The Fight, Part I

Damn it.

Damn it.

Damn it.

Why can't I get it right? Thrown in the middle again. Though this time it's different. This time I am ready to fight. I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my body. Down my arms, and out my finger-tips. I want to destroy-destroy something beautiful.

Space. Time.

These mean nothing to me. Time drags on, and with every tick of the clock I just become more inflamed-more angry-more and more pissed off. At the world-at my parents-at the guy who lives next door that pumps his stereo up way past LOUD in the middle of the night.

Sleep. Wake. Sleep again.

What is sleep? And who really gets any? The mother waiting for her kid to come home after curfew. The father who's worried if he will keep his job after tomorrow. People with real problems. With real things to worry about. And then there's me. The poor little college kid who couldn't even buy sleep if it was for sale. Yep, that is me.

Fucked up life.

Sometimes I feel like I'm going crazy. Love is for pussies. Love is for those that are too naive to know that love doesn't really exist. If love were possible-or even feasible-my life wouldn't be this fucked up. No one understands. No one gets it. No matter what they say they are full of shit. They will lie to you. They will try to make you feel better. But remember-they are all full of shit. Every last one of them.

Heartache. Pain.

You can't feel heartache in your simple white collar-9 to 5. You don't have pain in corporate america. If we were real with eachother we would go out there. Out there in the world where things are real. Where people have to fight for what they want. Scrimp and save every dime and nickel they make so that they can eat tomorrow. Where people worry about real things. Where your parents call you-bumming money. And where you have to worry about whether or not you are going to make it past 30. Where TV shows don't matter. And no one cares who married who in Hollywood. Real life. Not some fantasy world we make up for ourselves-to live our pretty little lives.

Without.

Without pain. Without feeling what it feels like to not know if you're gonna make it tomorrow. Without any scars. Thats what this is all about. People living their silly little lives without any scars. I don't want to die without any scars. I don't want to die thinking that I am actually part of something bigger. Because in reality-we are all just a bunch of worm food just waiting to be eaten. But tell that to some white collar sap-and they'll just laugh at you. Laugh at you and your pain-and the fact that you'd like to beat their face off.

Beatings.

I wonder how many beatings it takes to make your point? One? Two? Maybe threes a charm? All I know is that I want to hit someone. Right in the face-as hard as I can. I want to bloody their face beyond recognition. Destroy something that is beautiful. And given the chance-I might just do that. Is it worth it? Damn straight. Of course it's worth it. Then, at least you would have a few scars to die with.

Ok, I am awake again.