Losing game

You're still here.
Still stick.
But still here.

Every time... it's the same thing.
If I can make it in time, you'll be alright.

I never make it.

Something gets in my way.
Obstacles appear. Mountains grow.
Burdens so heavy they weigh me down.

I fail.

I can't make it.

And when I do get to where I need to be...
You are no longer there.
I look and look - every direction on every compass, I look.

No where.
Nothing.

And then I wake.

Afraid to go back to sleep for fear that I will dream the same dream again.
And again.

And again...

nobody

nobody has the right to dismiss your thoughts; your ideas - to tell you that they are improbable or illogical. just because others may be happy with the complacency of their life or because they think they know better than you, does not give them the right to trivialize what you hope to accomplish. you try because you feel it is your destiny, and if you fail ... well, at least you tried. and that makes you better than them.

Oh, I get it!

I parked a yu between an eff and si. A kay later invited itself to the lot. Staring at one happa of a word, I took a picture. Patiently waiting for the right you to hand it too, I marched along. There would be no saints cumming today, as I was much too busy masticating my foot. Awkwardness aside, and with destiny approaching, I did the only thing a southern gentlemen, such as myself, would do: I put my coat over the mud, slipped the picture into her purse, and let her walk on by.

-

"My name is Jie-seuss, half asian, half cat-in-the-hat - I turn water to wine in my free time." He winked. Looking back at him he saw a face distorted in confusion: a car mangled with a tree. He slowly opened this right eye, and realized he held his wink for too long. "Have to remember to open the eye!" he thought. Confidence growing by LeBron like leaps and bounds, he doubled checked that his pants were zipped, and headed out into the world.

"Everything I'm not, made me everything I am"

There comes a point during the run when I am no longer able to breathe comfortably. Most people stop when they reach said point. Not me. Not because I'm tough, or because I want to get stronger - Nope. My reasons are a bit more morbid.

See, in my mind, that longing, gasping, and desire for air is what I imagine her to have felt like as she lived the last year of her life: I hate that feeling; I embrace that experience. What's the worst that could happen? Throw up on my shoes? Been there, done that. It was called 'Monday night' in college.

My mom ran a lot. A lot a lot. And while I loathe the pointless activity known as jogging/running, I feel it enables me to connect our soles: enabling me to love her a little bit more.

---------------------

and so we begin the third act...

Selecta

He sat still in the silence.
Letting the reverb of ghosts from days past beat in his ear drum.

The melody: teenage girl laughter: horrible: soul piercing.
The lyrics: j-kwonish: garbage.
T-Pain on autotune with The Blizzard Man couldn't resurrect this song.
Rightfully so.

The song sucked then. The song sucked now.

He tuned out.
Hoping to tune out the tune of this outrageous song.

Housewifely [desperately], he started diggin' in the crates of iTunes for something new.
Something bigger than Big L, Big Pun, Fat Joe, and Lord Finesse.
Bigger than Notorious even.

What he found was audial sunshine. Sparkle!
Every note played with rhyme and season.
Every lyric marinated in meaning.
To borrow from the 90's - this track had flavor!

This is the kind of song he would fall in love with.
This is the kind of song that would change his life.

This is the kind of song - for him...

Fact - You cannot be dyslexic if you are illiterate. Think about it.

"[Un]like the girl in the club - [I can] back it up"

He grew tired of swallowing his pride; it was too cold: Brain freeze wasn't something He particularly enjoyed. Thus, He disliked ice cream.

However, He did enjoy the cool,refreshing, taste of a Flinstone's Pushup. Much like Fred, He was from an era that no longer existed; A throwback to yesterday - only found at your local Mitchell & Ness dealer or perhaps in the latest rap videos.

As He churned his way through MTV's and BET's rotations, He often wondered what this intoxicating sensation in His body was. Having already amputated most of His emotion due to gangrene, He continued to ponder. Love? Lust? Hadoken? He threw up a gang sign, but it was mostly alcohol. Nevertheless, it was still quite chunky. As the pieces swiveled and revolved to fit into this porcelain board, He flushed: Tetris.

Having treated life like a game for so long, He often had a hard time distinguishing His perception or dreams from reality. Maybe He needed a monocle. Who knows. He didn't. Everything blurred together. Perception and Dreams would cross Reality's borders with tanks and a so called new diet plan: Weapons of Mass Destruction. In turn, Reality would strike back, which would lead to a cease fire, which would lead to, depending on the foreign policies of the time, US intervention. It was all very confusing. Albeit, the temptations were real though, and not just in His imagination.

Which paved the way for him to grow from a boy II a man, with new editions coming out frequently, typically at 1:12 AM or PM dawn, always in sync, but sometimes not, with each edge more jagged than the last.

Sort of like tater tots. He loved tater tots.

You're never too old to make believe

He preferred to live in his fiction.

In his fiction there were ninjas and robots and dinosaurs. Sometimes robotic dinosaur ninjas. Other times, dinosaur riding, ninjas.

In his fiction, jade was still just a color - it had yet to be verbed.
Magic was more than just a card game, and having a dream was more than just a speech public schools attempted to teach every February.

In his fiction, everyone was regular and not full of shit.
The only bull shit to be found came from bulls, and perhaps Chicago players.

In his fiction, the model of his being only appreciated.
The value never dropped as soon as he left the lot, and no one ever tried to suggest how he should drive. He was valued for what he was.

In his fiction, he didnt suffer.
He didn't have suffrage. It was not a democracy.

In his fiction, he wrote better than this.