Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“Real love is always chaotic….The greater the love, the greater the chaos. It’s a given and that’s the secret.” – Jonathan Carroll

I truly hate how people use the term chaos to define things, anything at all. Chaos is wild and unfocused, being family to disaster in general.

“Real love is always chaotic.”

No, just…no. Not even remotely close to being an accurate statement. I see love as being fairly subjective, different for every person. Even so, I disagree with this sentiment on a fundamental level.

To start, the term “real love” is already a misnomer. Love is love, and if it isn’t love, then it’s not love. That’s how words work. You don’t eat an apple and say “Yup, that’s a real apple.” It’s an apple, because if it wasn’t an apple, we wouldn’t call it an apple. So if something’s not real love, we wouldn’t call it love. People do, of course, but in those cases we aren’t dealing with love at all, right? If it’s not a real love, then it’s not love, so we should simply call it whatever it is.

“You lose control; you lose perspective. You lose the ability to protect yourself.”

This might be the worst way to describe love that I’ve ever encountered, and all because of one word. Well, in this example, it’s actually three words; lose. You lose control?  You lose perspective? You lose the ability to protect yourself?

Fucking.

Garbage.

If you are trying to define love by what you lose, you clearly have no idea what love is. Love is not defined by what you have to give up. In fact, if you think you are in love and you’ve lost basic faculties, such as control and perspective, then you are most definitely not in love.

Love isn’t all rainbows and sunshine. Love does mean some sacrifice, but never a lose. Whatever you sacrifice you do so because it will equal a net gain. Love should be defined by what you gain, not what you lose. Love might only be one letter away from being lose, but when it comes to their definitions, they are polar opposites.

“The greater the love, the greater the chaos. It’s a given and that’s the secret.”

If chaos is a “given” in your experience of “real love”, then perhaps you should re-evaluate what you are doing. And since when does chaos have a correlation with anything? Isn’t chaos, by its very definition, unable to be correlated to anything?

Chaos means, and I’m quoting the dictionary here, “complete disorder and confusion”. In even simpler terms, chaos means not knowing what the fuck is going on. Are we to believe that the greater the disorder and confusion the greater a love? How does that make ANY sense AT ALL?!

Answer: IT DOESN’T.

To be fair, I’ve never read anything by Jonathan Carroll, nor have I ever heard of “White Apples”, but I saw this quote floating around the internet on various blogs, Facebook feeds, instagrams and pinterest boards.

And I am worried by that.

This is a dangerous idea to put into people’s minds and hearts. They will adopt an unhealthy idea of how love should be. As I said before, I think love is very subjective, but all love should still share some common elements, and the very bare minimum would be that love is defined not by what you lose, but by what you gain.

In summary:

Chaos is not a good term to define anything except for…chaos itself.

Love is not stronger because of the presence of greater confusion.

Apples are apples, and that means they are not white. White apples are not, in fact, “Real” apples.

Please, if you have any friends or family you have an unhealthy idea of what love is, make sure to challenge them. It’s for their own good. Reference back to this post if need be. Hell, just send them my way and I’ll rant for hours until they wake up to reason.
Finally, Jonathan Carroll, if you ever end up reading this, please know I am not attacking you as a person. I am simply attacking your idea of love expressed in this quote. Because it’s really, really stupid.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

3AM is not the best time to write, but I’m out of pills and things to distract me. I’m letting the sound of my keyboard keep me company while I wait for everything to finally end.

I hate myself.

I hate everything about me.

I hate my stupid hair and how I play with it so much, as if I could ever get it to look good, when I’m such an ugly monster.

I hate my stupid laugh, because it’s loud and comes at the worst of times because I have the worst sense of humor. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, and it grates my ears and makes me wish I would just choke on my own spit and never make a noise ever again.

I hate my arms because they are covered in scars that only prove I was to weak to push that extra inch, where I would actually reach a vein and bleed a bit more, so I could do the world a favor and just disappear.

I hate my eyes because they look so tired even though I do nothing to warrant that feeling.

I hate my nose because it’s too big, but also to small, and it’s in the middle of the face that I hate so much.

I hate my ears because they hear how small I sound, I hate my hands because they can’t hold anything aside from my own greedy desires, I hate my heart because it beats away just fine, as if it has the right to keep beating, to keep pumping blood throughout this wasteful excuse for a life.

I hate the burns on my right arm I got from working as a cook because they remind me of the wasted weekends I could have spent doing anything, but I spent them as a nobody cook where nobody gave a damn about me.

I hate my skin, my smell, my stupid legs that keep walking me to and from work, but won’t really take me anywhere at all.

I hate my thoughts, all so ugly and unsightly, so conceited and lacking any empathy, any real love and care.

I hate…I hate that I can write about everything that has ever happened to me and twist every story, every experience, every single memory into another thing to hate. I hate feeling so empty. I hate feeling like I need to be saved and I hate knowing I can’t be the one to save me. I hate waiting for my time to start moving again. I hate waiting for someone to make my time move again. I hate it. I hate time, clocks and calendars to mark how much of a waste I have been in numbers and dates, months and lifetimes gone by the wayside, thrown towards the sky and cumbusting into nothingness because I am just a stupid speck of dust who ruined a perfectly good moment on the morning of August 10th, 1990, bursting into the life of 2 perfectly fine adults who would go on to be amazing parents to 2 amazing kids. I am a black spot on so many existences and I could make up for it all by dying.

What a thought though, right? Thinking my death would atone for the sin of my very existence. I can’t make up for who I am. I can never suffer enough to make up for what I am. I can only continue to hate myself. No praying to God; evil such as me does not deserve something as amazing as the idea of God. I am a monster. Monsters can only hurt, so do the one thing that makes sense, monster.

I hate myself.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics

“I gave you a world of words, not leaving myself a single letter. So now I am speechless, and you’re just drowning in alphabet soup.”

I wanted to take my time with each word I wrote for you. I wanted to be as deliberate as possible, so everything had to have the perfect amount of weight. When you would read my letter you’d be able to hear my voice, like I was lying right there beside you, You’d have no doubt, even for a second, that you weren’t loved. I wanted to give my world of words to you every single day.

I wanted to give you so much…but I was pretty stupid, huh?

I was so lost in thoughts of you that I actually lost my way and stopped wondering if my words were what you truly wanted. Before I knew it I had given you everything, without ever asking if it was to much. I left myself empty, and expected you to fill me up, but that wasn’t your job. If I had taken even a second to think things through I would have seen, would have realized…

I wasn’t giving you love and care, I was giving you the world, and with the world comes gravity, and it just weighed you down, didn’t it? I gave you a world to balance on your shoulders and still wanted to give you more. And so I become a hollow wind, nothing you could touch, and I floated away into the far reaches of space, never looking back. I saved nothing, so I became nothing.

You learned it was okay to carry only what is yours, and used time as a shed to store away those pretty little words. But I’m not much of a planner, so I never thought about what would happen if you stopped trying to be my tether. The outcome is obvious in hindsight, and it was probably also obvious in the moment, but I didn’t care.

So here I am, and here I am not, and there I was, and there I wasn’t, and I held onto everything as tightly as possible, until I realized that it’s not human hands that hold and support and nurture, but human hearts.

My heart was never that strong to begin with, but it pumped away all the same. It craved love and affection, and wanted to give love and attention. I somehow forgot about that first part, and only focused on the giving. But if all a person does is give, eventually they will be void of everything.

I became void of everything. I expected you to give me your heart in exchange for mine. I was being so unfair…to you, and to myself…So here I am, with nothing but borrowed time and borrowed words and borrowed hearts…and I just want to know where my heart is now, because it’s cold…

It’s so goddamn cold…