I like rocker music...
Head bangin bad assed eighties rock.
"Highway to hell!"
Especially when I'm reliving in my head my happy heydays of ripping around the countryside of a completely different world and being paid to do so.
Looking into my life with the aid of a couple of drinks and some time alone to wander around inside my head with the prodding of an outsider, it occurs to me that frankly, I shouldn't be alive and since I am, I'm most certainly lucky, and fucked in the head. However my luck seems to be, until recently, kinda uneven.
I've been in and out and back and forth in the adult world from the military to being a compusa nerd to running a high crime 7-11 to where I am now. I've survived being shot, burned, stabbed, fragmented, and left behind. My mind and body are somewhat whole, but the parts that are gone seem to have taken something from me in the respect that where normal men fear, I only become annoyed. where normal men tremble in fear and despair, I get angry, where the world quakes in wretched cowardice, I'm looking to settle a kill. What is wrong with me? Feels like my fear has been burned out by anger and the anger hasn't festered, but settled in like a wild animal that sleeps growling in it's cage with the door swinging loosely on two rusty hinges.
What exactly is fear anyway? That cold sweaty feeling you get on your palms and the bottom of your feet? The panicky feelings that some people get when they walk into a 7-11 and there's a person giving you the evil eye? The man who points a gun at you without angert, but resignation? I've forgotten how to fear it seems in normal ways. I fear for others, the ones who can't raise themselves into animals like myself. The flock as it were, and I am a sheepdog, only more feral. But what use does polite society have for such a sheepdog? The wolves stalk not in the quiet moonlight but in full sun, their teeth glistening and reflecting with the saliva that comes with the need for flesh.
I can still smell the grit and the rock and the sweat tanged stink of my buddies in that hot desert air out there. The laughter,t he bullshitting, the pure aggressive natures of men removed from societal norms and set loose upon the sheepdogs of other packs, modern day werewolves that wear ties and drink beer in their spare time back in the 'real world.' Some call it anxiety that I look and look for something that's not there when I'm looking for my old rifle but I call it trying to find a friend in this messed up world, someone I can depend on. Well, it's not a someone, but a something, but it's almost the same. My best friend was my rifle and I miss it somedays out there.
I am not a hero.
I never wanted to be a hero.
To be a hero means to live through and persevere through horrors no man should have to witness, smell, and touch. I never wanted to be a fucking hero. The hero always dies in the end, broken and alone and far away from the light he once held dear and what then? A flag from the White House, an old hand grenade, brass casings taken from the places heroism died off; killed by stark reality and bitter anger. What then for the hero? A news blurb on CNN about how so many war hero's are suffering in silence from their inner wounds, the wounds upon their minds which forever change them from people that were once mild to chimeras of veritable armageddeon.
So what then?
Yeah, I never wanted to be a hero, never want to say I am one, never want to climb upon a high mountain somewhere and hear my name called out.
I think it's better to be just one of the sheepdogs. Not a hero.
I often wonder why it is these internet buddhists think so much on the whole universe thing and the like. Don't they realize that they're overthinking this a little too much, that the universe isn't unfeeling isn't rightm, wrong or pissed off. It just IS. I am a buddhist soldier. A man whose mental and spiritual dichotomy is so deep and staggering that philosophers cannot seem to understand that I am able to exist without being schitzophrenic and deranged. To be honest, I'm not sure either. Then again, I'm not really supposed to think much on the universe either, just to be at peace one moment and the next a tornado of pain.
I miss my little brother.
I miss the fact that the fucking moron got to run free and do all the bullshit I never got to do because i was being responsible and doing my job of being the first born. He got the nice looking air headed chicks, pot, played baseball, and just ran wild. I had to work hard, study, and break my balls off finding my way without a father figure except the writings of men and women that I could feel were my ideals to live toward.
I still do miss that little fucking moron. Well, one day I think I'll see him, if not, it was nice knowing you bro. I just wished that you weren't such a fuckup and died early.
I'm okay with my life, but it needs some improvements and some serious changes.
When I can wake up and roll over to see someone i love and not just my dog, I think i'll be better.
Till then, I think I'm just going to kick the worlds ass some more.
"Highway to hell!"
Especially when I'm reliving in my head my happy heydays of ripping around the countryside of a completely different world and being paid to do so.
Looking into my life with the aid of a couple of drinks and some time alone to wander around inside my head with the prodding of an outsider, it occurs to me that frankly, I shouldn't be alive and since I am, I'm most certainly lucky, and fucked in the head. However my luck seems to be, until recently, kinda uneven.
I've been in and out and back and forth in the adult world from the military to being a compusa nerd to running a high crime 7-11 to where I am now. I've survived being shot, burned, stabbed, fragmented, and left behind. My mind and body are somewhat whole, but the parts that are gone seem to have taken something from me in the respect that where normal men fear, I only become annoyed. where normal men tremble in fear and despair, I get angry, where the world quakes in wretched cowardice, I'm looking to settle a kill. What is wrong with me? Feels like my fear has been burned out by anger and the anger hasn't festered, but settled in like a wild animal that sleeps growling in it's cage with the door swinging loosely on two rusty hinges.
What exactly is fear anyway? That cold sweaty feeling you get on your palms and the bottom of your feet? The panicky feelings that some people get when they walk into a 7-11 and there's a person giving you the evil eye? The man who points a gun at you without angert, but resignation? I've forgotten how to fear it seems in normal ways. I fear for others, the ones who can't raise themselves into animals like myself. The flock as it were, and I am a sheepdog, only more feral. But what use does polite society have for such a sheepdog? The wolves stalk not in the quiet moonlight but in full sun, their teeth glistening and reflecting with the saliva that comes with the need for flesh.
I can still smell the grit and the rock and the sweat tanged stink of my buddies in that hot desert air out there. The laughter,t he bullshitting, the pure aggressive natures of men removed from societal norms and set loose upon the sheepdogs of other packs, modern day werewolves that wear ties and drink beer in their spare time back in the 'real world.' Some call it anxiety that I look and look for something that's not there when I'm looking for my old rifle but I call it trying to find a friend in this messed up world, someone I can depend on. Well, it's not a someone, but a something, but it's almost the same. My best friend was my rifle and I miss it somedays out there.
I am not a hero.
I never wanted to be a hero.
To be a hero means to live through and persevere through horrors no man should have to witness, smell, and touch. I never wanted to be a fucking hero. The hero always dies in the end, broken and alone and far away from the light he once held dear and what then? A flag from the White House, an old hand grenade, brass casings taken from the places heroism died off; killed by stark reality and bitter anger. What then for the hero? A news blurb on CNN about how so many war hero's are suffering in silence from their inner wounds, the wounds upon their minds which forever change them from people that were once mild to chimeras of veritable armageddeon.
So what then?
Yeah, I never wanted to be a hero, never want to say I am one, never want to climb upon a high mountain somewhere and hear my name called out.
I think it's better to be just one of the sheepdogs. Not a hero.
I often wonder why it is these internet buddhists think so much on the whole universe thing and the like. Don't they realize that they're overthinking this a little too much, that the universe isn't unfeeling isn't rightm, wrong or pissed off. It just IS. I am a buddhist soldier. A man whose mental and spiritual dichotomy is so deep and staggering that philosophers cannot seem to understand that I am able to exist without being schitzophrenic and deranged. To be honest, I'm not sure either. Then again, I'm not really supposed to think much on the universe either, just to be at peace one moment and the next a tornado of pain.
I miss my little brother.
I miss the fact that the fucking moron got to run free and do all the bullshit I never got to do because i was being responsible and doing my job of being the first born. He got the nice looking air headed chicks, pot, played baseball, and just ran wild. I had to work hard, study, and break my balls off finding my way without a father figure except the writings of men and women that I could feel were my ideals to live toward.
I still do miss that little fucking moron. Well, one day I think I'll see him, if not, it was nice knowing you bro. I just wished that you weren't such a fuckup and died early.
I'm okay with my life, but it needs some improvements and some serious changes.
When I can wake up and roll over to see someone i love and not just my dog, I think i'll be better.
Till then, I think I'm just going to kick the worlds ass some more.