Jordan Newman Jordan Newman
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that's it? nothing else to say?only grammatical correction?

Asma Ahsan Asma Ahsan
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LOL - I lost my internet connection and then didnt get back online untill now. I am going to correct the rest of it too. Dont worry. :)

Asma Ahsan Asma Ahsan
Recommendations: 31

I am one of the unlucky ones (who) actually are blessed.

Asma Ahsan Asma Ahsan
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I think it's "to love and to have lost" but you should double check as I may be wrong about this.

Asma Ahsan Asma Ahsan
Recommendations: 31

(there) was an odd sense of

Asma Ahsan Asma Ahsan
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(to) leave in the past;

Asma Ahsan Asma Ahsan
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in (the hope) of achieving this - It may sound better like this but it's totally upto you to change or keep it.

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Jordan Newman Jordan Newman
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i'm still frightened of the pages that have yet to be turned: pt1


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i see angels above me, i see demons below me, fighting over heaven.
i loved her more when i was sober.
i don't want a second chance.
love starts with that of a flickerin' cigarette
i swear i could feel your love before i knew your name.

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She had a friend.

The reason as too what started all of my obsessive behaviorism that 1 comment


surround that of chronic intoxication I sadly can no longer remember. Too 1 comment


be honest, I still shudder a tad whenever the thesis, "Maybe No Reason


Ever Did Exist?" floats across my mind. The way the letters just dance


about on the dance floor of my mind, the way it swirls across the room


right up until the moment it seems to vanish as quickly as it came. The


idea is gone but its principal has decided to lounge about my morality and


linger in my hall of ethics; like a specter in a cheesy movie but like the


ghosts that live inside my nightmares, this philosophy has taken it upon


itself to take over my psyche (with, to my surprise, little to no


resistance within any part of my body).


Before my will power became much too weak to restrain from obeying my


hallucination, that image of me curled up in a ball on the floor, weeping


like a hollowed out tree in the midst of a tornado. Each limb that I


possess aches with muscle tension because all I do all day is use all my


energy to forcefully rule my own body into not betraying me. My body aches


from my seer endurance to not succumb to what every inch of my being 3 comments


screams in agony for me to do. I do not put the barrel of the chrome saint


to my temple; and I most def. manage to maintain my composure for another


day! Because I did not simply put that charming-suicide-whisperer to my


head and pull the trigger because all this... This gift of life we were


all blessed with!


I'm just so woeful to confess to anyone at all, even the Devil couldn't


hear my tale, my story of, "Life Itself Is Too Blame For These


Disappointments." Even He is tired of the cliche drug addicted youth, lost


due to simple problem many people of his 'unique' caliber are fated to


live with- the ability to see it all, too see everything for what it truly 1 comment


is. I wonder if even the sinister Deity, whom seeks to corrupt our souls


has become all to bored-I mean, full from the 'enlightened scholars.' The 1 comment


way they use feeble attempts of describing individual experiences as being


a method to communicate with others what divinity is like; or how they


relentlessly try to use feats of nature as monuments to their case. Using


the shape of natural forces on immutable objects as sufficient evidence to


prove meaning in life. Although I too once believed these declarations of


infinity as truths, I am one of the unlucky ones whom actually are blessed 1 comment


with the gift of enlightenment. 1 comment


It is not what I originally thought and sought after, that tired old


cliche, "Too Love and Too Have Lost," and this was discovered at my 1 comment


dismay. Although within this realization their was an odd sense of 1 comment


moderate happiness, it and I remained mile stones from it being even a


glimmer of joy. Hiding even within the depths of my breathe is misery so


real it is impossible to bury, too leave in the past; and that's 1 comment


regardless of how many life times I endure in hopes of achieving this 1 comment


impossibility. In a moment of sheer hopelessness, I began pondering how I


was too ever again feel a thing without succumbing to my old mannerisms.


However, it appears even knowledge knows limitations; fore even here


inside my soul's abyss all my accumulated understanding of philosophical


thinking and reasoning is again under siege from the core of my being.


Try as I try, the days just continued to take their tole; and suddenly I 1 comment


was back at the wheel, holding the reigns. Luckily, sailing a vessel is


the same as riding a bike; and after a few close encounters of cap-sizing,


I was virtually riding again with no hands. Finally discovered a remedy


that helped cure some of the problems that seem to keep me pinned the


metaphorical floor of time. This pill, the display of different colours


too choose from, these pills- all with different pictures printed upon


them; and looking back now I find it's with immense difficulty I did not


see the irony in its transparency before.


Alas! I was young, we were young; and in my view, time itself was still in


its infancy. The bright colours blinded me into falling into a rabbits


hole all too willingly; and the logos used to represent this home-made


remedy's own brew master.


Each day of the week, I was able to be come somebody new or at least it


felt that way for you see: on Tuesday it was a yellow octagon with


decorated with a semi-colon and parenthesis to symbolize an ASCII wink; a


pink one twice as big as Tuesday's but instead a fish with "x X"'s for


eyes on Wednesday; Thursday's breakfast consisted of two purple ones with


only the number six on it, two because are only a quarter the size of


Tuesday's; Friday's, however, three are taken because they are the size of


Wednesday's but are completely circular but white with the silhouette of


Bart Simpson gazing from beyond; Saturday's count is forgotten due to how


powerful just one of the blue ones are; Sunday is the Sabbath so black


with crosses are in order; and of course Monday's are pretty [ fill in


colour here] and [fill in size here] and to that I account as honestly as


I can to the best of [fill in memory file here].


This routine is bound to repeat for a few years at least; although the


colours, shapes, patterns and amount differ for certain throughout this


time lapse, the only thing that remains is how this chemical engineered


cartoon-replacing imposter can keep the depression at bay from me. Until


the day comes when people begin to vow the days ain't what they used to


be, and the new chemically engineered remedy's that are available now are


made up of some new code or simply all the abuse has finally altered the


scripted programming of our brains molecular make up. The blame game isn't


really a favourite of mine, so no sooner do I fear once again the reaper-


I hear this song soar from the distance. I am uncertain of which direction


this harp like psalm is approaching from so I panic and begin to forget to


tred water, too keep my head up above the tides of time.


When I awake from what I feared was too be certain doom, I find myself


face too face with a brand new deli-ma; because the terrain I knew back on


shore has transformed into a tiny island with an even smaller lagoon.


Searching for an escape or other life is futile, that I can clearly see as


the other side of the coast is a mere stone throw away; and so again I'm


face to face with proof of life being nothing but a lonely prison sentence


in a foreign land. No comfort do I find in my newly discovered home, my


residence, I can see so easily, is bare of life all together- not even a


sign that vegetation once grew on this sand.


As it usually does and will do, boredom came upon me after a few days of


sobering up were behind me; and so off in pursuit of any form of


intoxication am I too begin searching after. This is the monkey on my


shoulder; and again I must thank him for his persistence. You see, if not


for his squeal to feed him, I am positive my drive to self preserve would


have vanquished in that spot the same way Machiavelli was exiled from his


kingdom. But here I find myself chuckling softly to myself at life's irony


as I stroll slowly across the short diameter of space that exists from


coast line A to the coast line B but still on I go, while all reason in me


knows its futile; but damn that squeash in my ear, its enough to transform


my corpse into Bernie for a weekend- or for infinity, until that monkey's


damn appetite is finally stagnated and content.


In front of me, I see the letter's "s-o-r-r-o-w" float bye my eyes with


each exasperated breath i exhale; but still I grow home-sick of where I


have been and cast a casually hopeful glance backwards only to see what I


expected- absolutely nothing. Again "s-o-r-r-o-w" swirls about in front of


my pupils like smog so when I stumble over a lip in the terrain, I


completely stumble and fall face first over the artifact. With absolutely


no haste, I lay there so humble in my self-defeat until the swelling of my


pride subsides enough to see what it is I unearthed.


A plaque?!


A rusty plaque stamped with a metal plate that was once sealed in golden


paint. 'UTOPIA' is what stares up at me; and once more I fall down on the


ground in a seizure of agonizing pain. This must be a dream! But still how


can even it be so sadistic it must ridicule me with such horrendously


accurate accounts for what my life is too become?


i apologize of this makes no sense.
it started off as a letter of apology to myself for my life long drug use.
that plus my understanding of 'genealogy of morals' in regards to the aesthetic man...
but half way through it transformed itself into a fable of regrets and failed experiences.


i wrote it in one go, without going back to pre edit yet so again ia pologize if it seems aimless or no direction- just thought i'd try my hand at something new, even though my dedicated audience may not see a change in the over all content/context [mood/atmosphere]created here (and in the 2nd part)


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Jordan Newman's website: http://novelled.com/book_overview.php?b_id=55

Next: The Nice Guy: Chapter Three