…am I or the others crazy?

“Yeh, dil, yeh pagal dil mera,
kyun bujh gaya? Aawaragi.”

Those who’re supposed to get it, will.

If you aren’t, you won’t.

Words are wonderful that way.

So, I feel like writing again, after a long time.

Because it’s ironic, and sad, but I can only write when I’m either;

a) In a drugged state of mind
b) Depressed/melancholic/sad/angsty/angry

I’m option b, right now, unfortunately. Or fortunately. For you entertainment hungry people, who love packaged depression, all tied up with a pretty ribbon and what not. You do, don’t even deny it.

I don’t have any moral values, so I’m not going to judge you.

I do too, sometimes. But I’m the producer and marketing manager, so the store policy declines me any employee benefits. You, however, get discounts and shit. This blog is one of them. This post is your fucking holiday sale.

Maybe I'm just one person. Maybe I'm so many people in one. Maybe that's why I'm so lost and why I'm so hard to find. When you don't know who or what you're looking for, the search is only tougher.

And therefore, I need to either self destruct into a million different pieces.

Or find myself before that happens. It’s probably right around the corner though, so don’t get your hopes up too high.

Or actually, if you really love pretty little packages of gloom, with a red fucking ribbon, Christmas comes early for you. I guess.

Karma is a bitch, but only if you believe in it. Because if you don’t, you’re probably completely oblivious to it, and therefore you don’t see it happening. And the human mind, being so fucking moronic, needs to see shit hit the fan, to realize that shit has hit the fan.

Shit has hit the fan. See it or not.

What the eyes see, the mind believes.

Stupid, stupid.. stupid.

When you don’t know what you want, you end up fucking shit up for other people.

When you do know what you want, shit ends up getting fucked for you.

When you want what you want, depending on whether or not you fucked shit up or not – it can go either way.

It’s a game of chance. But is it really?

I feel like my head is about to explode, sometimes.

Sometimes I wonder if there’s really any point in bothering.

Sometimes I think there isn’t.

Then sometimes I think there is, and my head almost explodes.

Other times I’m too stoned to give a shit.

But when I’m not, I’m trying really hard to keep my head from exploding.

But if it did, would it really matter?

If I’m so fucking brilliant, I need to go insane.

It’s only poetic justice.

That Australian what’s-his-face in ‘a Beautiful mind’ went insane. Ended up getting an award at the end of the movie, or some shit. Just had to go crazy to get it, though.

Who would’ve watched the movie if he didn’t? Not me, not you. Maybe the shitheads that would’ve gone ahead and created a movie, where he doesn’t go insane.

“A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?”

Albert Einstein said that.

I hope I go crazy soon, this purgatory in between isn’t much fun.

I’d rather go to hell, then dwell in nothingness, wondering where I’m going to end up.

But hey – how can hell exist? How do you and I exist? How did we manage to get this far? And why? And for what?

To end up a cog, in a system that’s failed.

But then again, you can’t blame the system either. It was designed by you and I. And you and I are flawed, to begin with.

If God created us, why didn’t he create us to be perfect?

Or did he decide to get creative, and experiment? That would make sense.

“Oh, let me fuck this kid that’s about to be born’s life by not giving him any sight. It’ll be hilarious.”

“Oh, this other kid that’s about to be born – I’ma give him cancer by the time he turns 5. And maybe I’ll go get make popcorn while I’m at it.”

“Aids. Hmm, haven’t done that to anyone in a bit. How about that two year old ..” *gives 2 year old Aids*

Nothing happens without God’s consent, right?

And that right there is God’s consent?

Right.

Something I tweeted got RT-d around three times, so I’ma repeat it. Recreate history, or some shit.

“The only thing more confusing than a woman, is two women.”

And it’s true. I’d rather bake brain cells. But then again, I’d pick that over anything and everything. Even life itself.

I’m hoping for 2012.

And for a zombie apocalypse at the same time.

We need to stir shit up a little, and then chuck it at the fan.

So it hits the fan, but it’s different somehow. On a larger scale somehow.

All this little shit isn’t doing it for me anymore.

But then again, life isn’t either. At all.

“I wish we could run, to the sun …”

“No, I don’t want to get burnt.”

“Then we’ll go at night …”

I hope you know, I’d hand the skies to you.

Or push them into your hands, and you can let me die underneath it when it’s yours.

Apparently, that’s how things work.

We will create God. And then make God destroy us.

And then blame God, but not ourselves.

We’re all just human though. So let shit hitting the fan slide, just once more.

Just once more.