High School Philosophy

The sound of burgeoning hormones
The voices of a thousand libidos
The anger of a hundred displaced souls

That is high school

And when you look at it from the outside
It all seems so inconsequential
But for the kids…
It is life and death.

The difference is, for some of them
This is it.

Prom is the high point of their lives
And that last game…that is what will define who they are
and who they become

Small town life has its advantages but this…
This is not one of them.

The quarterback makes an amazing pass to win that final game…
30 years later and three beers in,
He sits in the parking lot of his high school
Going over the story again
Because that was his mecca, his ultimate achievement.
His nirvana

Everything else is background noise.

I see this and I cringe…I sigh
And I pity.

And then I do the same thing with my life
Because we are all really one fruit from the same tree
Just attached at different branches
So our flavor is slightly changed

In the end, we all want to recapture our high school selves
And instill the hindsight we’ve gained over the course of these years

Hindsight is what makes us human
And to some, hindsight can break us.

Nothing hurts more than trying look back
And realizing there is nothing to look for
Because your life was as empty then as it is now


Just starting…thoughts? I need some feedback.

I saw a man in a flowing white robe, the kind Jesus wore. He floated across the street in front of me, using the crosswalk like any respecting citizen, brown hair and trimmed beard blowing slightly in the breeze. Come to think of it, the guy actually did look like Jesus, gliding along, arms outstretched, nodding apathetically at the people punctuating his aimless journey…

But that couldn’t be him. Jesus hasn’t been here in a long time…

“The streets are extended gutters,” I heard a man say once. That makes sense in this town. The ridiculous worship of inane people and inane things is the driving force of life and the sidewalk Jesus couldn’t do much to stop the rising tide of shit heading down the boulevards. His struggle lets me know just how truly alone I am.

Life is just a series of lines and all we do is constantly queue up for the next wait. When we look around at the people waiting alongside us, we see a parallelism that is as comforting as it is frustrating. That is what makes us human; we want to change but are too afraid to do so. It’s a sickness of my generation that we constantly want innovation and change while consistently falling in line with whatever our parents already believed, further perpetuating that cycle of stability. It is almost unavoidable that we will become our parents, whether or not we say otherwise.

That’s why I started all of this. That is why this journey is poignant to me…I need to prove to my family that I am more than just some silly fuckup. They need to see me for what I truly am and what great work I can perform. They need to know me for who I can truly become.
That is my purpose…that is the meaning of life…


She starts to breath heavily, panting, lost in the shadows of lust’s embrace. This is the best time for us; when we are at our most basic, at our most primal. The push and pull of love’s frenzied, stifled throes…that is perfection. Or, nearly perfection. That sudden release is like a breath of air after drowning…the contented smiles are the surviving remnants of a previous existence. The wonderful afterglow of two people so perfectly intertwined that only God could separate. That pleasure…that is God and her legs are the altar at which I worship.

Only one step remains…the hands. They caress, they stroke, they touch…the faintest of touches conveys so much about the person from which it comes.

The study of touches is one to which I have been forever a student. Small inclinations in one way or another alter the mood of those around them. With a slight shift in finger placement, a person can change from an erotic caress to a crushed windpipe…So much power lies in the touch.

You can see the light drain, the conscious mind slowly go to sleep, and there…there is your perfection…coming through one gasp at a time.
Mother would be pleased…


There is such an underwritten quality to the work with which I am so obsessed. No one truly appreciates it except for mother and after all, she is who this is for. I remember when I was younger, maybe five or six, and she found me in her room. I was playing on her bed, amidst all of the folded laundry she had finished earlier and one of her bras had found its way onto my back. I wasn’t wearing it per say but the material felt nice. As a six year-old, I hadn’t quite grasped the concept of gender roles. My mother was not at all amused. I remember the look on her face as clear as if it were yesterday.

That face was so ever-present in my childhood…something void of emotion…no love, not even contempt…just disconnected disappointment.

She shuffled over to me and in one motion, she broke my right femur. I deft flick of her wrist punctuated by an ear-splitting crack. I wailed and screamed but she let me know immediately that if little boys wanted to play in momma’s things, there would be consequences.

The doctors all thought that I had fallen while climbing a tree. If they had looked into the situation, they would have realized that the bra was on under my shirt…a humiliating punishment for the unknown line I should have never crossed.

Mother was like that. It was the full picturesque quality of her character to be so loving that she let me know precisely where I stood at all times, and never let me forget the consequences for my actions. For that, I am forever grateful. Even today, she is watching over me. I know for a fact…I can feel those loving eyes.

People in general are like that. Every person has the limit, a breaking point, and when pushed beyond, the end is always the same…that is why I promised myself never to disappoint mother again.

The Purpose of Life

Have you ever wondered if your life’s esteem was a futile effort?

We drag ourselves through the monotony of an everyday existence
Scraping through the dregs of our lives
Shuffling after those dreams
Even though we know that they will never be…
That they can never be.

Internally we tell ourselves that we are fighting the good fight…that we matter
But we know in our hearts that we don’t…that we won’t,
because instinctively there is no good fight.

Good is subjective.

A man once said that “Self-Improvement is masturbation,”
A nihilist viewpoint to be sure but it has a certain ring…

Convince yourself that it matters…convince yourself that you matter…

That nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach as you say those words,
It is there for a reason…
Even your body knows that you need to convince yourself
Before you can convince anyone else…

At this point — I cant even do that anymore


The silence is impossible to deal with
The awkward silence
The never-ending, forever expanding breach
Between us

Humanity is like that,

Like ants marching, we plow ahead
Blind to everyone else’s suffering
Because ours is ever present.


We cling to the silences that make us uncomfortable
Because for humanity, that discomfort
Is the only thing that feels right

We very rarely retrace our steps and in not doing so
We end up right where we left off…

A famous man once said, “The past does not repeat itself but it does rhyme.”

We may never see the exact situation we were already a part of again,
But something similar is always on the horizon
And like fictitious Sparks characters
We run toward that safe, reoccurring  event
Because we cannot learn…no…refuse to learn.

I’m tired of refusal
I’m tired of apathy
I’m tired of….everything

I’m starting to see some promise in Thoreau’s choice

A world without the interaction of people…

That could be a good thing because
Like everyone else who needs a reprieve from the world

I think that the world could use a reprieve from us