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He's Not His Favorite Writer Anymore

AKA Some More Existential Bullshit

If you don't know the man, then you should know the man.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Maybe fuck yourself.

I'll leave that for you to decide.

He's something out of another dimension.

A distant, but familiar place; somewhere between here and there.

He is a writer of the dispossessed...or so he likes to think...and he thinks a lot.

He gives a voice to the mute.

He composes symphonies for the deaf and paints murals for the blind.

He likes drives in the rain on Sunday afternoons.

He has his own agonies.

He has his own triumphs.

He likes to make mistakes in this silly, inconsequential world of ours.

He misses her very much.

She's gone.

She left.

She packed her steamer and kissed him goodbye.

His lips have been parched ever since.

He's parched, but not thirsty.

He was almost done in once or twice.

But he's still here, you see.

He may have killed a man in El Paso, but no one can say for sure.

He could say, but nobody ever asks.

Why bother?

He's not a coward.

No matter what he's done, no one can call him coward.

He was proud of that. Goddamn proud.

An admirable fellow all around.

He stands in the dark now.

What a beautiful man he was.

A shame. Damn shame.

Strange cosmic mystics from the vast expanses of this black hole that we innocuously inhabit and hibernate in, smile that he's here.

She used to smile when entered the room.

Everyone did.

A mentor to those wayward boys who sang those nice-guy-loner-blues.

You know the tune. It was rather popular in its day.  

Number one on the charts.

The path didn't seem so lonely anymore if he was there to walk it with you.

Jealous skeptics were green with envy.

They tried to take it all away from him.

And they succeeded...but not for long.

For no one could say he was finished save for him.

He was torn apart limb from limb by those rabid, wannabe lions.

No cats. Just pussies.

No matter how savagely broken and bitter he gets from time to time, he still misses those fuckers every single day of his life.

Every single goddamn one of them.

Not because he's sorry, which a part of him will eternally be, but because had they not left him to die cold and alone in those unforgiving streets with not a penny to his name, he would not be the man he is today. A man he is proud to be. He would have become one of them.

And that will not do.

For they are still them.

And they will always be them.

For better or for worse.

They did that to themselves.

Oh, now don't feel too bad for them.

He doesn't...or, at least, he says that he doesn't.

Can it ever really be known what lies between those echoing, lonely palpitations of a man's heart?

Not if you understand him.

And to understand him is to love him.

That's all he's ever wanted.

Those who couldn't see it are gone.

Those who could see it, but failed to see it in themselves, are gone too.

No one will remember them...except for him, of course.

If he forgets them, he forgets himself.

And if he can't understand them, he'll never understand himself.

Oh, it really isn't all that hard to comprehend.

There is a fine line that separates being misunderstood from going out of your way so that no one can understand you. We all long to be understood, you fucks, but, in order to do so, you have to understand that nothing is understood without understanding. And! To understand that, is to understand nothing at all.

Or some bullshit like that.

You'll get it one day.

Took him awhile, but he got the hang of it eventually.

And that's all he ever wanted.

Get off your asses.

He did.

Look at him now.

Look at him go.

He's unstoppable.

Try and stop him.

He dares you.

He'll tear you down and have you fish for what remains of your already fleeting dignity out of a pool of your own blood. But please! Don't worry your pretty little head. You won't be there for long. For the pool is shallow. And he knows you can't swim.

Not if you see just how strong he is in his vulnerability. 

He is who he is because he no longer fears death.

Rather death has become a close compadre of his.

Death's not what everyone makes him out to be. Gets a bum rep. Good guy to grab a beer with after a long day at work and he'll stay with you till last call. He'll teach you a lot, if you let him. Trust him. He knows what he's doing. You'll meet him soon enough. And that's a promise.

What it all comes down to is simple:

Don't window-shop for your soul.

Smash the fucking windows!

Would you rather serve the food or eat it?

It's time to stop taking it in the ass and time to start kicking ass and taking names.

Start things.

Anythings!

Don't worry about finishing them.  

If you're meant to finish them, then you'll tell everyone to fuck off.

If you don't do that, then my friend, I hate to be the bearer of the news, but you're fucked.

Stop playing it safe.

Take a walk on the wild side and never look back.

Better to be a freak than a fraud.

Fucking live or fucking die.

He's his favorite writer again.

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He's Not His Favorite Writer Anymore
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