I wrote the most beautiful of essays. Yes I take the possibly most annoying arrogance to say this. But this is not an essay. And now I’m not even sure if I ever did write any essay, so to speak. My oxygen-deprived, carbon-monoxide-fed lungs has temporarily shut away the old-school-Greenday filled air that needs to reach the depleting mass of tissues inside my skull. Fuck. Too much for a brainbleed. In short, I’ve had enough of that dumb-faced prosecution solon in the impeachment trial on tv. I smoked three cigarettes watching him insist shit trying to make a point but was just eaten alive by the monster leprechaun senator that I admire. For shit’s sake dude, you’re a lawyer. It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. And this goes for all of us taxpayers, they’re lawyers, it’s how they say it, not what they say. Nuff crap. I should have smoked those cigarettes while watching Maja Salvador dance.
For the past three days Urbandub has kept shouting to my ears through my stupid earphones that the fight is over, Steph Bloom has been singing in graceful irony that Kelly Clarkson cover, Coldplay has kept resounding poignantly in my head. We are over. It came from both of us. My ears can easily replace that with any song by Beck. I just don’t want to believe that because of our hard-headedness we can pretend we are ready to dump our plans and dreams, for Yuri. My dumb face and my currently stupid decision-making skills are not ready. I don’t think you are either. Because I have known you for this long now. But if you play this phase hard and keep the strong so-called will then this time out of want and love of Sesame Street and happy endings then be it yet still I will call on them fairies of our four-chambered involuntary muscles.
The angels have been sober and now they’re on booze again. Wether they drink in celebration or in mourning, I will stand from afar and watch as the same annoying-pedestrian-walking-contradiction-foul-mouthed-child-hearted-dopamine-addicted jackass. Another chapter in my life I call A Jar Of Beautiful Flies. Everything is a phase. Life plays the music, we dance to it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a good dance as long as you do. Life fucks us, we fuck back. And again like I redundantly say, we fuck back happy. In this chapter there are no battlescars but enchantmentprints. This chapter may be over but not my book. I am its author and it ends the way I want it to. This is not a blogpost to rant but to rekindle the creative juices that I have long ignored. This is not a piece to nurse any melancholy because it never exists in my arrogant mind. I could have just kept this in my head or in my dusty journal but I want to share it just in case I fool any of you into believing that happiness never leaves but is only covered by the cloud of misunderstanding in our hearts. And with this I end this fucking blogpost with my favorite line,
I am the master of my fate.
I am the captain of my soul.