A Sunday...

Who knew? Not I. This life is not something easily defined. We think with confidence that we can look up existence in the dictionary and be rightly satisfied. This is false. We are not who we think we are, no matter how much we smugly contemplate it. Love is the only answer, as wavering of a thing that it is. My hand is your hand, and God is all around us. So breath deep next time; matter matters. The king of the Earth is blind with an empty hole in his meaty chest where his heart used to be, and his voice is the deafening thunder that splits the sky. And we will continue to love him for it.

So here I go writing again...

THE WIDOW

Ellen: The widow. Loses her husband at the worst of times. Pregnant, she is induced into an abortion when her husband is murdered. Slipping into both a world of desperate erasure and an unknown becoming of truth with a stranger, Ellen struggles on the fine line of clarity and insanity.

The killer, spawns a killer. For, See no evil, do no evil.

Jake: An honest man, is transformed into that which he fears most. One night after a long shift serving beer and cocktails Jake goes to simply empty the garbage, unbeknown to him is what awaits in that alley. That behind that very door resides the coming to of his destiny. To lose his mind.

Old writing found again...

It must have been during summer, the day in which I was taught the meaning of birth, because I can recollect the refreshing chill received upon entering the cool hallways of my elementary school, a much appreciated sensation after a lunch spent piloting a swing. My second grade teacher, Mrs. Hiratchi, had our class gather in a circle around a box with holes no bigger than a pen would inflict. Inside, with glossy eyes equal in both wide expression as well as curiosity, slouched three golden puppies. Following their introduction, Mrs. Hiratchi explained that in comparison the puppies were in their years equal to that of the second grade class, and like humans, puppies are born. The rest of that days teachings, though like many memories of mine from such an age, have faded over the years. Yet one of three fundamentals I would later claim those of life, in my opinion, was brought into understanding. Though the complexities of existence are not easily placed in a mere three categories, and that which the origin of such classification escapes me amongst the flood of input that has yet to cease (nor would I wish for it to do so), I am left with the embedded phrase, “Life, love, and death: the human experience”.

Eh:

RIP: Crazy white chick with phobia of green lemon flavored gummies shaped as bears.

LOVE IS A BITCH. A CRUEL YET REWARDING MISTRESS.

"Me time"

We all have an idea of who we are. Joe is Joe, Mary fucks Joe and Joe and Mary have Moe. That's life. I am me you are you. That sort of thing. Hello again

my name is Cory Alan Barrow, and well, I just felt like telling you a little about myself. Currently 21. Currently employed. Currently dating. Currently and constantly ready for anything. Currently awaiting the sun to poke back out of the clouds so I can go back outside, light one up and kill myself slowly. There's nothing like working in the medical field and rebelling by having a cigarette from time to time, most people don't understand how liberating that truly is. Oh yeah the medical field, definitely not for me.

"What do you want from life?" Bill asks. "Good question Bill"

I want peace of mind, but, who doesn't these days. I want to be able to roll out of bed one day, yawn, stretch, and step out onto solid ground. I want the best for those around me who aren't complete assholes. I want the grass to be greener on the otherside. I'm tired. More on that later.

To be continued...

So this is what that was for!

Life in Iwakuni is much like a revolving door. We push on only to circle the same site for two years or until we drive ourselves into some other dimension of day in and out insanity. The new leadership here, well, they are like that little rock that gets wedged into your roller skate while your just cruising along. Next thing you know, you're diving head first into an asphalt sandwhich with a side order of "picking debris out of your brow".

I've been here for nearly ten months now, which is in my opinion long enough for anyone to establish well, an opinion. If it weren't for my side workings of intense human social interaction research I think I would have gone mad by now. I mean what kind of a life is leading people down a path of complete and utter miserable useless Sun Tzu-like discipline. War is a thing of the past, most people would agree. Let us just hope the leaders come to realize this as well. Oh and if you don't like it (as to say your one of those ignoramus' that thinks war is a necessary evil) go fuck yourself and de-evolve on some abandoned shit hole of a continent.

Twas a Sunday...

"Pens are drained of ink, as we conjure thoughts that sink, deep into our chests- patiently passing time until your familiar steps. Unrest. Tests. The rhythmic rise and fall of your resting breaths. My two seasons to your four. Somewhere in-between. Somewhere to explore." -Ramblings on duty.

We are not the things we create, rather, the things we create are us. Whos to say who is worthy of anything. Death is a constant reminder of life constanly surrounding us.

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