Vaseline

The room still smelled of Vaseline.  The night before was still there. The remnants of her hair was still on the sheets where they made love that morning.  Even though she had left for work, it was as if her ghost filled the room.

The TV was on mute with the captions on, the local cable morning news was playing.  The radio was playing a CD mixtape she had made him.  Big Sean, The Weeknd and Dwele.  The Weeknd's 'High For This' was playing.

Paul was in the bathroom feeling guilty of the turn his life was taking, he had a woman his age who was in love with him, but he was falling in love with someone ten years younger than him.  His face was over the bathroom sink ashen with guilt.  He tried to wash the pain away with the shaving cream that was mixed with the facial hair he had just sheared.  The hair and shaving cream washed away,  his angst ridden conscience didn't.

His heart never felt more heavy.  At this age, how could this happen to him again.  He should know better than to put his heart on the roulette wheel again.  But a gambler is just a gambler.  And Paul was addicted.

The first time was vicious because it was unexpected.  This time however, the loss would not be Paul's, it would be the world's

The Black Rider Strikes Again

                                                               THE INQUISITOR

     "The Black Rider has returned.  he was quited for a long time.  Years.  He has returned.  Pasting his fumes upon the walls of the town.  His lyrics are putrid.  He must be stopped.  His lyrics must be kept secret for he knows too much.  He see the world for what it is, for what it really is, a banal sap of effluvium, pulled taught to be consumed by a vacuum.  He will cause Anarchy.  He will cause the breakdown of our mental construct, our establishments.  People will revolt, they will rise up against us, we will lose all power.  Do whatever it takes, stop The Black Rider.  Stop him now!"

     The words came from the lips of the chief like fire and lava erupting from a volcano.  The chief's eyes were filled with hate, his heart was filled with vile.  He hated The Black Rider for everything he stood for.  People were ....(to be con'd).

















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Passion

Passion. Who can have it? The young? The ambitious? The inspired? I had it and I lost it. Somewhere along the way I lost it. If there were a time and a place to pinpoint the exact time and hour it left I could probably do that. I can blame the world a thousand times for a thousand different things that have harmed me. I am not dead yet, so that means I can still do something good with my life. I had always fantasized about leaving town and becoming a rebel poet slash rockstar. I am about to be twenty seven years old. So I guess its safe to say that It did not happen. I even wanted to be a writer at one time. A published one who wrote books and articles not self aggrandizing flurries in blog entries. That has not happened yet. Now as I approach my thirties, I would be content to start a family and settle down with the right girl. It seems to me however that every time I think I fall in love I seem to fall on my face. So, passion? It seems to have been negatively conditioned toward me. there will need to be some sort of revival. And there will need to be some sort of hunger. Where does hunger come from? If I could create that, then I could create passion, and if I can create passion then I can create greatness. What I do desire however is rest. And it seems that I can do that quite easily. There is something else I desire, or someone, and I am woe to pursue that . Passion can be a poisonous thing.