Journal Entry: Mon Nov 23, 2015, 3:47 PM
When the cold comes and November blows in, the brisk chilly wind feels anew to the few outside, every year it hits just as hard just as if it is the first fall all over again. It's a defining mood, a progressive discontent to the few who feel the elements deep in their bones, to the few who know no home, to the few built to blow, conditioned to roam. God lives in eyes, everywhere in everyone, colored by disguise and deafened by surprise she wavers in silence and perpetual incarnations of good and evil alike. Consolidated by a million nods and smiles the emaciated feel the weight of the world balanced on each eyelid all while trying to stay awake through the monotonous mess we've created during our free time. Light a cigarette, pour the coffee, load the vape, shoot the shot, do what you gotta do. Hungry and worn thin, worked to near death the breath of such souls remains hot and potent, surrounding quick tongues and multifaceted minds it turns the air to smoke and provided proof that we are not all sold quite yet. Some of us are indeed still alive and aware, awake and irritated, plagued by a guilt that is a state of being or a jewel of judgement. The people form a line on cold concrete with hot coffee under fluorescent and mercury, trading time for plastic, playing the complacent tragic, making my mind more manic as they wait in a maniacal state and their blood boils with an odd intensity that only lives in the lethargic lost willing to pay a cost of more significance than they could ever comprehend. The pacified public sucks hard during this season, questioning their sins, muting the truth within, loathing leaders kicked back fat and happy, looking to religion to wash their conscious, turning to faith to correct those mistakes, searching for minutes to make those years disappear, asking for solace and strength to get through the hardships lived by those they rarely see... those that got forgotten but get remembered every year around this time. Appearances are made and shit is kept cool for the kids but in a month or so all will be back to that monotonous mess save a few who decided to kick out and swim to the bottom, never to come back up. So many years spent slinking down cold city streets this time of year... feels funny blowing through gears with the window cracked in the bastards box trapping me with myself and the fumes and the glass and the metal. I would wonder but it's hard to these days. The cold don't feel so cold, but Goddamn man, am I'm starting to feel old.
You've got to get there, you've got to get full, you've got to get frustrated. Every revolutionary has had an awakening, everyone at the top has had both feet planted on the bottom at some time. You've got to break before the big come up. But it's okay, see in this society just be true and they'll get to you, and they'll do it with a quickness. Be good, be open and they'll try and close you down with that mantra of madness, they'll find their path upon your back until it cracks. Let it splinter and split, be the muscle of their hustle but don't stop working when you clock out. This is no feat for the weak, this is no life for the shallow. Use depth for your reach and live what you speak. Exist within the elite headspace, master the harder, better, faster, longer. Days are going to go by, with or without you, the decision to fucking go for broke is never one of selfishness so long as the initial reason remain intact, so long as the self remains realized and the conscious stays connected to the heart and soul and rooted in the same dirt and grime you remember washing off during the exhausted beginnings.
I won't suffer to be known, but I'll die to be remembered.