Count To Six And Die

What to write, what to write…

I really don’t know.

Sometimes it seems like everything worth saying has already been said. That everything worth doing has already been done. It’s all bland and dry and tasteless…about as exciting and worthwhile as tasting all the sand in the Sahara.

I suppose some can be satisfied with repeating things in life that have been repeated for generations. Apparently millions can be satisfied with living life, following in the footsteps of those who have gone on before us all, and never look to see if this is all there is. I can’t.

I bore easily. I have a hard time swallowing the pill of “just go with the flow” and “accept your fate as a human being.”

As I said, everything is bland. All the events that constitute my “life” are just repetitions of prior events gone through by those before me. There is nothing left that is new. There are no more things to be discovered. There are no new frontiers left to be found. And somewhere in all this I’m supposed to find purpose. Somewhere in all this I’m supposed to find a reason and a will to live and survive and to carry on.

Whatever.

*

“She’s got her eyes open wide

She’s got the dirt and spit of the world

Her mouth on the metal lips of

A scared little girl

*

I’ve got an angel in the lobby

He’s waiting to put me in line

I won’t ask forgiveness

My faith has run dry

*

She’s got her Christian prescriptions

And death has crawled in her ear

Like elevator music, songs that

She shouldn’t hear…”- Marilyn Manson