Das Dicke Ende Kommt Noch

I have been searching my vocabulary for a good way to start this project, perhaps with a good story about a crucial element of my past or short summary of my life. In the last five minutes i decided against that, for the whole point of this online journal, this auto-biography, this escapade into the deepest cracks of my psyche is to learn more about me and what I want to accomplish before my personal doomsday clock strikes midnight. If I reveal that in the first post...all purpose is lost. I will begin with poetry.

The Absolute monster in the room,
you feel it here disrupting harmony
you must
But of course, you don't talk about it
you don't think about it
But it must change the way that you walk
it must change the way that you talk
And it must change the shape of your day
In some tiny, tiny little way
The thoughts in back of our heads

What needs to happen
to make your thoughts an action
Why can't we see
what it needs to be
All the bloody distraction
its blinding you and me

Come fight for your last breath
or wait patiently for death
Dictators of our nations
think d'struction breeds creation
Absolute monster has cometh
brings about the Revelations

Why don't we talk about it?
Why don't we think about it?
What needs to happen?
To make those thoughts an action?
Don't push it back 'n drown it
Broken bird in water flappin'

I wrote this flash of enlightenment during a time of my life filled with anger and confusion, which was a deadly combination. At the time I was completely unaware as to why I was angry aside from the usual young men angst combined with the adrenaline of hormones pulsing through my veins. Looking back I think it was anger about the war in Iraq and the thousands of young Americans having their lives taken too early or forced to live limbless and in pain and no one was trying hard enough to put a stop to it. It filled me with rage.
As I typed "The Thoughts in Back of Our Heads" into this entry, I realized what I am angry about. I am angry because I feel that my generation is living in such a way that all our lives have a path already cut for them, and not an easy path at that. We have no choice as to were we walk for the path has been roughly placed before us, but it is cluttered with broken bottles under children's feet, the ripples of a riverbed that once flowed with blood but is now dried red dirt having no effect on the eyes of the blind who stumble it, bodies piled high with glaring empty eye sockets. The path has been cut and left in a terrible wake. My generation is in charge of the cleanup, but we haven't been allowed to start and no one is fighting hard enough to pull the starting pistol's trigger. No wants to let us talk about the red dirt that was dyed by the blood of young men and women. No one wants to let us think about the past or the present, only the future. I am angry, but the worst has yet to come (das dicke ende kommt noch) and the strength my anger gives me will be required on a different day, on a different battlefield.

I started this tonight after recently reading a lot of the blog of my friend and mentor, Ithil Mori. It made me shake as my heart sped up. I have known the man for almost 16 years and never heard or seen him open up so much. Its almost as if he is slowly lowering himself over the volcano and we are finally allowed to meet the real him. I want to meet the real him. I want to meet the real me. This project is more for me than any of my readers, no offense meant, but when I let my fingers fly across my grimy and finger-print caked keyboard the writing flows and I speak to myself through my own literature. I still have much anger and confusion about the world and my own self and everything in between, but I also possess patience. Therefore, I am in no hurry to discover what else lies within me. I will let my madness continue to unwind and my muse to articulate my spiraling thoughts. Goodnight.

I Am Jack's Muse