Hah

Funny, the way life works. I have been inspired to write something nice lately. I have noticed that almost all of my works are either depressing, angry, or revolting, and I felt it was high time I did something that was a bit more upbeat. I spent all day just thinking of ideas that could be turned into something nice, and I couldn't help but think of terrible, awful, depressing things. A week ago, I was grasping at straws for ideas for things to write about, but now I turned down every single idea that is similar to my normal writing style. Though, I mean, it would bother me more if I felt as though I was inflicting feelings on anyone with anything I do. When it comes down to it, my works will never help somebody through something, they will never inspire anyone, they will never contribute to anything. I am a mediocre writer at best who chooses to write in tacky styles and/or about things that no one wants to read about. Like an open-mic night poet that makes everyone in the room feel uncomfortable. Nonetheless, enjoy (or at least humor me) some shitty thing I wrote.

Orchestrated Disappointment
There was a little boy who sat calmly by a creek
Every day he spent so silently, listening to the birds and listening to the trees.
The orchestrated song of nature that resounded around his head,
the rustling of the wind upon the rocks and leaves and flowing of the water.
And some days he felt inclined to try to join the beauty,
but the only sounds that rose from his throat were groans of pain and sadness.
One night he lay beside the creek and stared up toward the sky;
he saw a shooting star and wished upon it witha  twinge of hope.
His wish was not of wealth or class, but he wished only for a voice.
His intents were just to join the woods in solemn song,
but soon he would learn that wishes seldom end up well.
In the morning he felt inspired to leave the creek,
he wanted to unite the world.
His expedition started as he marched upon the city.
The words flowed so fluidly and perfectly, they seemed to have no end.
He made a thousand friends and passed through school with but a thought.
He was hired on the spot to fill the slot for global peace.
With his iron voice he set the world at ease.
At first the world remained apart, but they slowly integrated.
With help from his solid words and phrases he pulled the strings that tied the world,
strings that were perhaps a bit too strong; a steal thread run round a mouse,
and to the forefront of this unity, this universal sense of self.
Was thrust the boy who wished upon a star,
and as the boy, now turned a man, gazed upon his world of peace,
he wanted nothing but to sing along with birds and creeks and trees.

Fresh Air

This week/weekend has been externally boring. Luckily for me, there's a lot of shit going on inside, so I can sort of entertain myself by tossing my own shit around. Try being crazy sometime, it's a little bit awesome. I have this awesome little feeling the past couple of days that I am no longer in control of my life, and frankly, I don't give a fuck. It appears I am back, because lately I have been doing a lot of not giving a fuck. It's wonderful to feel apart from everything around me again, it's just how I am used to operating at this point. This weekend was the culmination of the fact that Ghana isn't happening, I don't have the money, but my dad provided an alternative, so it is very possible that I may go to Haiti over the summer. Wherever it is doesn't matter, so long as I am helping.

*Let it be known, at this point in the post, Asher Panik got a nose bleed*

So, I guess, the point anybody reads this at all is likely just by the off chance that I have written something, or maybe people actually care, or maybe nobody really reads this anymore. Any way it goes, there is one tiny little thing that I have written since last post, at least something that is not my graphic novel, which I have been doing a lot of work on. Excuse me and the fact that everything I write is seemingly untitled.

Untitled
Harbor me
until I see
the days no longer passing endlessly


Depressingly short, no? I didn't have much time to write this week. Between being pretty much deathly ill and actually having good weather a few days ago, I haven't been in one place for any length of time for a while, save my bed. Asher out.

You fucking gave me anal blood.

A rather hilarious turn of events has occurred. It would appear that me and my roommate share enough things so that when one gets sick, so does the other. This Monday, I experienced a horrible burst of being sick, and it turns out he suffered the same sickness back home (he went home for the weekend). One of the symptoms of this sickness, in an almost purposely comedic facet, happens to be bleeding out of the nether regions, among other things. When I told him I was sick on Monday, we shared symptoms, though at first neither of us mentioned this aforementioned one. I was almost forced to explain to situation to him that night however, when I decided to, at midnight, change into my oldest, most worn out underwear and my least favorite pair of pants, and after doing so, he affirmed that the same thing was happening to him. Today was more of the same, runny, clogged nose, sore throat, headache, disorientation, and of course, the red menace. I got tired of it by tonight, and my roommate came back into the room after playing hockey really drunk. After a few exchanges, he asked how my sickness was going, to which i responded "You fucking gave me anal blood." Hilarious story, as I see it.

This is the sort of thing I write when I am sick/disoriented.

Untitled
There was a little boy who sat calmly by a creek,
every day he spent so silently listening to the birds and listening to the trees.
The orchestrated song of nature that resounded around his head,
the rustling of the wind upon the rocks and leaves and the flowing of the water.
And some days he felt inclined to try to join the beauty,
but the only sounds that rose from his throat were groans of pain and sadness.
One night he lay beside the creek and stared up towards the sky;
he saw a shooting star and wished upon it with a twinge of hope.
His wish was not of wealth or class, but he wished only for a voice.
Intents of his were to join the woods in solemn song,
but soon he would learn that wishes seldom ended well.
In the morning he felt inspired to leave the creek,
he wanted to unite the world.
His expedition started as he marched upon the city.
The words flowed so fluidly and endlessly they seemed to have no end.
He made a thousand friends and passed through school with but a thought.
He was hired on the spot to fill the slot for global peace.
With his iron voice he set the world at ease,
At first the world remained apart, but they slowly integrated.
With the help of his iron voice he pulled the strings that tied the world,
string that were perhaps a bit too strong; a steel thread run round a mouse.
And to the forefront of this unity, this universal sense of self,
was pushed the boy who wished upon a star.
And as the boy, now turned a man, gazed upon his world of peace,
he wanted nothing but to sing.

Outburst

Today I punched a punching bag until every single one of my knuckles was bleeding with the arm that has a cracked scapula. Make of it what you will.

Pick your poison

        Too bad that I am smart enough to realize that drinking isn't gonna help, really. Most days I watch the people around me engaged in superfluous interactions, their lives filled with stupidity and instability, but the one thing they always seem to retain is a smile. Occasionally one of them will actually respond when I talk to them, they'll tell me that they're jealous of my head, my comprehension, but they don't understand the price that comes at. I have yet, in my life, to have the nerve to tell one of these rampant, ecstatic idiots that they can't possibly understand the awfulness that spreads throughout the body from having a full understanding of everything that is going on. The ability to see past facades, the ability to step back and judge objectively, to solve inherent problems, weigh on the person like a ton of uranium chained to your back. You can feel it killing you inside, but there's not a thing you can do to get away from it.
        Countless Times I have been told of how lucky I am to have these ability, but never once have I responded with how I truly feel. Never once have I told anyone that I am jealous of their happiness. But jealousy is an odd sort of thing. I hate everything about the way that i feel all the time, but I know enough to realize that when it came down to it, I'd rather have my intelligence than not. I would go so far as to say I might rather be worse off. Be so intelligent that I no longer lie somewhere in between humanity and pure machine, I would rather be a savant, devoid of any connection to those around me, but so utterly brilliant that an impact on the world would come easy. Funny, it seems I desire an affliction, probably, but perhaps once you've gotten past humanity, life gets easier. All humans strive for in life is happiness, ever single person is driven by the need to procreate and the desire to be happy, but look around. What are the two hardest things to accomplish in this world? Or the first world, at least? It would seemingly be a mate and true happiness. We are a species of masochists, if not sadists. And this probably all goes back to the most basic topic of this rant, intelligence. The ability to step back and see what's fucked up is not a common one, so while the majority of humanity afflicts each other with nothing but pain, I will watch from my vantage point, see how silly it is and be utterly unable to do anything about it.
         I stopped drinking yesterday, I got tired of being unable to write because I was always drunk. It is pretty clear to me which one I would rather be doing, so I'll deal with my misery sober. In the words of a close friend of mine, I am no Hemingway. Once sober, poetry seems to start sneaking out of me in small capacities, so, for the four of you, maybe, who read this blog, and probably the one that has made it this far into the post, here are both of the poems I wrote last night.

Ill-Fitting
Why is it that it seems
every movement that I make
urks the hell of those around me?
I am just another man, or so i thought.
So I can't help but entertain
ideas that I may not.
When I wlak by a crowd
every single eye looks into mine
and when I extend a hand
to reciprocate my name again,
no matter who it is,
for a time they're left bewildered.
When I sit alone a stranger never
seeks to interact.
But I find myself consistently
dropping words to those who sit alone.
And even when I throw a bone
to those in need,
to those distressed,
their nervousness beseeches me,
as if I wore a shirt of ribs
or held a femur club.
I will never understand the fact
the every human wants some interaction,
but every time I try to fill that role,
I'm given nothing but resistance.
No, I must be something different.

        I'm going to be direct about this next one, though likely no one has made it this far, it is (pretty obviously) about myself. The problem dictated is no longer what is wrong with me, but a catalyst has some hold in its outcome still. I'm paying respects.

A Tempest Tragedy
Who would've thought the man
that withstood all types and strengths of pain
would find himself a useless heap
left but to try in vain
to resist inflictions of despair
to try not to refrain
when confronted with the girl
who sat down beside him in the rain

      I would bet no one has made it this far, which is ok. If you have made it this far, I respect you for tolerating my ramblings of madness. This blog is hard to write when I know that less than four people read it, but I suppose it gives me something to put my feelings into words with.

Upswing

Well, it appears that I'm doing pretty damn good. Thanks (oddly enough for me) to the invention of drinking heavily, I am a lot more content. When I'm sober I'm happy and when I'm drunk I'm happier. It's a lovely little thing. I have been creating lately, but it hasn't been writing. I decided that since my first tattoo is just on the horizon (looks to be coming around mid-march), I decided to invest some time in that and solidify what I want. I would show you guys, but I don't have a scanner here at school, so I guess you'll see it when it is permanently attached to my body. Frankly, you would all hate it anyway, so I'd really rather you not see it until I can't do anything about it anyway. All you haters can eat a geyser of dicks. I have, despite the consumption of my time with drawing my tattoo, managed to crank out one tiny little poem, dedicated to my dorm hall and its 5000 leaks.

Untitled
It would appear to me
that this roof above my head is leaking
meant to be my shelter
from elements that try to break me.
I find myself a little lost inside this place
as the structure begins to cave,
and the elements invade.
The destruction of this aegis
has left me to see the world
just like everybody else
and admittedly, it scares me.