Take A Chill Pill

"Take a chill pill," he said, and extended a hand with a palmfull of mushrooms.

The red or the blue? Who knows? Who cares? The mushrooms live for this reason alone, and hell if life is transient enough for anyone to give a fuck.

Enough with the problems, the equatorial divide between two people with world views varying enough to connect two never meeting black holes. Just take a drag and forget about this world.

Raw emotions only lead to poetry. That's bad enough as it is. You don't need goals and ambitions to add to the mix. Why live another person's sorrow when you can "take a chill pill".

" Smooth," he said, "so smooth, man."

There is no need for punctuation or lunch when it's like that. The mushrooms make the short lives you live feel like they may have been worth something. And then you realize that it's a bunch of bullshit you don't need to think about, if only you "take a chill pill".

Life's good. It may be serious and mundane or even one-dimensional. Who fucking cares? Does anyone even read this shit? Lulz. Dream on, bitches. "Take a chill pill".

It's annoying enough that the line seems right out of a Bollywood ass-flick. But hey man, live it up, lose some stress yo! That's the way to go.

You might live to be a hundred. Or your guts might get spilled during an unfortunate roadkill early morning tomorrow. Doesn't matter now, does it? No arrogance here believing that you're worth an ounce of shite.

Live it up. Live it out. Live on.

" Take a chill pill."

Graves For Flowers

The early grave is one of the saddest of all

For the earth would much rather wait,

Its soil repels life that could have been—

Life swept away by rage.

The saddest graves of all, however

Are the graves for flowers,

Little petals falling to the ground before their time

Those yet to bloom, ruddily ripped out—

Trampling upon the history that should have been made

To line pages painted in red.

The guns that fire will one day stop

And fall to the very same ground,

Flower-buds will rise again and grow—

Guns can only gather rust.

~*~

R.I.P. Peshawar

Anchoring Point

The night is on its way out and my thoughts are too scattered to be told. It was a fairly regular Saturday for me. Woke up late, did chores, watched a The Hobbit with friends, returned home to catch up on my Bones back log.

Yet for some reason it feels so mechanical right now. As though I'm still living in transit, between homes, between lives... Maybe that's exactly what this restlessness is — the constant sense of missing something vital, that life hasn't really begun and I'm still drifting about without an anchoring point.

I feel this sharp pain everyday if I pause long enough to dwell on it. The constant waiting has been taking its toll. I don't see an end to it anytime soon, if only for the cloud of uncertainly that surrounds our future. It still hurts though, most terribly, knowing that the most important thing in life that I'd hoped would have started two years ago is still just a dream. Life has been kind, don't get me wrong. At least the last nine months have brought such a drastic change in opportunities alone, and the year would look to end on a happy note.

But I miss my anchor, and I hate being strong all the time. Sometimes I just want to be the entitled asshole who gets it all. Or at least, the whiny moron who people, however begrudgingly, still put up with and accommodate. Just not strong. Not the one who doesn't seek out others for comfort, too proud to admit to having feelings. No one cares to help a strong self-reliant person.

It's just a matter of time now, but every day of waiting kills me slowly, and makes me drift further away. No anchor and no horizon in sight.