Things are kinda crazy right now. I feel like im on a ride and my head is spinning. It’s not a bad thing I just have no idea where im gonna be when the ride stops. The possibilities both intrigue and frighten me. Hopefully I can finally get what I want and deserve.
That I have developed a little crush on her.. She’s just so awesome I dunno it just kinda happened..
Stick a fork in me.. Im done. Finished..
Whether it be on foot, by plane, train, automobile or body bag, I need to get the fuck away from this place and change my life. I have nothing but sadness here, no girl in my life to confide in, no shoulder to cry on. No intimacy to share. Nothing but family fights and drama. There’s a part of me that hates what I have become and another part that maybe realizes this is as good as it will ever get. I don’t know what else is out there but I do know that what is here for me isn’t making me happy. My name is Chris Reichman, im 28 years old and the only thing that seems to make me even remotely happy is being completely stoned. It cuts the pain and clears my mind. How sad a person I have become.. A joke and a cliche. At least tomorrow brings a new day.
When im down and discouraged, I have her by my side
So sexy and fine, she will always be mine
She always lights my fire, even though I only briefly light hers
I breath her in and she takes my breath away
Her sweet smell lingers in the air for a long time after we finish
I slowly drift off to sleep as my mind navigates it’s way through her world
I awake, alone in my bed with stale breath and bloodshot eyes
Until we meet again.. Mary Jane
|—||Hunter S. Thompson (1939 - 2005) (via blackbettyshoes)|
Not gonna lie these look pretty gross. Especially the chocolate chip part? WTF, chocolate chips and sausage don’t mix!
Me at New Years.. During happier times.. More of these too come in 2010! That’s a promise to myself.
“The Buried Life”
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o’er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there’s a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.
Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal’d
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal’d
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Trick’d in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!
But we, my love!—doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices?—must we too be dumb?
Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain’d;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain’d!
Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be—
By what distractions he would be possess’d,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity—
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being’s law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.
But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us—to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves—
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress’d.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well—but ‘tis not true!
And then we will no more be rack’d
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul’s subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
Only—but this is rare—
When a beloved hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen’d ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress’d—
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life’s flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.
And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.
|—||Matthew Arnold (1852)|