Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

The Apneatic.

I am a man of fire.

I am a calm stream of thought prone to interruption by sporadic flares of action.

I am a rock thats been chiseled by flame with a jagged, solid surface left warm from it’s lashings.

I can unfalteringly prosaic and, in the same moment, retain the capacity to explode and send shrapnel outward — carving up the space around me.

I write the word “optimism” on my hand so my fire doesn’t turn dark.

I keep my breathing slow and even.

I am the ever-wavering apneatic.


Freeze those thoughts.

Your current achievements and failures have little to do with the determining of your pre-set magnanimous life.

You’re beautiful, charming, talented; a wealth of potential sits behind your oceaned eyes.

A small scale of it is already in view;  just wait until you hit the real world.

Skyscrapers will crumble upon the earth you walk.

It’s the same effect felt by the men that currently lie prostrate at your feet, whimpering.

It was your prevalence — it merely presented too much integral stress for their armatures to uphold.

And not once did I ever think myself worthy of even joining the other men in their tongue-in-cheek worship of you.

Throughout my role in society and in my life, the evidence to support my viewpoint is pervasive.

And now I am given the blind-siding revelation that all along I stood as the tallest skyscraper, untouchable.

This and the coupling knowledge that  my chance has long since expired.

At first, I admit complacency upon hearing the success of my attempts at conciliation through amiable fawning.

A boost in spirit that was severely transient.

This pernicious revelation has presented merely too much integral stress for my armature to uphold.

I too, have fallen prostrate.

And now the rubble and dust of my destructed body pungently fills the air.

These bits that fly in all directions — the leftovers of my destruction — exist as glycerin and turbulence.

They aim to incinerate whats left of me.

For my foolish levity, it is a fate well deserved.

I apologize.

For seemingly abandoning this site as of late.

But you must understand:

Life has been horrible.

Persistent, consistent, hopefully cognizant redefinition.

I hate these thoughts– the thoughts that keep me up at night; the same thoughts that wake me up in the morning. When I’m angry, I’m angry at myself. I punch walls when I’m angry at myself. This isn’t a release of anger, I realize, this is a low dosage of self-implemented pain. I get so angry at myself that if it were another person I was this angry at I’d want to harm them severely. But self-harm is unacceptable. But this anger is so great that I punch a wall. I punch a wall and focus my attention on the sharply retorting tendons overlapping my knuckles. *** I wouldn’t go as far as to say that I hate myself– however I don’t exactly like myself. I resent myself. I resent the decisions I make. I resent the fact that I use the guilt gained from the decision to feel sorry for myself. No, I don’t feel sorry for myself. Rather, I resent myself. *** I’ve found my own mind to be one of such skeptical standards that day in and day out I’m merely searching for something I can with resounding faith deem real. I wouldn’t suggest such a mind set to even my greatest foes. For the results of this search are for the most part unyielding with exception to laborious desperation, mistrust in everyone, and an unwavering self-resentment. *** I constantly view my fellow humans with misanthropic connotation. The kind of opinionated generalizations I detest. I detest people without morals, with misplaced morals, who disrespect woman, who disrespect men, who disrespect people who deserve respect, who make stupid decisions and then wallow in their fucking self-pity later on. *** I’ve spent so much of my life searching for something real. I’ve assimilated to countless environments in my search. I have told countless lies in order to gain trust and learn more of the people whom inhabit these environments. I have taken such a zealous cut-throat approach to discovering my reality that I have in doing so become a god damned fraud. I’ve become one of the people I detest. I’ve become someone to resent. *** There is a girl. When this girl speaks, when this girl looks me in the eyes– it feels real. When we are near– it feels real. She appears to exist as an obtainable reality to my skeptical mind. I view this as an enigma. For I know that she has lied to me. I know shes not fully honest. She never even really says what shes thinking about. But then again– neither do I. My skeptical mind has found some common ground to walk on. I believe that either I am real, and she is real; or she, in her search for reality, has become a god damned fraud as well. Which, for a fake, is a reality easily embraced. In either respect, I believe I love her. That is, if love exists. ***

“Mistakes you have made, son.. are merely that; mistakes. You redefine who you are every single moment of your life.”

Advertising and Commercial Design Class.

Is being spent listening to music and typing this. Greattt fun.

Post Script-

Throw some D’s.. on that bitch.

I also found a cheesy poem I wrote.

For you, holy flower, so sickeningly sweet-
I’ve beget my glory, I’ve a new man – become.
Pumped by my heart throughout – down to their capillarian roots,
A breathe of your scent is warmth within my lungs.

Oh how my fingertips wish to become feeble instruments of flattering angels;
producing tiny ripples upon thy porcelain skin.
Cursed by an affection so sequestered, so tangible.
Yet to break my focus from upon thine eyes – I’d be the most foolish of men.

They say that you, my flower, drape your sins in fields of white cotton.
They say my love for you holds no truer sorrow.
They say this warmth within my lungs is but a reddish haze – soon to be forgotten.
A hopeless romantic’s path I march, a brow beaten hope for a better tomorrow.

But you, my flower, crushing in your presence-
Produce a sensation known only to the ever-tightening prevalence withing my chest.
An elation worthy of ten thousand years persistence.
I’d feign friendship, liquor, laughter, rest.

If it were, that confidence in love could be learned from a book- then a thousand books I’d read.
I’d learn from their pages to cast myself in your eyes through the sweetness of lover’s lens.
You lips – my lips, your hands – my hands, your devotion – my creed.
Without you, my darling flower, my life would exist as a means to an end.

Let’s play catch up.

I apologize to my fellow writers for my lengthy hiatus. Junior year has been.. well, a bitch. To make up for my absence, here’s some stuff I came across scribble in corners of my journal. Keep in mind that they vary greatly.

*God is not a woman, he’s a big white man in the sky. Our deserts are reflections of his eyes. He doesn’t cry for us, and he does it’s because he’s drunk.

*I study the effects of developmental mental stress upon students, and observed the it breaks their confidence. Which I suppose makes them easier to deal with, at least to the parents of these test subjects. For if David believed he possessed no slingshot, I’m guessing he wouldn’t have attacked Goliath. They graciously accept the hand me down downs of the ones that gave them faith, gave them belief, taught them to hate, and taught them to drink when the thought process needs nullifying. Bullshit drama seems benign when compared to slowly dying.

*I down the last of the bitter liquids and repulse in it’s burning cleanliness, but gladly accept the godly courage that I feel I need to keep from choking up when I’m next to you. And to keep from giving into the thump, thump, thumping of the fuckdrum in my chest. Plus it’s hard to say something stupid or much anything at all with such lazy lips.