I guess, in my haunted room, apart from, those biting gremlins and crawling creepers all over my skin, invoking late-night terror to their delight, as some sort of initiation for rushing into being evil again, which I, more or less, failed, and have, by the goodness of my heart of spades, and the people who seem to care, love (and look after) me, am to return to the blinding bright side of being an upstanding, do-gooder, simpleton.
Motherfuckers like me, think because they shaved the whole world ended. Autistic as I am, I’d rather be a good person, and look a little silly, than, be clean-shaven LA, fuckin everything up that used to mean something to me. Very Aries.
“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” – this is the betrayal from a guy who didn’t write very well. Write a second draft my man. I like to think of myself as Jung. Maybe the whole world remembers him in second place because he didn’t just exclaim the first explanation that came to his brain. But more importantly, because he sought the good in people, which is harder, and less glamorous. Freudian explanations for everything, are easy to believe because they are simple, black and white, explanations for everything. They want to make sense because we wish life was that simple.
And, I must mention, that I wish I were Kafka (Lovecraft). I wish I was deranged, and stoic, and painfully beautifully manipulated and tortured by some inside voice that transcends a man into a God. I’ll just be a Demi someday (Demisexual heyo!) or a Trojan. I’m not sure. I’m enough of a man thus far, I know that much. But I think why I do not wish to be a God, is because being human prolongs hope. I’ve got enough Irish in me to know, eh, you don’t need a lot of hope, just focus on what is in front of you. But, no hope. None. I’m glad to’ve known.
I betrayed myself, yesterday. Get your head out of your pants you silly little ladies. I just couldn’t look myself in the mirror, and the weight of Nicholas Cage was just a little too heavy. Hopefully, no pictures will be taken until I look the way I am. Silly, unattractive, but someone who believes in something, and that something, is something of good use and purpose. I couldn’t live with myself, for about, a week. That’s why some people don’t drink. But my truth was, that this revelation, liberation, and salvation vacation was due to grieving, through nothing more than Robert Frost’s Poetry. And for a young man like me to have gotten to that kind of poetry, originated from nothing less than doing everything in his will to be a good boy, until his spirit let out a big fart. Sometimes you stink for a little afterword.
Ben Bonkoske 