Pump Down the Volume

Well hell, it's two years later and the only things matured at this point in my life have been the fat on my body and permanent caustic etched fatigue lines upon the skin. Freshly delivered truths descend from heaven's gate in bountiful baskets call complacency, denial, and fiction, not the kind of tales found in literature and film but the ones which allow people such as myself to rise out of bed in the morning without a cocktail of alcohol, pills, and various other reality masking substances. It is just not me, but everyone within an earshot; co- workers, friends, and complete strangers who seek an exit to sleep through one more afternoon of what ever various problems saddle them like a broken horse close to starvation. There does not seem to much of an escape route anymore that is not covered in the metallic barbs of internal self centered bitching or griping to a somewhat international online audience where a camaraderie of pain, boredom, and need for attention have superseded any real desire to resolve the generational social stratification and inequality amongst quarreling beings lined up alongside opposite sides of the same active volcanic rim.

Why has it become so much easier to give up? Living in the land of distraction has transformed me into a resident of streaming internet television, lazy dinners, and weekends down at the local pub. This all feels really safe, encouraged telepathically by invisible sources who seek to make me tread aimlessly in middle age routines. The best I can do now is sit at a bar and watch local patrons spend their money, get drunk, while jamming dollars into the hipster jukebox machine in the ultimate contest of punk chic indie cool. Lately, the curtain has risen on the next episode in this great lingering hoax. A new brood of decadent, drug taking, and disenchanted youth headed toward the same pitfalls that converted me into an anti-authority, unique culture seeking, and heavy handed detractor of all things obvious, fake, and status seeking has converged upon this uninitiated breed. It is such a grand set up which has delivered a pilgrimage toward the fringe flavors of the late 80's'/early 90's alternative culture, so come forth the reunion tours, cult films, and icons of the past that are being paraded down Pennslyvania Avenue like the Soviet military procession back during the cold war era.

Time for bed, there is an entire society of people who depend on my workplace contribution, even after being given the green light to wheel and deal in whatever manner seen fit throughout the night, just to file into the job like a military test subject injected with top secret psychotropic chemicals. You get through the day almost insect like, quiet, calm, and polite while on the inside it becomes a battle to fend off the fear which comes with detoxification and the yearning to continue the cycle as soon as the clock says its time to go. This is the beast which has a hold on me, one who seeks unlimited fun and no price to be paid who punishes its captor like an abducted child, love through pain and relief through regret, yet such illusions are best left for the mute expressions on the faces of those under the command of internal demons that come on in schizophrenic waves of panic because as the spirit of addiction intensifies the fearful eyes held captive by neural impulses seeking relief slowly die.