Ideas I muse myself with, ideas I muse others with, riddles, and tantalizing stories about life thoughts. I suppose this is what a ghost does when he has, but eternity to observe and write his craft.
Background color
Background image
Border Color
Font Type
Font Size
  1. A little true life conversation I had.

    Me, "Did you see the pink hippo?"

    Roommate looks at me weirdly, "Um..what? Where is this coming from?"

    Me, "It's the meaning of life,"

    Roommate, "What?"

    Me, "The pink hippo, what else would I be talking about?"

    Roommate, "Where did this pink hippo even come up with anything we were talking about? How do you go from Mortal Kombat 10 to a Pink hippo?"

    Me, "Surely a pink hippo will appear in Mortal Kombat 10 too,"

    Roommate, "I'm out of here,"

    Where as one of our resident WF members was laughing in the corner of the room.

    "So weird," is what he said.
  2. You know what forget it about my shit. Forget about listening to my creations ever again since you think they are shit. Forget about me even wanting to help you with an attitude like this.

    I have always loved you for the things you have done for this family. But now you're a downright prick.

    I have never been so angry at you before. Never been so mad where I want to destroy what you have too.

    I have never hated you until now. And right now I really do hate you. You're suppose to be the person who was suppose to support me. It's why I am here. And yet you're not.

    You didn't sound happy about me getting published. Or me trying to find my own dreams. While someone actually behaves slovenly around here, playing 8hrs of video games all day while someone is out in college for 8hrs is not the same thing.

    Don't antagonize her, but antagonize me about responsibility. I'm the person who I cleaned up their mess for. I'm the person who throwaways his garbage. I ask, who's that garbage on that counter in the bathroom is? Yeah it isn't mine cause I threw my garbage away.

    Don't point your finger at the wrong person. But just know I have lost faith in you. I do not want anything to do with. Don't talk to me.
  3. Wrote on school comp:

    Dreams are a device of the soul to torture the mind. I sit in the dreary darkness of night, simply waiting for what I do not know. For whom I will never know. There is something so sweet and yet so maddening as I stare at the empty bed; sheets all made and ready for someone to crawl inside comfortably. But I fear sleep. I fear what my dreams, what my mind, what my own soul will tell me. I am afraid every day and every night to close my eyes. Because my own past crawls into my mind.
    These are not dreams I want. These are not dreams I desire. I no longer want to see these mad visions any more. I only want to sleep without waking up to the sheets stained in sweat, to not have to wake up to throw up from my own sick fantasies that were created by my very soul to torture; to me chain to its desire. I know it will never stop. I know it will not cease its next attack. I know that it is a desire from my own mind. My own concious, my own desire against me.
    And while I am afraid of my soul. I am reminded almost so, that there are men out there seeking their soul. Soul searching. They grow old and they’ll never find it. Those who do find it end up mad, delirious. Something I both deny and accept for acquiring my soul. For having even the selfish thought of finding my own indentity. Loneliness plagues me. My own obsessions cling onto me. And I know these desires the desire of mad men, the desire of a corrupted and selfish individual. I want my own succes, but how to achieve it. When my own wishes and dreams are not that of clearly of the sane.
    My own mind just a ramble. Just a conversation that keeps going and going never idling to a stop. Never a dull thought and that runs into my dreams as explained. This conversation, this itch, this raging madness springs within even my own life. I am simply haunted by my own madness. I do not deny it. I do not live in denial. They say if a man can clearly see his own mind, to be able to understand it’s tempermant…to understand his own behavior than he is clearly sane. But what if I am only fooling myself with such a gentle thought, to think I am not mad would be a laughable thought.
    There comes a feeble, soft, almost rhythmic knock on the door. Someone disturbing me while I drill my own head. While I crawl and dig my nails deep into my own temples. The person does not wait for me to invite them in. They simply invite themselves and I am reminded of why I am here as I stare at the figure in the doorway of my room. She is wearing a dark pinkish purple nightgown and her stark, jet black raven hair flows down like a waterfall cascading down. She has pretty features, that reminds me that one day she will blossom into something beautiful. She is only just beginning to bud.
    “Daddy, I cannot sleep,” she says to me.
    “Dad,” I replied, “Not daddy. Father or dad.”
    She only nodded while I stared at her. My gaze was steady, almost easing into the conversation; I have accostumed to the night darkness without even a nightlight. My gaze and even my reflexes have become almost cat like. I continued to stare without a word, without a phrase. She knew not to interupt, so she only waited.
    “Why?” I asked slowly, “Why can you not sleep?”
    “They keep piering through the window,” she said.
    Ah. So that was it then. They came back. I knew they would. She stared at me and I stared back. Neither of us would say anything and she knew not to interupt me.
    “Well…” I paused, “Did you remind them of their contract?”
    “Yes, but they are still there,” she said.
    “You can stare here if you like,” I said.
    I made sure to never talk down to her, I always made sure I spoke to her the way an adult should be spoken too. All though she was only six years of age now, soon she would bud and bloom into an adult. And I wanted her to know how to speak to people. I wanted her to know how to behave like an adult. I find it almost unfair that parents think a child just knows how to behave like an adult. You must show it in your words and in your actions.
    “Will you tell me your stories?” she asked slowly she knew not to interupt me; an yet she just did.
    “Which story?” I asked.
    “A new story,” she paused and frowned, “I never liked to repeat stories.”
    “Then I suppose I can tell you a new story,” I replied.
    “Tell me about you,” she said, “When you were my age.”
    “That story isn’t a very nice story,” I said, “And your mother wouldn’t like me telling you. All though I really would like to.”
    She purse her lips in that way and pouted. Her cheeks were filled with air and they were starting to turn red. Like bright little tomatos on the side of her face.
  4. I am literally going to kill whomever thought Geography was a course everyone should take to get their associates. I really do not like my Geography class.

    Power Point presentations that are geared towards more audio and visual picture learners, do not help me. All though I am a visual learner, I am a visual textual learner. Meaning I need to read text and then a graph or a picture can help me visualize what I read.

    When you just show me a picture of a Strike slip fault, I'm like looking at a whole new foreign language. I do have a recorder to record the audio of the class, since the teacher talks way to fast for me.

    But I also feel that Geography is as specialized as trigonometry or calculus. The tools are useful if you were to one day become a Geographer. Longitude and Latitude. It feels like my Earth Science class had a baby with a world Atlas and they called it Geography.

    People do not talk to each other like this:

    Bob, "Hey come to my house on Friday?"

    Pat, "Where do you live?"

    Bob, "50degress N 69 degrees W"

    No. They talk in streets and relations to roads. People don't use degree, west, north, east, south, etc. It's all instinctual, at least for me. So I find it all a little bit silly really. It just isn't the way people talk nor navigate any more.
  5. I only remember the
    fleeting feeling of dying
    I only remember the strange buzzing

    Colors and dreams emotions
    seemed to plague me as I died
    But it was more like dreaming
    than anything else

    More dreaming these colors
    it was black and it was like
    I was asleep as if I'd stay
    asleep forever

    I crave this feeling
    It's like I crave this fleeting
    The feeling of slipping
    through the confines of my own

    I require synthetic love
    to go to bed at night
    to simulate this feeling of
    death before I live again

    I require, crave, constantly strive
    to feel the feeling of
    rebirth again

    These dreams
    Emotions formed in the waves
    of colors

    This synthetic dream