Hendrix always helps me remember.

Numerous nights I have been wasting away in a wash of alcohol, and though they are pleasant, they are empty. The memories from them are often hazy, not unrecallable, but not me, not at my best, not what I want to remember as the best times of my life. The sad thing is that this is what I do all the time, and it is fun, but I want more from this place.

It's a nice thing then that I'm on my way out. I've wanted far too much for far too long, and time has caught up with me. Cheap novelty was never my thing, as much as I do adore it, and the novelty is wearing off, things are wearing thin, and a part of me asks, "Is this it? Is this as good as it gets?"

What if that is it? What if right now I am the happiest that I will ever be. I am surrounded by people who I absolutely adore and love, I am getting to know more people as time goes on, I have a roof over my head and food readily available. I can waste away my nights in alcoholic hazes and the days recovering and wandering from encounter to encounter. Work is there, but not that much of a burden. This may be it, in terms of excellence.

But then there is possibility. What if all goes well and I get the jobs I want, if I move with the people who I adore to a place that I have always wanted to go? What then? Regardless of how good the future is, I shall leave a piece of my self here, and that is something I can never really get back...this place has changed me so much. For the better? There is only the better, in my mind.

There is no stopping at this point. I see so much there now, and so much I will do and enjoy. People are what I love, and people I will enjoy. Maybe not now, but in a few days. Maybe not ever. That's the pessimist in me talking.

I'm whining about the thing that all seniors are thinking. I'll never see anyone here again. I'm going to lose touch. I am going into the big world with nothing to offer and no certainty. We're full of those cliches, those terms, and all that trepidation, but we can't stop that. We can only keep on pushing, hope for the best and expect the worst. That's where I am now, and that's where I will stay.

Hell, I've always been there. I just want some fodder for stories. Life after all is all about stories. I can't tell them in person; my particular sense of humour and absurdity really makes me like stories that lack punchlines but present odd situations. As much as I love these tidbits, other people don't. But I like to think that I can write, I really do. I've had some evidence in the past, and hopefully it continues to roll in. I always felt much more secure doing my talking with a pen or a computer screen than with my mouth.

But when I get going, I feel like I can really say some great things with that mouth, that often missused and unloved orifice on my body. I think that I can wax poetic with the best of them, but I never really can do that. I need to open up to someone in the most intimate of situations to be able to say that. Other than that, I need to be sobering up, lacking inhibition, and full of love for the world and all the things in it.

I can make people cry. I did that once with nice words. I really think that was an amazing moment in my life. Well, I did it once to someone I love very much, and once to a good friend. The love was very sweet. She was having a bad day, so I got her a small chocolate and took her to this parking lot that overlooks the town. I told her all the things I love about her, and the moment, the nature and the nurture, all of it that I could think of. She cried, and I worried. She was so happy.

The second time was when I was describing the lost love to a friend late at night. I said some very true things in quite an odd cadence that I develop sometimes. I write with my mouth when this happens, and she was moved. I didn't mean to make her sad, or to move her, but it happened.

Desperation shows what we are truly made of. I am desperate for something in my life, but I can never really figure it out. I think that it's something that I will never really find, but I don't really mind this as much as I used to. When I find it, I'll know. I can't hope for anything else, and to be perfectly honest, it would destroy me to have it any other way.

Desperate and divine I will wander through this life, living, and thinking of things that could have been, never were, never will be, and may be. I will think on this, looking for that elusive luster that my life lacks, the shine, and not finding it. I'll give up. I'll laugh. I'll cry. I may die, but then be reborn in my journey, just wandering for that speck of hope. Maybe I have it, maybe not, but the fact is that I am alive, and will always be. I can't die, not yet, not now. Not unless I say so. That's it. I'm not dying.

I wish that were the case. I wonder about that sometimes, and really, it's not worth it. Just enjoy the ride.

I'm rambling, as per the usual. I am full of this feeling of letting my soul out of my body, cracking the ribs and rending the flesh. I want to scream out this energy, to use that atrophied mouth and tell a good story. I want to live a good story.

If you followed this, you are remarkable. It had no form, nothing to it, nothing to give or gain. It was just pure masturbation. That's what this whole thing is to me. Just a virtual penis to be stroking, hoping that someone is watching. I feel bad about posting here, but I'll do it anyway, over and over again. After all, we all need to get our rocks off somehow. Maybe this is it. Yanosy (english teacher who changed my life) said all writing is masturbation. If this is the case, I'm some sort of perverted sex fiend.

I hope you enjoyed this, and I would recommend that you bring a towel next time.

-ccm