 - Last login: 2 days agoJLarmor
- JLarmor is a 25 year old guy from New York, USA.
- Likes 58 pages, 4 videos, 4 photos • 14 fans • Received 3 reviews
- Member since Oct 27, 2006
the push forward is the complete inability to be content where we are, when we are.
Impatience is life, progress and the sunset.
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11/9/2004
Happy 22 years on Earth
Rolling along this outer spacial, anti-social continuum, poking my head in now and again to see that the air in Earth's social atmosphere is still breatheable. Obvious, strict adherence to the overruling social constraints and pre-established phenomenae of conformist, mindless lifestyle, consumerist mentalism, technological dependance and a resultant vector of laziness spiralling outward subdue the instinctual, chaotic psychoses crawling beneath bacteria-ridden flesh. Rentatively hording all these exponentially soul-damaging sentiments, all stuffed inward to the infinite receptacle of mind, body and soul, a being just waiting to explode and burst, a skeletal physical wasteland, a body of dereliction, regret. The cycle of days all repetitive regurgitations, slipping on my own timeless, etheral vomit. Backwards hats, cigarette butts, cosmetics, personal digital assistants juxtaposed against the raw potential of pen and paper, charcoal and rock. A coughing, wheezing existence, the hu-man plods along his evolutionary spiral staircase towards a future of uncertain comparative quality. Awkward mannerisms and diverted glances plague and beguile the lost man, the man-island, passing through the multiple lifestreams of individuals unknown; unknown nevertheless berated and dismissed, unnecessary duplicates in the mind of the Steppenwolf. Institutional anxiety, hyperactive paranoia and a retarded, catatonic demeanor* (find synonym) manifest in the early years of the new adult, craving an unknown refuge, an unsatisfied psychological hunger, some treasure in some form, some opportunity, a fresh experience worthy in both virtue and base, primordial nature*. A remedy to his self-loathing, a catalyst for a progressive thrust forward in the positive direction and not the negative. A jump start to resuscitate his interest and desire in his fellow man, some critical revelation hopefully on the horizon, to cure a manic ego too proud for cowardly suicide, too esteemed in self-worth and belief to throw himself away.
Or perhaps too tired.
His only recharge to his exhaustion being the assumed importance of his writings and drawings, his scrawlings and doodles. A secretly self-proclaimed genius, a perfectionist of thought, his verbal library outspoken each day is limited to trite formalities, disposable conversation of the most minimal, functionally simple, relational significance. "Happy Birthday Fuckhead, rather would celebrate its being-over than it's actual taking place, You're just one of millions of yawning, farting, self-stuffing bipedal fleshbags, six-and-a-half billion divided by three hundred and sixty-five gives you "X"; the approximate number of people who think they are special today."
Fuck, this existence I've carved out for myself is boring. Is it possible to emerge from this black-hole of depression? Why do I continue pave the road towards a later future of retrospective regret? Who gave me the alternative wiring, the reverse-engineering, the brain of a recluse, a eunuch?
Interestingly, this brings this monk to one of the most exciting, valuable, alive moments of recent, causes the butterflies in his stomach to wage civil war on one another, breaks his ego and disrupts his mental fortitude, rippling the deep, still waters of his thought. He often recognizes beauty which he wants more in possession than anything else. This stabbing internal affliction, a burning parasite of the heart making sleep uneasy, embittering existence. Drowning in torrents of jealousy, I don't acknowledge my greatest shortcoming, walking through city streets abound with public displays of affection, assuring myself of being a rebellious, misunderstood genius, not a scientific, brooding robot--not what I really see myself as.
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