Terminal Velocity.

Probably the worst thing about the accessibility of the internet is that there is so much thought floating around.

Let me rephrase that.

Probably the worst thing about the internet is that every jackass with a keyboard can fill it with their uneducated opinion with little or no regulation.

Oops. This is a free blog, huh?

And there's that fourth wall we all know and love.

The two-way mirror that is literature; suspension of disbelief.

As if creating a good thought wasn't hard enough, now we've got to check through thousands of pages of mindless and meaningless clutter on the off chance that we're stealing someone else's "work". Every foolish myspace comment or blog entry is a potential block in your metaphoric creative maze.

Where's the cheese?

Somewhere in between the Two Cities.

This is a generalization.

It's easy to care for the well-being of your fellow human beings, or at least to take that side in an argument. There are many strong agreements to the notion that "life is precious", and society has molded such that the insane are the ones who do not value life and the sane are those that place it on the highest of pedestals.

It takes more courage to face the music, and to suggest that death is a necessary thing, and that there must always be the weak and the strong, the rich and the poor, the haves and the have-nots; as opposed to the belief that we are all equal. Society generally takes one side of this argument, and morality has it's deathgrip on your strings. You are all brainwashed, in one way or another. The only difference is that the very society that has you thinking like tools tells you that this brainwashing does not exist. So not only are you oblivious to the fact, you actually believe that it is under your own free will and that you are in control.

It's the same way with politics. The politician who suggests that we need to impose a tax on gas to reduce our dependancy is not elected, because the public is too short-sighted to realize the noose that they themselves are tying. Society was created by man and thus, it is fallible, much like the religion that suggests the fallibility of man. What has become accepted is in place because someone else said that it was accptable. Likewise with things that are considered inappropriate or obscene, it was based off of the moral code of others.

Do you feel bad breaking the law? Do you obey the speed limit because a jury of your peers created the traffic laws? The strongest weapon on the Earth is the human mind, as it is the creation of all that you take for granted. However, that weapon is what contains your weapons, indirectly of course. Those laws were created by the human mind, and the ignorant obediance of such policies limits your mental capacity.

And right now, I seem like a self-righteous bastard because I question the moral fabric of society. I'm not saying that laws do not have their purpose, only that the blind adherence to such policies is true lunacy.

Not so much the sweetness.

What do you want out of life? Some may find it admirable to be "honest" and to say "I'll take it one step at a time", and others may find it impressive or foolish if one has his or her life more or less planned out.

Either way, they're tools. It's so rare to find someone who is otherwise unconcerned with social standing and the opinions of lesser life forms. Of course, am I saying this to impress you, or because I feel that I am above you all? Then again, if I am truly above you all, what do I need to concern myself with you for? Then again, would I propose this argument if I was simply entertaining a notion, or am I trying to wake you all from that pathetic slumber and security that is everyday life?

Got an opinion yet? Good.

What I want out of life is subject to change, that should go without saying. Currently, I could do without some things, or people for that matter, and it may be beneficial for me to eliminate a number of habits or people from my sphere of consciousness. What could I do without? Self-consciousness, what little guilt remains, shame, susceptability and fear. Who could I do without? None of you, be certain of that, and that's all that concerns you.

So, what I want out of life is my happiness. I take no vicarious pleasure out of the successes of others, and I don't wish to build for another, letting the benefits of my efforts be reaped by the supposed leader of my sheep. The master of the herd is the one who commands the sheep, yet concerns himself with their safety. Not their happiness, but their safety.

At present I am faced with a dilemma, and quite the dilemma it is. It is not to be or not to be, but whether to be with or not to be with. To be a social monstrosity or to be a hermit? If I want to be comfortable, do I do it alone or do I depend on others to mold to my needs? If I despise my fellow human beings and seek to destroy my comrades, do I do so by denying them my presence, which I believe is quite the thing to be missed, or is it better achieved through clever social manipulation and clever tactical movement into a position of power, from which I destroy the fortification of chumship from the inside? Duality is quite the notion to consider, isn't it?

Every coin has two faces. The trouble is, you can only see one at a time.

The master of any craft spreads his craft so that he may find an equal, and that, in time, usually spanning thousands of generations, there may present a challenge.

But when is the master the student? No prodigy is born to create. Prodigies manipulate what they touch, they take what they are given and make the most out of it. Lemons to lemonade.

All the while, you stare at the tails, while the head mocks your existence.

And yet, it's not concerned with us.

Import.

"The tracks lead here." Said the Indian, in his hoarse and firm voice. It's important to remember that he was, indeed, a Native American, because it would be otherwise impossible to tell. He wore a Woodstock shirt, stained with what seemed to be buffallo sauce, and cutoff blue jeans.

"I know," was all that his short companion could manage to say, "we've been here for three hours." Taking long breaths and gripping the upper bridge of his nose, he spoke again. "Every time you try to find out where the tracks lead, and it's always to the other set of tracks. And then you try to find out where those lead, and it's always to this set of tracks. I thought you were a qualified tracker."

"I am. My name means 'One with nature', it is my duty to be the tracker for my tribe."

"Well then get tracking! We only have a few more minutes of sunlight left!" Exclaimed the short man, obviously intent on finding his prey before the sun set.

"Well then, let us observe that pair of tracks over there." The Indian stated, in a way that almost made it sound like a new idea.

"But we've already looked at those tracks, and they lead back here."

As the Indian observed the tracks, he paced back and forth along their path. After a few minutes of observation, he began to analyze the situation aloud.

"These tracks were left hours ago... they seem to be a man's tracks, running, by the looks of it."

"I. Know. That." Grunted the short man, gritting his teeth in frustration. "I told you that a man stole my wallet and ran through here several hours ago. Can you please help me find out where he went?"

"These tracks offer no insight, let us observe the other pair." Suggested the Indian, seemingly forgetting the fact that he had checked those tracks merely minutes before. The purple sky soon lightened, transitioning into a deep crimson and then into a vibrant orange, finally springing into a lively yellow.

"We must rest, my friend," offered the Indian, "I fear that the answers that you seek are not here, and it is getting late."

All the while, the bald man stood in shock.

The Shotgun Shine.

Isn't it ironic, the inverse relationship between stress and success? Some people stress out because they aren't successful, which leads to the further decline of their productivity. And yet, they can't seem to relieve their stress until they have succeeded in something. Too bad for them. Shape up or ship out.

As long as we're on the subject, when did people decide that it was cool to try and be a deviant? How long has it been braggable to visit a shrink because you feel depressed? I find it funny, in that infuriating sense, the way that some people whore themselves out for attention by mocking a serious problem.

It's not like that comment was aimed at anyone; certainly not.

---

The four of them sat on the pier, watching the waves crash, the moonlight catching its mark on the iridescent water below. The warm summer air mixed with the cool ocean breeze and the chill that radiated off of stray drops of water to create an ever-changing environment. One minute they were too hot, so they would strip off their outermost layer of clothes, only to replace them at a moments notice. To an outsider, the entire operation would look ridiculous, but the four of them laughed at their discomfort and quickly shuffled clothes on and off. A desperate outlooker would also think that Rick was the luckiest kid in town, hanging out with three of the most gorgeous girls that any kid at the school could name, ripping their clothes off and consuming more alcohol than they knew what to do with.

Granted, that last action gets you some attention after a while. At first they were cautious, keeping their liquor in a cooler several feet away and sneaking a drink whenever there wasn't a watchful eye, but that cautiousness faded as the alcohol began to take effect. In fact, it didn't take long before it got really out of hand. Soon enough, they were offering drinks to any passers by and, acoustically, what was once a low hum had turned into a drunken orchestra.

They were young enough to make that mistake, but they were old enough to know that flashing lights and sirens means trouble. Angela, Rachel and Debbie all kept their cool; Rick was otherwise incapable of keeping his underwear clean. Slipping off the dock and trying to escape, Rick hugged the rocks on the side and clinged for dear life. Eventually, the sirens faded and he could barely make out the lights, so he scaled the rocks, keeping his eyes peeled for an authority figure.

Of course, I'm sure you can figure out what happens when a drunken teenage boy climbs a twenty-foot rock face above the ocean, all the while distracted, right?

"Lucky".

Ride the stream.

When did taboos become taboo? For that matter, when did society and culture first develop? It's easy to trace the lifespan ideas such as racism and mysogyny because history records the terminl points of such practices. But what about those basic laws that span all cultures? The laws that we have come to know as "thou shalt not [law]", when did those come into effect? Come to think of it, let's leave religion out of this, as it skews our perspective too much. Admittedly, my faith, or lack thereof, comes into play in most of my moral standards. And since we can't all seem to agree (or agree to disagree on matters of faith), then religion cannot be called to the witness stand. That isn't to say that we can't observe religion through a historic microscope, it only assumes that "God created the Earth and told Adam to be nice" is too biased a viewpoint to be considered eligible for the discussion.

It is socially unacceptable to be naked in public. It is similarly unacceptable to steal, kill, fornicate with the spouse of another, lie, tell brutal truths, hate, assault another, or to express violent tendencies. But because this viewpoint is nearly universal, it cannot be accredited to any one source. Citizens of China during the Xia Dynasty, dated 700 years before the Exodus and therefore, the Ten Commandments, kept social order by a system of laws.

Conversely, if you look at children, free of social corruption, they know no laws. Until they are taught otherwise, children will steal what they desire, they will lie and they won't pull any punches.

So morality isn't encoded into out DNA, seemingly. But the question is still there, at what point were these laws set forth?

As a side note, and in closing, I have found irony in its greatest form to date. It relates back to what our "fearless leader", "noble captain", or "reverend doctor" had to say about opinions, and how we are force-fed opinions and how nobody thinks for themselves nowadays.

Headache.

Giglioronisonifoniconinin... I mean... Lexicon...

You can't win in the game of life. There's no goal, there's no card combination you can play, no way to make yourself the last player in the game and retain your sanity, or other circumstances to meet in order to "win" at life. You can only not lose.

The way I see it, not everyone has come to this conclusion. Even if they have, they still retain at some level of consciousness, or lack thereof, the notion that they can "win" at life. Absolute victory cannot exist on that grand a scale, and the closest people to winning are serial killers. Winners win by eliminating losers, right? In what game do the losers win as well as the winners? What competition, save the special olympics, has the losers grinning just as much as the winners?None. So, I retain that mass murderers are the only true winners in life. But they end up behind bars or pushing up daisies anyways, so they lose.

My new goal is to not lose. As long as there's some pathetic shell of a human below me to propel myself away from the pathetic shell that they propel themselves off of, ad infinitum.

So, there are two ways that this can logically work out. I can either, a) lose by not meeting my goal in which case I am a loser despite my best efforts, or I can b) succeed with marginal or vital results. It's much easier to come to grips with things that way.

So, if I lose, I lose. If I win, I win. If I don't lose, I win. If I don't win, I don't lose. This is of course, deviating from the common belief that not winning is the same as losing. This gives me approximately a 50% higher chance to win and a subsequent 50% lower chance to lose.

Do I want the 4-3 house with the ocean view and the expensive car in the driveway? Sure. But as long as there's someone more pathetic than me in this world, I haven't lost.

---

"Too many people are insecure and self-conscious nowadays. Hell, what am I saying nowadays?" Questioned the boy in a very critical tone of voice, tossing the errant waste into the dumpster behind the plaza. "Like I was around when things were different."

"You know what's amazing? The average American has a Lexicon of only five to seven thousand words." Replied the deviant woman, seemingly off-topic and in a very instructive manner. It wasn't rude or without proper recognition to the boy's statement, it merely suggested that his suggested that his topic of choice was understood, a silent "point taken". To anyone else, it would have seemed incredibly rude or inconsiderate, but this was their bond. Although she was still a girl by relative comparison to most, she was a woman when compared with him.

"Lexicon?" Inquired the young man, raising an eyebrow in a generally quizzical fashion as his hair shook in the wind. "I'm not familiar with the term. I've only heard it in the song 'Save the Population' by the Chili Peppers."

"One's Lexicon is their vocabulary, put shortly." The woman explained, as she would do several times each night, passing on knowledge from her twenty-some odd years of life onto a protégé of sorts. Each night they would discuss some new topic whilst subconsciously realphabetizing shelves or processing small sleeves of data, as it was second nature by this point. "It is also the level to which you can accurately adjust your method of speech to cleverly manipulate the situation." She continued, pausing only to take a drag on her cigarette.

"Like Neuro-Linguistic Programming?" The young man suggested, locking the dumpster and turning the key to the compactor before making his way to his workplace. "Only in this scenario there's no immediate goal except to more accurately express your thoughts via syntax and word choice?"

"In a way." She declared, effectively ending the conversation, or at least shifting its focus.

"Hey, wanna see something gross?" Proposed the boy, his hands unbuttoning his uniform shirt in preparation for the predicted answer. There was no stimulus that caused him to suggest this, save the general notion that it might bring some enjoyment to their otherwise boring night.

"You know it takes quite a bit to-" Was all that she could manage before losing control and interrupting herself. "Oh sweet Jesus!" She exclaimed, observing a large scab, roughly the size of the base of a soda can on his back. "What the hell did you do?"

"I don't know, that's the thing," the boy explained in some strange mix of enthusiasm and concern, "You think it'll scar?"

"Have you been picking at it?" She asked, slightly taken aback by the mark.

"You think I can reach?" The boy said, again filled with some strange enthusiasm.

"How the hell did you get that?"

"It just sort of showed up," the young man resolved. "Like, I woke up and it was there."

"At least I know where my scabs come from..." She stated, obviously amazed that her co-worker could not account for his own bodily functions. "You should put your shirt back on, in case there's a customer that comes in."

"I would love it if that happened." Explained the young man, a smirk spreading across his face. "Just imagine, you walk into a store that's virtually dead and you see a man putting his shirt on and fixing his belt, all the while his hair is messed up and his female co-worker is smoking outside." He let out a hearty laugh as she cackled in a very sardonic fashion.

Their laughs slowed to chuckles and those faded into faint hums in the minutes that followed.

"Now, go back inside and re-alphabetize the PS2 section, I need to do Title On Hands in the morning and I need to do less work if that's all nice and shiny." She said, still smiling and humming happily from the man's joke several moments before.

"So, I need to work simply because it makes you work less?" The young man submitted in a half-defiant, half-sarcastic nature.

"Or you can sit on your ass and get less payroll hours less week." She replied, nonchalantly and completely without bias, stressing the situation less as each word passed her lips.

"You're lucky I respect your opinion, you know that?"

"Just shut up and do the walls."

The next morning's tasks were processed easier than before.

Hitting the other extrema.

They sat there, the two of them, just eating pizza. The day was terrible, James had lost his night job and Victoria got two flats because of a board on the highway. And yet, the two of them sucked it up and ate pizza. It was like their comfort food; they had gone to a pizza place on their first date a few months back, if that meant anything. The staff was kind, or impatient, enough to let them have the pizza for free, as they came in three minutes to close. "Just get out of here fast" was the rugged man's request, and they made good on it. It was kind of funny, for such a humor-devoid situation.

Oh, and he found ten bucks in the parking lot.

Elitism, it's not bad, per se.

Look at them all, so willing,
So indifferent towards doom,
Take my place on the killing fields.

The fields of death,
Where unthinkable perils await,
Blood flows like a vicious tide.

These strangers fight for me,
Not with me, not against me,
For me.
They are mine.

Yours?

Mine. Blood that breaks and blood that binds.

Unite us now and we will be divine.

Take my left side, my strong side,
But still my weaker one.
For I am Sagramore.

Crack it, split it, cleave them in two,
So willing to take a crippling blow,
They stride and they leap in your defense.

Is it wrong?

It is not my concern-

But they die for just cause-

Aye, for your life-

Nay, for my amusement-

They are your toys-

My friends-

Your play-things-

My allies-

Our Guardians.

Life is easier figured this way-

We must exist-

I have a higher purpose-

We've come so far-

Statistics rue your existence-

Our existence-

My success.

They are weak,

I am strong,

Together we are perfect.
So comes and goes the eve of man,
Seeking recognition,
But we need none,
For our name goes,
Where no one knows,
And words have no rendition.

I'll be their leader,
One with an agenda,
And I'll be the best there was.

They'll see it coming,
And yet if they oppose you,
Then they are the evil ones.

Perfect.

Sieve.

Like sands in the hourglass, time,
Each grain glistens in the light,
Each one, like another grain of regret,
Lost oppurtunity, pessimism takes flight,
When the final piece falls, life is your debt,
Death cares not for good will or crime.

Or each grain allows for some more,
Time is no countdown, tick,
What's left is no concern, tock,
All that you mind is life's next trick,
Enjoy the ride and never mind the clock,
Ignoring the impending doom that we seem to abhor.

And when there's none left, let there be some
Time to reflect, appreciate or regret.
Me? My time here is through,
I stand here a completed man, yet,
It's lonely alone, with naught but this view,
I guess, then, I'll wait for the masses to come.

Until that day, I can only dream,
Where are they now? What do they do?
We'll have much to discuss when they arrive,
Amongst the crowd there must be a few,
For which it is worth my time to stay alive.
I must be insane, or so it would seem.

Success through accomplishment.

Thirteen were seated in a heightened peu,
One on a pedestal, balanced by a scale,
Three in classy suits, one versus two,
The End and The Means, neither posted bail.

They could afford no help, they knew no law,
Disections, objections, injections and perfection,
Tried for each and every little flaw,
Undergoing a furious self-cross-section.

The law states that the two shall have death,
Or life without mercy, encaged,
For an act as long as a breath,
Against all justice, the two die enraged.

There is no victory, no cup of grace,
There is no pain, just absence of pleasure,
Behold! The Dawn!
One last sunset.
Sleep.
Slip into slumber.

Opposing views.

There were three of them in the car: the dreamer, the goddess, and the drunk.

On that note, there might as well have been two of them in the car, the drunk only gave them purpose to be out. She was passed out in the back seat, being chauffeured through the night after a night of hard partying, perhaps a bit too hard. The dreamer was driving, his eyes reluctantly focused on the road, his mind obviously elsewhere. Then there was the goddess, sitting in the passenger seat staring attently out the window, as if looking for something.

Occasionally, the dreamer would take his eyes from the road to look at her, flicking the filter of her late cigarette out the window and igniting another. It was safe, the roads were surprisingly barren for this time of night. The road was relatively straight as well; save the intermittant rotation of the wheel, one could simply drift and enjoy the scenery under the moonlight. Eventually, they spoke. There was no awkward silence, it was all comfortable. There was no fiddling with the radio or keeping busy, the two of them simply smiled at the silence, reveling in the moment.

The goddess was the first to speak. "They say nature is chaotic," she remarked, the words slowly slipping off her tongue, "but if you look out there you won't see war, or death, or evil. It's all calm."

"But chaos doesn't need to be loud," the dreamer replied, "chaos can be as simple as a series of changes."

"Chaos isn't the right word... tonight has no-"

"Sin?" The dreamer suggested, offering an equally suggestive look, the nature of which was predictable under the circumstances.

The goddess laughed quietly to herself, like she would to many of his jokes. It was the perfect volume, loud enough to confirm that he was amusing her but quiet enough so as not to overemphasize the joke. Truth be told, it wasn't really a joke, but he played it off as one.

They kept driving, talking, not chatting, but legitimately conversing over certain subjects. Eventually, the dreamer fixed his focus entirely upon her, and her on him, until the familiar blare of a siren filled their ears and flashing lights interrupted the otherwise calm setting.

"Shit..." Said the dreamer, shifting his attention to the speedometer, which read fifteen over the limit. He wasn't worried, only slightly aggravated. "Hide the radar detector," he dictated quickly, "just stick it in your purse or something." He did all the things that he was told: he kept his seatbelt on, put his hands on the wheel, took out his wallet, turned on the light and, most importantly, shut his mouth.

"Any place you were goin' in such a hurry, boy?" Came the voice of the policeman, blinding the dreamer with his flashlight.

"Just dropping her off at home," said the dreamer, motioning to the back seat, "sir." He added smoothly.

Two minutes later, they were on the road again. All it took was a little smooth talking and some logic to get out of that bind. Yet another two minutes passed, and they arrived at their destination. The dreamer and the goddess exited the car and heaved the drunk into her house, preparing some kind of excuse to give, only to find the house completely empty. After dropping the drunk off in her bed, the two of them made their way to the car.

Distractions happen.

About half an hour later, they were on the road again. Somehow, the night sky seemed darker, even though midnight was several hour prior. Thinking nothing of it, the dreamer and the goddess made their way south on a simple suggestion.

"Let's go get some Denny's." The goddess suggested enthusiastically, obviously hungry and having not eaten for several hours.

"Sounds good," replied the dreamer with a smirk, "let's go."

The streets had become eerily vibrant for that hour, and there was an unsettling feeling in the air, the kind that would deter a spiritualist from traveling. They continued to speak, from the heart, and giving each other their full attention, for several more miles. That's when the tragedy happened. Without warning, the headlights on the car flickered out, leaving the pair blind to the lines and signs on the road, and forced them to rely on the headlights of others. Lacking control of himself, the dreamer slowly let the car drift to the left. His last moments were spent as an observer, watching as his body refused to respond, despite the raging wails of car horns and the furious burning of headlights in his wake.

Crash.

I'm Free To Be Encaged.

The hardest thing to examine without a bias is oneself, we can all agree on this, I'm sure. Another thing that I will assume you agree with me on to fit my purposes (don't you just love that?) is this: your personal perception of another is biased and hard to change without your consent. Thus, I conclude that my personal recounting of my persona and existance will do little more to sway your opinion than that which you have seen already.

There's the catch.

I can't wait to be an adult. Do you know why? Adults, seemingly, have no cliques. That's it, that's what I can't wait for. Why? Because from the moment that I entered school I have been classified, not as an individual, but as a variation of the mold that typifies my group of friends. But I am an individual, and I can guarantee that there are things that have occurred in my life that my friends have never experienced.

But we're only together for another sixty-some-odd days, and then it'll be years until we're unified again. Isn't that weird?

So let's get to know each other, you know... like adults. You don't need much in common just to shoot the breeze and talk with someone, just open yourself up, learn a thing or two.

I'm tired. Work. Bleh.

Go go Gadget Improv!

I wrote a haiku
while waking up this morning
tennis match last night

Written in a different style, I think you can tell.

[Author's Note: This was fun as hell to write. This style has strained the fiber that is my- dammit, I'm doing it again.]

Marcus: I am taking my leave of you. Thrice has mine heart been pierced by the vices you so willingly wield: lust, avarice and pride, intertwined and oblique, and thrice have I fallen as a fool at your feet, giving welcome to pain unspeakable and marks on my heart, blemishes of alleged adulation.

Angela: Might I make amends for those actions, I beg of thee: extenuate and obliterate these wrongdoings, 'twas hardly my intention, for adultery is high treason on love, the most sacred item in this world.

Marcus: Items! Items! Hold your tongue, for love is not an item, as I am not an item. As the petal of a rose, so caught in a morning draft is no item, neither is the love that I had felt for thee. Communal items are naught but items, just as I held that you were no item. Now that facade has faded, averting these eyes towards truth! Exterior siren, interior witch, I cannot fathom the depths of Abadonn that await thee, and I cannot wish the least of them upon any man, save not the knave that shall end my very existence.

Angela: You speak anger; regain yourself lest you raise undeniable remarks!

Marcus: I speak truth, not anger! Anger would not allow thee to beckon me here today! Anger leaves a trail too easy to follow, killing all in its wake and conflagrating all interferences!

Angela: You are beside yourself Marcus, take leave of me and ne'er return, lest your head clear and thesis pierce thy deep crown! Such treacherous thoughts I cannot bear, I prithee, defile my ears no more!

Marcus: I take my leave of you! I need not bid you adieu, for I sha'nt return to this domain of lies.

[Exeunt Marcus]

Angela: Under what light did I suggest my love to him? Under what pretense does affection contrive from care and value, courtship from friendship and love from mere concern? Was I assertive; was my display so lewd to suggest that he was my desire? For how long hath he chased me, making destination between these sheets of mine? What actions have this infatuation, nay, this obsession, corrupted? If t'weren't for my love, then why? But he knows, he must know, my engagement. We speak of it all too much, and he knows it all. My problems may as well be his, as his mind deals with each a near-equal concern. What have I done, what have I done?