secular.mosh.pit's blog

A human carpet lies over the world. It bustles about, doing its chores, jobs, learning. It follows the law, or it suffers the consequences. What creates the laws that the collective must obey? What dictates what is right or wrong? What is ignored and respected, and what is watched for and prevented?

You do.

You sit in your throne, situated atop a pile of your enemies’ bones. A lowly serf comes to you for a favor, hat in hand and head bowed. You commend him for his bravery before he is decapitated and added to your throne’s base. You cackle with egotistical glee.
“Guard!” you bellow. “Publicly execute some people right!”
He nods and jogs away. You smile, envision the bloody, pointless deaths of the innocent. “Make some of them children!” you shout after him, hoping he heard you. And still the doctors just watch you as you rock back and forth on the white pads.

Is death really a journey into the unknown? Or do we know the path, and simply don't want to admit it to ourselves?

I'd like to introduce this piece simply: It is depressing. This is by far one of my darkest commentaries. With that, I give you Happyville:

Once, in the faraway land of The United States of Happyrainbowunicorns was the small village of Happyville. The most respected family in Happyville were the Happys: Mr. Happy, Mrs. Happy, the Happy twins, Emily and John, and Happy Jr.. In Happyville the sun always shone brightly, the grass was always a vibrant emerald green, the sky and lake were similar shades of lovely blue. In short, Happyville was a very happy place where nothing bad ever happened.
One day, in the afternoon as the happy sun began to set over Happyville, Mr. Happy burst through the door grinning.
“I got a 18% raise!” he proclaimed loudly. His family instantly jumped up and ran to him, showering him with praise and hugs. After the flood of joy had subsided slightly, Mr. Happy sat down on their colorful couch and his children huddled around him.

Long ago, you became frustrated with your fellow humans. It had started off as a nagging almost-thought in the back of your overworked brain. It grew. It became a regular thought, a constant thought, an obsession. You would lay awake at nights, listing undefined things that you hated about mankind. Your job ceased to apply. You became unemployed, hungry and impoverished. You never noticed. Too many people were suffering. There was too much wrong with the world for you to notice your own problems.
Death was not far off. You became a mess of bones contained by taut, colorless, rubbery skin, nearly robbed of life by your own brain.

Bleached skin,
devoid of sun.
It is nothing
but a toothless maw
gumming, groping
for the digestive products.

It squats,
mouth open,
immobile,
It's single deformed arm
held out like a warning
to all who enter the lair.

The arm clanks down,
the warning ignored,
and it swallows
the precious waste
before
belching with gluttonous satisfaction.

It seems to find
glee in the consumption
of this most vile matter.
It seem to find
happiness in the exploitation
of our most noble race.

(chorus)
We're leavin' for the army never to return,
we'll fight back for our country no matter who we burn,
The terrorists can bomb us but they'll never learn,
so we're leaving for the army never to return,

(Verse)
We wanted to do something meaningful with our lives (with our lives)
And not be stuck inside some stuffy office (stuffy office)
We thought to fight for freedom (fight for freedom)
But freedom rarely ever comes from bloodshed (comes from bloodshed)

(chorus)
We're leavin' for the army never to return,
we'll fight back for our country no matter who we burn,
The terrorists can bomb us but they'll never learn,
so we're leaving for the army never to return,

(verse)
We're always told that death is just a beginning (just a beginning)
But everybody knows it's just the end (just the end)
We thought to fight for freedom (fight for freedom)
But we hardly ever stepped off the plane (into the rain)

(Bridge)
When I turn my back to leave

It's him or me
preemptive strikes
you save the trees
won't save a life
Burn the city
say it's for God
you won't feel pity
it's still for God.

We're all....
Dried leaves!
Crushed under the heel of society.
Robots!
Told what to think by corporations.
And Nature!
Is just an obstruction to progress.
And free thought!
stands in the way of everyone's profit!

(Guitar)

And now we see
the pain and strife
no one agrees
we pay the price
we want freedom
the give us none
we want wisdom
they cut and run

We're all....
Dried leaves!
Crushed under the heel of society.
Robots!
Told what to think by corporations.
And Nature!
Is an obstruction to progress.
And free thought!
stands in the way of everyone's profit!

We'll all die
alone
with no God above
We all sigh
as one
with no one to love
We all cry
and sigh
with no one to blame! (blame could work as a scream)

(guitar gets louder then fades away to complete silence)

We're all....

(Verse)
Other than their helpless minds
I am the only casualty
Of this eternal worthless war
and all that it can be
And as I die and go to hell
I know I can't turn back,
for all that ends was left behind
when I joined the ranks

(Chorus)
We're a pointless army
in a pointless war
with the pointless objective
of feeding the poor
with our lies and our death
so just save your breath
Woah-oh!

(Verse)
Have you walked a hundred miles
in my bloody shoes,
to find a hopeful tunnel light
that's never really there
and while your achin' back does break
you wish you'd turned away,
from that drug of falsehood
that always tempts you still.

(Chorus)
We're a pointless army
in a pointless war
with the pointless objective
of feeding the poor
with our lies and our death
so just save your breath
Woah-oh!

(Bridge)
Lead on
strive on
To find a truth without a purpose
and find a fight without a foe
to lead against the army
that's only in our minds

God sits atop his throne, looking down at his subjected multitudes. He grins to himself, relishing the pure extent of his power.
He tries to get up, but realizes that thick chains bind him to his throne. A cry of devastation echoes across your brain as God realizes that he, along with his subjects, can only exist there.

I've written quite a few songs over the past year or two, and I'm going to try to dig some of the better ones out of my computer for the next several days and post them up here. Some are older and some are very new, but I'm going to try to put them in chronological order. Very few have been sung louder than a whisper, and none have been recorded, so I might make a podcast of one or two of them at some point. This intro is a bit long, so I'll stop now.

___________

(Verse)
I love this picture,
it's fantastic
The blues and reds,
they just blend, so well
I was just wondering
What is this supposed to be?
Is it a dog or a tree?

(Verse)
Oh, no daddy,
that's my mommy
and all that green, that is
her hair.
But do you still love it?
I drew it just for you.

(Pre-Chorus)
Of course, "we'll put it right up on the fridge!"

(Chorus)
You don't prepare for a "white lie,"
they just sneak up on you.
"I love it!"
"I hate her!"
"I'm [not your friend anymore!]"

You thank “Him” for success, and excuse “Him” of fault for your failures. Do you really have that little faith in humanity?

We were early, so the others shouldn’t have been there for a while. This worked just fine for me, as my colon was expressing an acute desire to be vacated. I found the stairway and followed the green line up to the second floor, which is where the sign had claimed the “restrooms” were located.
The sign was correct. I entered the sterile, white, tiled room and selected the middle of the apparently identical, vacant stalls. I pulled my headphones over my ears (for lack of a better source of entertainment) and settled on low, white seat. I think I chose some Armor for Sleep and Slipknot from my library, among other things.
As I sat, I wondered how I could describe my container. It was a maroon cubicle, festooned with various shiny steel bits and a sophisticated lock made up of a sturdy piece of black plastic contained in one of the steel bits.

Some clothes seem to be created for the sole purpose of being gross and ugly. In the other hand, some people manage to make any kind of clothing look hideous on them. The most common and obvious members of this category are those classified as “senior citizens”… known in reality as “old people.” Their pants are pulled up high enough for their sagging breasts to comfortably rest upon (in the tradition of fat women). To the surprise of some, the sagging breast is also a problem for old men. In fact, this more of a problem for men in some sense, as the use of a bra is completely optional for them.

Back to the gross clothing. I think that the only conceivable answer to this: there is a secret company that is completely dedicated to making hideous items of clothing. Their proudest accomplishment, after pants that fit over bellies, has to be… can you guess?

I’ve got it all planned out in my head.

I’m walking out of the movie, still reveling in the artificial gore that I just saw, and I see her on other side of the hallway that leads back to the lobby of the theater, just now leaving whatever chick flick she and her friends had chosen to see. She’s got blonde hair that stretches just to the bottoms of her shoulder blades, a relatively tight sweatshirt made up of horizontal green and stripes, and really tight jeans. I’m not sure what she has on her feet. They might be purple, sharpie-defaced Converse. They could be selectively painted, formerly white sneakers. That’s not so important

I walk up to her and tap her shoulder. She turns to face me, stopping her movement and conversation. I’m holding a clip board. I don’t know where it came from, but I have it. I shutter a little, glance down a bit, then look back up at her face.
“Excuse me,” I start off. “I’m doing a poll of beautiful women who see movies.”

I.
I ask myself if it makes me a bad person.

Am I really that vain, insecure and egocentric?

Yes.
Yes I am.

I can’t get enough.

I’m going back through my old blog posts. I’m finding the ones with lots of comments that I remember got a good reception… and…

And I’m bathing in the compliments. I rolling back and forth, rubbing the positivity into my flesh.

I think I’m hoping I wash the vanity off in the process…

Despite that I won’t.

II.

Why do I deserve it?

Because I’m a good writer? Maybe.

Because without it, I wouldn’t be satisfied with my ego on its own? Probably not.

Because…?

Does it matter?

I look at these blogs and find people who are wonderful at what they do. Nothing they do is bad. It’s always perfect. When I think of these people, I wonder:

“Could I ever be that good? Could I ever achieve this literary genius and prowess?”