I used to write my words, in a black book
I miss it, it was more existential, more Gonzo
But impractical, writing, retyping, I impress myself just to be writing these arrant thoughts at all
They seem to be what's mine in this world
A system that I am not a part of, rather the system itself
My functionality depends on this release
Every moment of every day I distract myself into thinking there's something I want out of this lifetime
Yet every moment, of every day, I find myself with the same discontent, seeking the ailment of expression
It probably does little to better my cause
But the key words there however, my cause
Whatever it may be
If it is at all
Perhaps just a room filled with maddening darkness- a typewriter
How crazy will you choose to be today?
The crazy have it good.
No explanation for thoughts or actions
Not a trace of rationality in sight
Madness is ultimate freedom
But it's not my solution
At least not yet
Greatness is a prerequisite for madness
Hunter Thompson put a gun to his head and had the gumption to pull the trigger
He was a great man, did great things
It would be self-absorbed to believe I deserved a one way trip to la-la-land just yet
Unfortunately my painful road has just begun
There is no doubt it will be interesting
And fortunately for the rest of you my cause includes documentation, and picturesque memory
Memories are obviously the greatest pain and pleasure in the world and the next
I have a memory that haunts me with details
What you were wearing
The scent of your perfume on a spring day
Everything you'd hope gets lost in translation from one moment to the next
Rather than loath my becoming, I choose an obscure, sinful, and story worthy life
Can't contend that it suites me well, rather it is me
I am my words
A story you may or may not remember
Maybe even one you'll tell to your friends, co-workers, certainly never your family
There is, and isn't a place for me in this life of mine
Often I wish auto-pilot were an option
Sit back while the predictable, yet lively moments pan out
Seeing the future is no luxury
It gets old
Being right, anticipating what lies ahead
A younger version of myself didn't believe in such foresight
Believed I could change things
Ignored obvious tells
It was devastating, obnoxious, and futile

I have let that fight fade quietly into a distinct past
None of this is to suggest I live uninspired
That would be tragic
I have my moments
Fewer and further in-between
Less idealistic
More simple- sights, the ocean that I've neglected for this reason or that
The good is still out there
And I will seek it, tell of my failures, falsified expectations, hopes, and yes, dreams
My how dreams have changed
Dreams have been replaced by our perception of what we can tolerate
A trade-off
Maintain some identifiable level of sanity- and enjoy the occasional free sample of a dream you once had

A lot of people think their happiness will be found at the end of a rainbow in this place or that.
Let me save you some time and money- if you're not happy, look inward, not out
External variables are like Hershies syrup on ice cream; if the ice cream sucks, all the syrup in the world won't do a damn thing
It's not necessarily and easy thing to be- happy
Very relative, displaced, confused

But even so, if you don't know whether you're happy at the end of a day, you've wasted a lot of valuable time neglecting the most important thing in your world, your-self.