I start this off without any words. But they will come. This is the blessing, and the curse. Regardless of what has transpired in my life, or how much I wish to forget, the words will come. They are my salve and my damnation.
  The words that find their way onto these tomes soothe and comfort my weary soul, yet the ones that hide in the spaces between curse and condemn. They haunt each fiber of my mind, traversing the expanse between my neurons on the backs of false pretenses, the sugar coated electric lies that I tell myself and repeat to others.
Alcohol is not a crutch; it merely plays the role of ticket-taker, ousting the transient, stowaway misanthropes from the boxcar of truth that is my thought pattern, allowing me to take an accurate head count.
I am afraid. I am so frightened of being who I am and making myself happy that I settle for making others happy in lieu of my desires. I am paralyzed by thoughts of failure, as well as dreams of success. I am terrified that if I should start screaming, I may never be able to stop. I am usurped by panic at the thought of another day in this drudgery that is my own existence.
I am discontent. I am not happy with the way that I have allowed my life to turn out. I want it to change before I have reached the point that I only look forward to its end.
Yet, still I continue to laugh. Again and again, I regurgitate the same old sentiments of positivity and hopeless hopefulness that I have grown so accustomed. “Tomorrow is another day,” or “It can’t rain all the time.”
But tomorrow is another day. And how should I face it if it ends up being the same as today? And it can’t rain all the time, but better men than myself have drown in a flash flood.
So why do I continue to say these things? For the benefit of myself or for the person who is listening? Which one have I become?

Houston stood up from his stooped position on the sunken mattress edge. Shuffling over to his one lone window he grabbed a paint stained old t-shirt and used it to gingerly wipe the filth off of the closest pane. The light he allowed entrance made the sorry state of his quarters look all the more uninviting. Piles of soiled clothing, dozens of glass bottles, torn canvas shreds(he could never hold his temper long enough to sleep on it) and empty paint pots from one unkempt corner to the other.   No wonder he had not worked in months. How could an artist create in such a state? He sighed heavily to himself and pulled on faded blue jeans with a plaid button up. Clothed and comfortable he surveyed his "work" room, which consisted of his five foot wide, two foot deep closet with the doors removed. The easle sat sad and empty, waiting to fulfill it's sole purpose: to support the realized weight of this man's genius.  He was a painter. A **** good one too or so some folks said. He was still a skeptic. Houston mainly  painted to control his temper. It was his only outlet for a hair trigger rage that simmered just below his sweet and gentle demeanor. Those closest to him understood his struggle and did their best to not instigate but every once and a while they dealt with the business end of Houston Montgomery. Not a show anyone would want a repeat performance of.
       One of his so called "masterpieces" was sold to a gallery down town for twelve thousand dollars last year. Seven months had come and gone since then. . He would trade his most amazing memory to be able to rewind back to that day.  Around that time the fates must have decided Houston was having far too much fun. That very same month he also came across a down on her luck actress who went by Sylvia Stone. He had been doing pretty well for himself up until that point. Bills were paid, fridge was full and his clothes were clean.  Then everything went to ****. She was easily impressed with Houston's new money and thought jumping on this pony was better than settling for a jack ***. Houston spent more time with her than he had expected. More time than he really wanted but he had not been with a woman in many many months and she was incredible in the sack. She did this thing with her mouth that had his eyes even now rolling into his skull and his spine quivering. Too bad she turned out such a psychotic ****.
         His art started to suffer. Normally he could sit down and pump out two pieces a week. For four months straight he only produced three total and they were horrible, shamefully lack luster. He told Sylvia he needed space, that it wasn't because he did not want to be with her but that he needed more time to work. He would get a few pieces done then they could spend a week together.  She seemed understanding but distant. Houston went back to dedicating his time to his work. Hoping that after he made some money Sylvia would be open to picking up where they left off, Houston worked quickly to pump out something fantastic.  

Things were quiet and productive
for seventeen days.

**Then Sylvia called.

Maybe all the insane asylums are filled with Jesus's

and

Maybe all the churches are filled with maniacs.

and

Maybe all the schools are filled with dead beats

and

Maybe all the streets are filled with brainiacs.

and

Maybe businessmen are not in business chairs
     But hospitals instead.

and

Maybe doctors aren't lab rats in coats
     But witches beneath jungles.

and

Maybe all teachings aren't in books
     But in trees again.

and

Maybe all leaders are not statues
      But fell off the square edged earth.

and

Maybe politics is just what it seems
      *****-ish drunkards and rigged card games.

As one may expect, anyone who has trod upon the loam of this planet for the last 30 years is bound to have experienced things.
While I am still a bachelor, I have loved and been loved. I have felt the light of a thousand suns and also endured the lonely embrace of the night.
I have traveled through a good part of the Eastern and mid Western United States, as well as parts of Europe, Canada and Mexico but have yet to traipse the cosmos outside of the veil of sleep.
I have never seen a Yeti or the Monster of Loch Ness or even glimpsed a UFO, but I still have hope.
I have seen good people stricken down before their time while evil men cavort through cemeteries under a cloudless night sky.
I have stopped to smell the roses on my lunch break from the rat race. I have reveled the sweet taste of victory and also the bitter sourness of defeat.
I have conquered beasts and monsters, even if they were only ones that lay inside myself.
I have taken in the view from the top of the World and from the bottom of the bottle.
I have experienced everyday and, while not always to the fullest, everyday, I experience.