WHARVED

NaPoWriMo XIII

Stopped up, my ideas are stocked up on a shelf too high to reach. I need to stand on an eight-foot ladder, past the warning line and on tip toes, only three fiberglass legs planted firmly on the tile. If I get greedy and load up with solutions, I fall. If I leave well enough alone and creep back down the ladder, I feel like shit.

NaPoWriMo XII

P: For what it’s worth, I think you would make a lovely sheriff, deputy.

B: I believe that myself. But this old man over here won’t rest until he’s in his grave.

R: Quit complainin’. You got a pension, don’t ya? That’s all a man needs.

P: So you’re saying that dedication to your job only represents a dollar figure?

R: Not mine, his.

B: What do you take me for? I spend long hours putting up with your shit for a paycheck? Maybe you’re right. I quit.

NaPoWriMo XI

Can you wait just a minute?

I have to sprain my ankle
before the swimming coach finds out
I had fake school spirit in the tryout.

I really don’t give a damn if
the Bobcats win or lose, we’re
all a bunch of wet cats anyway.

Sure, I can swim. Better than the rest
of those paddling clowns. I’ll be out
at the lake if I really want to enjoy my time
in the water. Medals don’t float.

NaPoWriMo X

Butter up those onions.
You think flavor sticks
to your ribs without it?

I’ve cooked for ten thousand men
at once, four days a week.

You can’t tell me I don’t know
how to handle my kitchen.

I was flipping pancakes
before your daddy even gave up
his action figures, sport.

NaPoWriMo IX

Filled with the spirit of anticipated emotion and wrought
from the steel of our enchanted brethren, we collapse
before the final charade ever takes the stage.

So why do we care? Do we have a stake in the matter?
Are we rushing around for good reason, or are we
concluding too early that life is a challenge
to be conquered, beaten into submission?

Can’t we savor it just for a minute?
A minute is all I ask.

Disgruntled Yammering

Identifying the self with others (the public) as you truly exist with yourself and closest associations seems to be a farce; a production put on by your own self-interest in order to gain admiration from perfect strangers.

So why do I crave this attention (and make this blog post as an ironic twist)? Possibly because I was an only child / loner / weird kid in my more formative years, with the constant thought running through my head: “If only that big break could just happen for me, I’d look back on my tragic existence and laugh”. Of course, in order for anything remotely that fantastic / terrible to happen, a person must actually engage in their sphere and make waves. This is not my strong suit.

I worked on scrapping my ego a couple years back, only to find that most people label that as ‘depression’, and don’t understand why anyone would possibly do that. I learned a good many things from my existential struggles, and I can’t denote anything in particular at this moment (or ever, perhaps) that will adequately explain my journey within myself.

One thing I can say for certain is that my memories have lost the significance they once had. I don’t feel as tied to my past as I’ve observed with the behavior of most friends / family / random associations.

Stories, for me, are a way to describe a moment in the unbroken sequence of our lives, where we gained an understanding of something crucial to our existence at that moment. Sometimes stories are worth reliving because they can remind others of the best way to go about certain things. Sometimes they’re worth reliving because the teller wants to immediately connect with the audience and reach a common ground, testing the foundation for a grand edifice.

The ego is a delicate thing. Apparently everybody needs one, or they will starve by the side of the road. Everyone needs that “hey, look at me, I’m important” feeling within them somewhere, just so they can feel inadequate with the way they currently stand in their life.

Is this an innate thing, or have we been programmed over the generations to feel this way? I wouldn’t know where to begin researching that, because then I fall into the realm of conspiracy theory. So it goes.

This is my journal, I guess. I don’t ‘do’ journals typically.

But then again, I don’t have many pictures of myself in the past, virtually no video. I could be a clone of the old Aidan or a guy who looks a lot like him with similar mannerisms. Memories are a bitch that way, and I love to live in that ambiguity.

Ah, ranting. Is there any mood it can’t cure?

-Aidan