No Rest for the Weary

As much as laying around and doing absolutely nothing for hours on end may appeal to people, I honestly don't like sleeping all that much. Maybe it's just because I can never make myself fall asleep easily, and once I'm asleep, I can't make myself wake up easily. It's like my body always wants to be in one state or the other; the transition is one of the suckiest experiences that I have to go through on a daily basis. Twice.

I recall reading a book a long ways back (like, high school or even middle school) called Black. I don't recall the story that well, because I wasn't that enamored with it (even though a bunch of people kept telling me it was amazing and mind-blowing), but one of the mechanics of the plot stuck with me, and I really thought it was an interesting concept. Every time the main character went to sleep, he went to another world, and once fell asleep in that world, he would return to the regular world.

I really wish I could do that. I feel like so much of my time is wasted when I go to sleep, and I always wish I could be doing something more productive, like writing music or working on my story, or getting better and French and German, or playing guitar. Anything seems better than sleep to me, but I know that I need to sleep to do anything of those things proficiently. Ahhh, if only we could live in storybook worlds...

Ray=Out

Somehow we need to get together a gang of merry men and petition to get the assholes getting paid 3 starving African babies an hour to re-create Ray=Out magazine. For those of you who don't know, Ray=Out is a riff-boarder mag that exists in the anime Eureka Seven. I would love for something like that to be made possible..

But really this is just a pipe dream. I suppose I can always just look on the internet to read columns by a REAL Stoner [Editor's Note: that's the name of a character in the show], and look at pictures taken on Google images or fan websites... (Sigh.)

(Tears... Not of joy... Of complete sorrow.)

Untitled Story or Poem or Whatever (the Result of Being Really Tired)

There is a boy,
well, really he's a man.
He's mostly grown up,
but he hasn't got a real plan.
Everything in his life seems predetermined,
but not by fate or God,
but by the fabrics of society,
blanketing and blinding him.

But the boy (or man) keeps walking along,
and now it seems beauty has intervened,
and the streets are paved and gleaming,
new green is growing when others are leaving.
But despite all the new additions to his yard,
there's an empty spot in the back, near the pond.

And it doesn't feel right,
it's been gone for sometime,
the spot where something used to sit but now has not been for quite a while.

Was it ever really there?
"Yes", he swears, he's seen it before. It haunts his dreams and it's carved in his floor and everyone else thinks the garden is full.
But tragically, only he can see the decay,
the waste and the spreading of nightmares and grey.
Knowing this one thing gone is the key to all things,
the bringer of joy and freedom and open field dreams.

He walks over the grave,
so deep he can't see,
the bottom or end, transcending the earth.
And he looks out on the wasteland that others call his turf,
and they enviously glare at his supposed achievements,
without ever finding a channel to reach him,
because perception is altered from body to body,
time has changed even the modest to haughty.

The man trudges on.
He tries to look forward but suddenly looks back,
and the small boy he sees, he is taken aback,
and he falls to his knees and wants the past so bad,
but it is not for the man, only for the boy.
He knows not how he knows, but only that he does know,
and it is cement in his mind, it is certainly so.

So the man sighs deeply and marches on,
knowing not what he'll come across,
but knowing he'll find another spot to lay,
and new gardens to grow,
and new air to be breathed,
new life to be seen,
fresh surroundings.

And maybe, the man, he startles to think,
will cross the barrier that borders the brink,
of the thing he's been missing this whole time,
the oldest of old desires for all of man kind,
love, and just a little more time.