It's not every day that you get the inspiration to write something. And when I say "write", I mean"write" in general.  In my case,I experienced a coffee rush for the first time today after what seems like forever and for some reason it has lasted for almost 5 hours. Anyway, TobyKid tells me that many great writers are in agreement that you can't (want) to write! That you have to (need) to write and if you don’t need to write then you shouldn’t write.I am someone who has always found it hard to socialize with people. As a kid I was usually the one who didn’t fit in anywhere. And for reason unclear, I didn’t want to fit in anywhere. So that was fine and I never felt sorry for myself. I was the type of kid that usually sat somewhere in the middle of the class,doodling and scribbling on the backs of notebooks and wooden desks. If it weren't for the dress code, I think I’d probably have shown up wearing a hoodie that covered up my entire body. If I were an insect, I'd probably be a soil dwelling worm. You can put money on that! Call me a hipster for liking Linkin Park and The Weeknd before they were cool! It wasn't long before I found out that keeping things to myself had consequences. The symptoms of which included paranoia, insomnia, depression, OCD, (ODD) obsessive day dreaming, blah!! This is when I discovered art, poetry and literature. I never understood why people worshiped musicians like they were gods till I heard Trent and Maynard for the first time. Well! Now I know. For a while I could turn off the world around me and get lost in the euphoria of my self-isolation. Sometime it lasted for a minute, sometimes for days. Like it matters anyway! Contrary to what culture and society perceives as normal behavior here, I have been writing and sketching my feelings down ever since I had the motor skills to move a pencil across paper; though I must admit that I'm still crap at it. But none of that really matters to me because it's probably the only thing keeping me sane and functioning in what I would otherwise perceive to be a meaningless and mundane world.I have always found it hard to find inspiration. That being said, there's nothing poetic about the thoughts that nest themselves inside my head. Although I have met quite a few people who likes to think otherwise. I don’t share any of them verbally as I think that they're so muddled up that I myself lack the skill and knowledge to decipher them. Instead, I write them down as I am writing this very commentary to try to get a sense of what it is that I am getting out of this coffee rush. I am still unclear of it but as long as I'm having fun hitting away at the keys with all that jazz, it's okay. Now I know what Victor Frankenstein was feeling while he was digging up all those graves to create his.. Adam.There is no easy way to put it. Everything you see me do is an act. Or is it? I can’t really tell anymore. Does a worm know that it’s a worm? I remember reading something by Stephen King where he was talking to a bunch of kids in a college and he talked about how he didn’t know what would happen to his characters and his stories until they were written. He also talked about how writing the last words of your novel before you've written it is like licking the icing off of the cake and then eating it.But then again, he's a genius and I am just some ******* trying to make sense of my life off of a coffee rush.(8/21/2015)

"When is it ever the right time for anything? When is it ever just about the music?" I think to myself as the band that I had come to see becomes inaudible background noises to the voices of my own making. "It's what you want, not what you need."As much time as I spend singing to myself in silence in grey - hazy days, any urge to open myself up to people lasts only momentary. The mask slips back up faster than the voices can end their sentences. That's how it always is! I walk past my days in auto pilot, leaving but a whisper behind. I've grown used to it over the years! Stand in line. Say "Good morning" to people at work.Talk about wine, **** and women on rooftops of cold abandoned houses. Discuss art, music and poetry with people whose faces resemble my mask. You keep walking because that's what everyone else is doing. There are occasional outbursts of static excitement that I try to hold one to. But my fingers are always a little too big to get a good grip. It's like trying to watch your favorite TV show with a weak signal. My days become indistinguishable. Every day is the same. Even when you get what you want, you're not satisfied. I never liked the word"numb" but I don’t think that there's a better word for the way I mostly feel. I often find myself walking on social eggshells, pushing myself closer and closer to the boundaries I know I shouldn’t cross. It's cold outside and I need to get home.

There is a frost around my elation
The celebrations and the laughter all around me
Seem distant through the glass of my window
The hollow figures follow me into the night
Serenading me with lights that hurts my eyes
The rise and fall of these days all feel the same
The name of the game is to blame the one who sings
Of things that make sense to the ones who listens
With precision to the words and sights
Of the things they write into meanings and metaphors
That open new doors to absolute trivialities of reality.

I had a dream once
Or maybe it was a memory
Half-awake into my sleep,
A step away from oblivion
Two from euphoria
Standing on the edge
Feeling the cold wind
Brush away the dirt off my bare feet
The branches reach out
To the sunlight that will never come
The silent dominion of the shadows
Run far and wide into the night
I met myself there
Or maybe someone else
Among the field of thorns and decaying wood
We felt at home we never knew we had
I don’t write anymore
At least not for myself
The sound of thunder in the distance
Reminds me of the approaching storm
As the black veil of reality rids me of my former self
Let the rain spill where they may
I had a dream once
Or maybe just a forgotten memory

On to this old road I walk again
Leaving but a whisper behind
Every step as slow as the one before
My fate it seems is still very much undefined
If there is just one forever
I want to spend it with myself
I don't know if I'll make it past this winter
But at least I wont be spending it thinking of you.

Tread with caution
You are not in a dream
I have felt the rose vines growing along the walls of your soul
They cannot hold back the blistering rays of tomorrow’s sunrise
You, the harbinger of tranquility and silence
The shadow that heal the wounds of unfulfilled remembrance
You, who is still pure in a world that is tainted,
The essence of every ode that has ever truly been recited
Find the place where darkness subsides
Conceal yourself among the silhouettes
Bury yourself among the ruins
Mask yourself with the ashes of the fallen
But don’t let the lifeless hands of reality find you