propriety.

To innocently log onto this technological piece of paper once more.

To give out thought, feeling, suppression.

Like the drawing of blood from the mind and soul, to write is a passion, a frustrating
yet beautiful obsession.

Perhaps a flower, that takes much time to fully blossom.

Often it can show realistic desire, or endless dreams in-accomplishable.

But in end, for what is writing existent?

To invoke feeling?

To braver the fearful soul?

To hide under flawless facades?

Understandably so, are the ones whom write blessed or cursed?

Is it we who forever remain the observers of stories untold, unseen, unheard?

Do we not but forever search the endless plain of words to befit the connection between emotion and description?

Nevertheless, in doing so, do we unknowingly forbid ourselves from truly feeling?

Can the happy manner of a writer expose perhaps the true loneliness that
suppresses him or her?

Perhaps years from now I will look upon this moment with an ironic smile, which I suppose fits my ironic personality, but in doing so, will I truly be happy?

Is it a possibility? A simple desire? Or an ultimate goal..?

Questions upon questions, seeking upon seeking, and yet no eminent answer.

I honestly cannot find the true destiny in all that takes place.

Utter purpose.

Reason.

None.

Whatsoever.

Yet, my passion continues, and my steps lead more and more towards the path unknown.

The place of no premeditation, tireless calculation, or meaningless sensation.

I have yet to meet its inhabitants.

Ah yes, and I also visited Walmart the other day.

(Insert ironic chuckle.)

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a buon intenditor poche’ parole.

It is quite ironic how the post before this is the epitome of depression and pessimism, and 
this post pours optimism and mellow smiles.

But that is what life is, corect?

A correlation of beauty and irony, perhaps the dependent equation upon which we live on.

Without the bad, the good does not taste as sweet yes?

Home alone, Italian music plays along with the sweet smell of traditional romanian dessert. 

Humming along to the language that surpasses any combination of words or phrases, I smile, perhaps ironically, perhaps happily.

Two days ago, I found myself at the bottom of all hope.

Staring into the emptiness of faces and places, I did not feel the need to breathe much of the polluted air in any way, shape, or form.

Today I have drawn, I have cooked, I have hummed, and I have danced.

Indeed it is a lonely life for many reasons, but my utter belief in higher purpose keeps me going.

There is meaning.

There is reason.

Somewhere in this money driven world, there are people like me, like my friends, who dream.

Who dream of a better world, a more caring, more loving, more ambitious world.

Once believing I am alone in the cause, I realize as each day passes, that the youth of today is not forever lost.

There still is a chance, we are not ignorant, our opportunities just overwhelm us.

So many choices, so many possibilities, so many thoughts and chances.

A young mind can pass by so many beautiful opportunities and not even realize it.

We are given everything, from the beginning.

No longer do we need to fight for our passions.

This is where it is ruined.

This where we must work, remedy, and improve.

We must find ourselves before we find life, and purpose.

Perhaps I am a pessimist, perhaps I am naive, perhaps I am simply a hopeless romantic, but in all these thoughts and fears, I find myself happy.

There is a possibility that I am only happy when I forever wander.

I am always thinking, asking questions, and living further and further over the edge.

Just maybe this is my purpose.

To find, understand, and change.

And although I do have days in which the asking subsides my love for life, I do also have days such
as these.

A majestic contrast of good and bad.

An interest, a thought, a life.

Present, Past, Future.

Today was a good day.

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hiroshima veins.

Staring into the emptiness of their faces, my lip quivers with a certain disgust.

Specific to the situation, I stare into space as if forever waiting for logic.

Surrounded by no reason, giving up seems fancier as each day passes.

Local Nurse declares, it is only an emergency if you are hemorrhaging or have something broken.

It is a fucking emergency.

No, I am not bleeding. On the outside, at least.

I am bleeding inside.

Rage, Loss, and Confusion all float like the small cells of creation throughout my worn out veins.

Teacher, look at me and tell me you will give me information.

Give me information that will make me a smarter being.

Look right into my eyes and give me that.

Give me that.

That’s what I thought.

I look at their absent laughs, attempting to understand.

I am a hypocrite, a hypocrite in this entire life.

A true facade of fake and beautiful.

The sculpture the world artist molded year in and year out.

Purpose?

Hello parent, tell me what’s my lesson.

Look right through me.

As the beautiful melody would hum along, you will try and sway me, hope to god that I
will hear it, but you speak on ears deafened long ago.

Open the door to the world, expect me to be happy.

Expect me to hope.

Drop an atomic bomb for all I care.

We all deserve it.

Selfish, attention-needing, life sucking, uninteresting beings.

You want me to learn?

Oh. Trust me.

I am.

You want me to open my eyes?

Oh. Trust me.

I am.

Lock myself between the four walls, light a cigarette, personal poison and fair anger.

No expression.

No hope.

No need.

Am I learning?

Oh yeah.

I am.

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six wheels & two lips.

“What’s new Suzie Q?” as she picks up the lighter from the cup holder.

“You know, I am probably not going to forget this little escapade my whole life.”

“Hmm, you might not have that chance, dear sir.” as she winks at him.

He pulls up his pants and exits the car.

He seemed tired, and she did not want to risk any unplanned accidents.

“How do I know where to find you?” he yells while she drives away.

She brakes causing the tires to smoke sweet little forms.

“Trust me. If I need to, I will find you.”

The confusion on his face causes satisfaction in her secretive soul and as she drives away, he smiles ironically.

His wallet, license, and social security are all in her possession.

He thinks, “Yeah, I guess she can find me.”, while walking into the city of sin and fortune.

Changing gears, she pops the new “Fluke” CD into her stereo. An excursion of interesting proportion will take place, different than most, this is unplanned.

This is instinct.

This is desire.

This is Lust.

Her plump lips mumble along to  ”Snapshot” by her most favorite artists in sound and adrenaline, Fluke.

A beautiful blonde on the right side of the strip, a handsome fellow on the left.

Oh so many opportunities.

Oh so many.

Perhaps a good quality coffee is in order, you know, before the show begins.

Just a little.

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