a tree in such an atrocious part of the reserve. I stumble around the tree because of the tight ferns that join their leaves to create a synthetic trip wire.
Beyond the tree facing northwest of the shining glimmer of maple wood is a man lying motionless on the ground. I run to the man worried that he may be seriously hurt and require medical aid, but my greatest fear did not arise. Always an over thinker, I tend to be. I shake the man with a gentle sway, but he does not arise. I again shake him, but with the force that you would shake a small child when you punish them, yet again he did not arise. Finally, I used all my might and poked at his side, he coughed and spit onto the ground. Slowly, he begins to stand on his feet and I ask him if he needs any aid, he respectfully declines. The man is wearing tight blue jeans with a dirtied V-neck white shirt that seems ripped at the seams of the throat. There was also an unbearable scent that was irradiating off the man’s lower body. I asked him if he was wearing shoes and again he declined.
The sight that I have just experienced disillusioned me, but not even the pinch can wake me from this slumber. The man stood up and looked at me confused and in agony.
“Your name?”
“Stephan, and yours?”
“I-I don’t know”
“Well, what do you mean you don’t know? You don’t know your name or are you still in a daze?
“I-I don’t know….”
“Well let’s get you some help, can you walk?”
“I am afraid so.”
We begin to walk through the brush and back through the haunted hell that would spawn more diabolic plants, whose roots shoot out like tridents into the cold dead dirt. After a significant amount of time, we find a rode at the edge of the woods. The sun begins to set in the west, so we must make our way to the road as fast as possible.
We arrive at the road, with a minimal amount of time to spare and walk about a mile before a car pulls to the side of the road. It is an old beige van that has a series of dents in the side and looks like a work truck.
“You guys lost?”
“Yes sir we are”
Well Where are you headed? It would be foolish of me to leave you to walk this dark road alone.”
“We are looking to go to a hospital.”
“Oh great, there is one about 5 miles down the road hope in. Sorry about the equpment I just finished a job, in the boonies. A little late night overtime, hard on the body, wonderful on the wallet.” Chuckled the driver.