Frusciante & Philosophy & a pinch of Lyricism.

Everyone has a release. Some people just pick really bad avenues to that release.

We all need something exponentially bigger and better than ourselves to make up for all that we lack. No doubt about it.

When I was younger, I knew that I wasn’t perfect, but felt very much on my way to becoming just that. Since then, I’ve woken up to the fact that it’s not like that at all. At least not from the point of view I have now. I don’t feel like I’m on a track to much of anywhere morally or spiritually. Physically, I’m making plans and taking action to become something out west. What that something is, who knows, but I have a destination in mind and a dream that has taken wing. If that crashes, I’ll probably be in such a state of disrepair that something holy and spiritual will have a chance to swoop down and make magical magnanimous lemonade out of the proverbial lemons in my life. Until then, I am existing in a marshmallow-insulated, secure, indestructible life of a well-to-do, middle class Sunday-schooled Christian college girl. I make it sound small because it is. I am sure that through my sheltered and very much loved life, I have been given every opportunity to touch the fullness and richness of God’s love (He has gifted me with the entire family package of guidance, love, everything I could have ever needed… of course, I wanted differently, but I was/am an idiot).  In some cases, I have felt immersed in that love. In others, the glory has barely brushed my fingertips, not because it is too high, but because I have brought myself too low. I’m probably in one of those funks now, and taking quite too cynical a view on this.

Basically, I’m watching John Frusciante in one of his lowest, skinniest points. It’s in a documentary by Johnny Depp and a lead something of the Butthole Somethings. He is spouting off all kinds of philosophy, and I am compelled to find truth in them even they are the rantings of a using addict. I have a problem – I find an object of affection and feel it is my life goal to conform to every bit of thought and action and ideal they hold or ever held. That can become quite a predicament. But, I’ve gone as far as realizing that, hopefully I can train myself to prevent it in years to come. (Update from 2014: I haven’t.) Anyway, here he is, living in a wreck of a home, making music that hurts me, and hurting himself in ways I don’t even have the capacity to empathize with. He said something about not being afraid to die, then footage of River Phoenix and Bob Forrest repeats the same message. It is a message I self-proclaimed probably by age twelve. After all, death is not an end, it is not scary for me. I have faith in a world and altogether separate mode of existence after this life that will be more glorious and life-like and fulfilling than anything we have now. It will be true life. For me. For these guys, I don’t know. That makes me sad. And it ge – there is a crawling bug on my computer and it just disappeared into a crack no its back… if it’s an ant i’ll have to kill it no it just tried to fly let me get it and put in outside. i had it on a napking and then it flew away… – ts me thinking of all the people I’ve met that I haven’t talked Jesus with which makes me sadder, and all the people I’ll never even have a chance to fail with. But then I think about fate and how maybe or probably I wasn’t supposed to talk Jesus with those people, and that everything in the past has happened as it always  was supposed to… but then… well, God knows what He’s doing. I think He’s good, so He didn’t plan for some of us to end up in hell, but we do, and that’s our fault (not being self-loathing, just freaking honest). He gives us billions of chances to choose Him, and the only reason we ever die and go to hell is by not taking one of the billions of hands He reaches out to us with. Ok, I’m going to stop because my head is starting to hurt and I still have two tests tomorrow for which I have not yet cracked a book open for. Besides Scar Tissue. But that’s not test material.

Manic something. That’s what I am. But only on the inside. Can’t let you in. Can’t let you hear. I’ll let you read. Can’t let you feel. It’ll make you bleed.

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