We Are All Bored

Goodbye, blue sky. Pink Floyd.

I’ve never been this pissed, and disappointed before. Everything seems to go irrationally from here, and my retinal disparity seems to be blurred in some static fucked up figure of a mental statuesque landscape. Double visions, binocular sunset. It’s like they simply put me upside down in a tank full of nonsense, and whimsical gravity. I tried to runaway, and they just pulled me back in. They call themselves as the brightest lantern of all, the immaculate source of hope, and legacy. Tell my man about that, he’ll laugh his ass off. He is as riotous as myself. He’s not just another punk rock lad with manner issues. Never felt love, never felt hate. We are completely numb to these crappy bollocks. Pedal to the metal. Can’t stress that one enough. Life is a nonstop heavy metal riffs from Iron Maiden. No, it’s heavier than heaven. 

Is the world really underwater? Or was it just a dream that I got while trying out Sigmund Freud-ish technique that Salvador did? Maybe it was really underwater, and everything dried up as soon as I opened my eyes to smell. Or to see? It doesn’t matter. All I can think about is how to go to New York, and pick him up from his flat, and off we go to the sunset. Why not vice versa? Because that’s how we always roll. Dead Kennedys in the morning, and Misfits in the night. Mommy, mommy, mommy. let me out and kill some people tonight. 

She keeps on rambling, and rambling, and rambling. Prettiest girl in the world. She’s the epitome of Marilyn Monroe of 2013. Gosh, please tell me that you don’t envy her beauty. What? No. You’re lying. You’re a lying bitch. St. Patrick’s Day, huh? What’s your excuse? Dress your feast up, party on. Bury me in my leather jacket like they did to Sid. He was too Vicious, and I’m very curious. Turn on the volume, I see that you’re listening to Gojira. Heavy heavy, their songs are my chill pill. If Plato was right, the current idea world can only be found in Joe Satriani’s guitar solos. Nothing is better than listening to a crisp shred, and your boyfriend laughing twelve hours away.

Leo Tolstoy was always right about everything. “We can know only that we know nothing”. Yes, Leo. Nobody knows what we know, right? Because we know nothing. Every single thing that we knew was literally nonsense, not really, but they’re quite invisible. Invincible. Sheer plasmatic cell of knowledge waiting to be stored in the pineal glands. Where is Stephen Hawking when I need him? Let me dig the truth from Gadamer’s book. Thank you, classmate for lending me this bible. I’m starting to worship the guy, and build an altar especially for him, but wait, he’s no Salvador. But still.

10:10 wish upon a star? Nope. Wrong answer. Newsletter is waiting to be done, and some paintings are dying to be coloured. And I dwell in probabilities, and posibilities, and maybe some chi squared test. This is purely for artistic, and mathematical purpose. The concentration of my oil paint is getting thinner as the night grows darker. Maybe I should stop here, and breathe, and put on GnR’s Patience as I paint through the night. Calling all the muses to line up, and fill my surrealist block here.

We are all bored.

All was created out of the night 
We're all born from the burst of a star