I like trippy movies. I’ve known this for quite some time…maybe my whole life…I don’t know…but there’s something about them, you know, something unique. There’s something about listening to a room full of people go ‘what the fuck?!’ There’s something about making a thing that’s so addicting you have to keep watching, but so messed up that by the end of it you still have no idea what happened…yet somehow, you do know, somewhere deep inside you, you know, see, understand how something can be just that trippy and still make perfect sense. But I don’t know, I might be the only one in this, I am walking around in a ankle length yellow cloak here, I’m like a character in my own film, my own story, like I’m just a character in someone’s head, like I’m not real, and in not being real, I’m more real than anything else out there. Like I’m the color in a black and white movie, but I know I’m not, I’m too modest for that, at least I am until I go off into my own little world. That’s why I like stories, and writing, and music, and life, cause when I go off into my own world, everything different, everything’s the same, and nothing is as it seems. Life isn’t what it seems, and here I am, typing this, not knowing if I’m writing me or someone else, am I writing from another point of view, or my own?

I like freaky, I liked it when Andy wore those black an white contacts that freaked everyone else out, I like watching them take my blood at donation banks, I like the coat with all the patches that everyone stares at, I like the long haired guys and the black leather treanchcoats, and I like the weird. Life should be like an acid trip without drugs…I say people who need drugs to see weird shit don’t know what they’re talking about. All you have to do is look to find the weird, to find stuff you could never see with drugs…not that I know what I’m talking about, seeing as I’ve never touched the stuff, never want to, and only partially cause of the religious thing. I think even if I didn’t know god I still wouldn’t want to touch it, cause, well, either things would go normal, or things would go even more crazy, and I don’t know if I’d want to see that. My mind is enough of a fucked up place without it being messed up even more. I tell people all the time that they don’t want to see the inside of my head, and it’s true, and I like it like that, which is weird, cause I never really knew that about myself until this moment. I like everything to be fucked up. Heck, if I can make one person read all the way through something of mine, without wanting to stop, and have them still wonder what the fuck, then I’ll know I’ve done something, cause not everyone can do that, write addicting fucked up shit that not everyone will get, or read, or want to. There’s something about having a cult following..not that I know much about that, either, cause I’ve never had one, never seen one. I’m pretty sheltered here, really…never done…never seen..a lot of things…maybe that’s why I went to Britain, to un-shelter myself. It sorta worked, sorta didn’t, but left me feeling…I dunno…unreal…real…and not weird enough, in some ways.

Sometimes I wish I could stay in this mood forever, but it’s not possible, the moment I talk to someone, see something, do something, that breaks the mood, it’s gone like it was never there…and who knows, maybe it was never there to begin with…maybe none of us were, or maybe we were. Maybe that’s why I like Descartes, cause he admits that things might not be real, even if he ends up thinking that it does in the end. Who knows, maybe it’s us, flickering in and out of existence, and we just don’t see it, just don’t know it, and don’t understand cause we don’t know what existence is like, or what it feels like to not exist.

Maybe I am just a character in someone’s book, and this is how it starts…maybe I am…or maybe this is how it ends. Does it matter? Not really, cause the characters in books never see, never realize, that the story’s over. For them it only ends when they die, and even there, death is only the beginning. How clichéd is that? Death is only the beginning…maybe it’s the end of a start, maybe it’s nothing, just a transition somewhere else, or maybe it is just the end, but in any case, books don’t end, people do, attentions and pages do, but people don’t, they keep on living even when their dead.

Fuck, I’m almost to the end, can hear voices through the door wanting to draw me out, they don’t know it, but they’re uncomfortable with all the weirdness, all this philosophical weirdness, even the philosophy majors don’t see, don’t know, don’t understand how deep the rabbit hole goes.

What’s with me and the clichés tonight? What’s up with this? I dunno, don’t care, really, or maybe I do. Maybe I care more than I think, or know, or understand, and maybe I just sink into my own mind and stay there. And maybe I’m not here, but elsewhere, drifting into oblivion inside some bottle of alchohol somewhere, even though I’ve never been drunk, and maybe this is what Poe felt like, maybe this is why all his stuff was so weird, or maybe he was more fucked up than I was, dunno, who knows. This is as close as anyone is ever going to get to the inside of my mind…this is as close as it gets…anyone scared yet? Didn’t think so…even if you were, you would have left by now, left me to my own devices as my hands seem to know what I’m going to say better than my mind does, like something else is driving them forward, moving them forward, for me, instead of, with, me…or not… Maybe it’s my subconscious that my friend says doesn’t exist…I hope my subconscious exists, or I don’t think I do, I don’t want things to be just that obvious, I want things to be a little hidden, a little unearthed, a little weird, and a little crazy. I don’t want to go crazy, to be crazy, I just think normal is boring, that normal isn’t worth it. People want to be like everyone else, why? So they can get rid of their individuality and sink into the pit of despair? So they can see that, hide that, they know that their lives will mean nothing cause no one will ever see them as anything different from the rest of the cogs in the wheel? Not like there’s anything wrong in being a cog, I’m a cog, you’re a cog, I just want to be a bright yellow one in a sea of gray, that’s all…I hope I succeed, and even if I don’t, well, I still let out flashes of yellow now and again..whether you see it..whether you know you see it…and whether you want to see it, is an entirely different thing altogether.