In my life I've seen a ton of things, some good, most not. And when I sit back and reflect on my life, I realize the sheer number of possibilities that I've survived. Rightfully, by my count I should be dead at least three times over now. Seriously, not metaphorically, stone cold dead. 1986, 2000, 2002-3. And, probably more in there too. Yet I'm still here, albeit if not for modern medicine I wouldn't be so lucky. Then again, who's to say.
I don't believe in predestination. Do you know what would make my life worth living? When I die and take up residence with God, the utterance of only one sentence would make life completely worth all the shit that was lived. "Through thick and thin, everything that you were, everything that you experienced and did, you did it all yourself." That's all I'd need to know.
I love people who claim to be innocent, not that they are or aren't but that they are able to make that claim convincingly. Me, I'm not, of mind, body or soul. Such is life, but it doesn't bother me. I just look at these people, laugh at their naive notions, and wait on the sideline to be affirmed. It's not like I'm trying to be a jerk; they wouldn't believe me if I told them they were wrong.
I've seen more than of which I am willing to speak. I have experienced pains and sufferings further than those of most (of which most I won't speak), yet I don't complain. I am many things to others, quiet, angry, aloof, distant (though playfully you can call me anything you want). But really, this is just my past seeping through. I don't whine. I don't cry. I press on. For such is the way of things in the Machiavellian Wasteland.
I don't believe in predestination. Do you know what would make my life worth living? When I die and take up residence with God, the utterance of only one sentence would make life completely worth all the shit that was lived. "Through thick and thin, everything that you were, everything that you experienced and did, you did it all yourself." That's all I'd need to know.
I love people who claim to be innocent, not that they are or aren't but that they are able to make that claim convincingly. Me, I'm not, of mind, body or soul. Such is life, but it doesn't bother me. I just look at these people, laugh at their naive notions, and wait on the sideline to be affirmed. It's not like I'm trying to be a jerk; they wouldn't believe me if I told them they were wrong.
I've seen more than of which I am willing to speak. I have experienced pains and sufferings further than those of most (of which most I won't speak), yet I don't complain. I am many things to others, quiet, angry, aloof, distant (though playfully you can call me anything you want). But really, this is just my past seeping through. I don't whine. I don't cry. I press on. For such is the way of things in the Machiavellian Wasteland.
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