Make BelieveGod and the Devilare playing Russian Rouletteinside my headand sometimes I wonderif the gun is even loaded.
The point is there is noneWhen you first start to see lifeas a curse, you’re shot down.Don’t give up, they say, you’regonna go far. They fill you withpromises that it’ll get good soonand guilt trips about howselfish you’re being. They tellyou “life gets better”but you realize after awhilethat that’s not true;life doesn’t change—you do.You grow up and your idealismgets sucked out of you andeverything that happened whenyou were a kid is still happening,but now you have better thingsto think about.Gotta get ahead in the world,go for that gustoeveryone told you about.So you break your back in college,get addicted to coffee and alcohol,fall in love and have your heartjackhammered a few times;get a job (that you likely hate)under a lazy boss who’s power-tripping;maybe you get married,propagate the species,have some weekend hobbies,some pets,a circle of friends.Then one day you ask yourself,“Now what? What is there
CheersHere’s to all those rude awakeningsthose things we swore we’d never do but did anywaythose silently deafening times and deafeningly silent timesand every decibel in between.Here’s to the nights we thought we were lostthe nights we really were lostand the nights we had nothing more to lose.Here’s to us spinning our heads in knotsover unanswerable questions like why we existedand whether this life was all we had.Here’s to when we realized dreams can be caughtif you only have the courage to chase themand sometimes when you let yourself fallyou discover how unbreakable you arehow unbreakable you always were.Here’s to every time you told me I had enoughto live for, just being meand to the moments you proved I didby being you.
Fuck your truth, I'll find my ownI have never understood the bipolarityof the world, how it gives you icewith one hand and fire with the other. Be proud of who you are. Pride is a sin. Seize your life. Go with the flow. Fear is a gift. Fear is the road to hate.
Our Kingdom ComeI have a theory.My theory is that when you die, as your life flashes before your eyes and your body puts up its last pitiful fight for life before shutting down, you realize what your purpose was, and that's when you know who you truly are.It's not exactly testable, which means professional scientists wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole, but I think in my condition a little baseless theory ain't the worst I could do.I'm 25 years old and dying.I'm going young, I know. I can't begin to tell you how many people are disappointed that I'm clocking out early. Can't say I wanted it is this way. If I could go back in time and prevent the accident from happening I would. But of course I can't, so all I'm left with is this: this hospital bed, these tubes, these slow, labored breaths, these thoughts. All these things that don't matter much because I can't take them with me.Then again, what can I take?What actually goes with you when you die?I have to be honest, I'm not all that b
Imagine ThisImagine this.You're driving down the interstate, right? Wind whistling through your hair, radio going, and all that jazz. So you're in your car, right? Eyes firmly on the road, when all of the sudden this truck up ahead of you turns and jackknifes. Just like that. Right in front of you. For no reason at all. No warning. No signal. No nothing. And you think to yourself, Ah shit, and you forget to hit the brake. You don't hit the brake and you plow right into the motherfucker. You just run right into him. Your chest goes into the steering wheel, your whole body jars and flops and you think, Oh God I'm gonna die.So after the impact you look around, right? Glass is everywhere. Your car’s dented. And you're bleeding. You're bleeding and you think to yourself, Of all the ways to die it just had to be like this… leaking to death on an interstate. It's so fucking unfair and pathetic. I mean who dies that way? But then you realize, it's over. You've already crashed and you're sti
PyromaniacI used to dream that I hadcandles growing out of my head,protruding like a clusterof white horns, eternally lit,dribbling wax masking my face.I would wake—sweating, panting—in the night and tiptoe outside,clutching a matchboxas if it were a holy book,where one by oneI would scorch my fingers blackand whisper your name—each flame across my skinaccompanied byyour image,your scent,your voicetelling me to stop hiding,please, for the love of God,stop hiding.
FiniteI sometimes wish you were small—so small you could sail this little model shipinto the clouds and never haveto look at a bowl full of put-out cigarettes again,or make those oh-so-obviousblack paper hearts that you teardown the center only toband-aid back togetherwhen I assure you, once again,that you’re not worthless.Remember the license plate you hadon that old blue car—the one that said DANCE?I wish you’d do that again;I wish you’d do it in the middle of that abandoned atticwith its weathered beams and emptinesslike we did as children, without shameand without purpose.You once said that everywhere you wentplaces looked desolate, as though the desolationshadowed you, clinging to your heals,encasing you like an egg you weretrying to break free of, your arm reachingfor the immensity of the sky—for a butterfly of hope.“I feel as big as the world.” You said thisone morning as you purposely spilled that cupof