What am I?
What am I really?
What have I always been?
Am I insane?
Am I insightful?
Am I a listener?
Am I a manipulator?
The same questions every time I wake up. Every time I sleep. Every time I interact with any other person. And I can never seem to put words into answers.
Even when I’m writing, I feel the questions type themselves into my words. I feel them managing to try and become typos.
Could I be a monster? A maniac? A genuine guy?
"Where is up and what is down? Long before the generation. She has to believe in herself and her kids. She’s come a long way since that meeting in the friend’s bedroom. I can’t keep fighting like this. It’s only a matter of time before I overload. What if I didn’t run from that situation? Should I eat a hot pocket right now? I could start cooking. How many hearts did I break? Dude, wtf?"
Every single thought currently swimming in my head and the only two that even relate remotely is “Should I eat a hot pocket right now?” and “I could start cooking.”
Why can’t I find my identity? Do I have one? Is this it? Could it be possible that I lost it a long time ago?
What am I listening for? To hear a story? To feel superior? To understand?
What am I feeling? Love? Lust? Stupidity? Bravery? Or just really intense friendship?
This outlet, it helps. Every day, it helps. But it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough to sort things out. It isn’t enough to understand what I need.
What I want.
So, tonight, I think I’m going to find that out for myself. And if I should die in the process, I’ll find peace when I know the answer.
You know, whenever a major Kanye story breaks out and I believe people are looking at it the wrong way, I’d make a point of defending him on here.
Now, to a degree, that hasn’t changed. Upon thought, I still think that he’s made more of a point in overreacting than Kimmel has in the joke.
But that’s not what I want to talk about. I’m not writing this to necessarily defend Kanye.
No one knows how to argue a point anymore. Like, no one knows how to take things in stride either way.
If I were to say that I think that I have the potential to be God after God, you’ve got two groups of people created from that sentence. The first group is the detractors. But not just any detractors, people who take the quote as literal as possible. They think because I have this unpopular opinion, I am an idiot, a blasphemer, egotistical.
But then you have your diehard fans. These people feel like I’m right. They feel like I’m supposed to be God or something. They believe in the message no matter how you would spin it. They believe in that. They want it to be more fact than reality.
And which side am I supposed to absorb from? The detractors who have established that a single quote makes me a terrible person? Or the fans who agreed with the quote without a single insight?
Neither are good. Neither are what I would want. I don’t want people agreeing with me just because. I don’t want people saying “Deonte’s always on the money with things” and not giving background as to why they said that. I also don’t want people going “He’s an egomaniac” without so much as having listened to what I said in context.
And that’s what my problem is with the arguments surrounding Kanye West.
It’s an argument between “he’s crazy” and “he’s a genius.”
But why? Can you tell me why?
He’s crazy because he flips out? He’s a genius because of his music? By what standards do you hold your opinion?
And I get upset. Here is a man giving out his thought process on air, on BBC. Here he is telling the world what he truly thinks, uninterrupted. And no one can say anything beyond “he’s insane” and “you just can’t understand him.
The matter of it is, Kanye West IS insane. He’s driven insane by this contradictory world he lives in. He’s in a world where he can’t walk without a camera flash. And he has to eventually bring a daughter around that. He has to eventually walk out into the world with strange men snapping unsolicited pictures of his daughter for money. And every time he tries to bring that point across from his insane mind in his insane way, someone turns it into a joke and he’s not allowed to be angry about that. He’s not allowed to convey emotion about something he’s passionate about. And if he does, he’s this asshole/egomaniac/douchebag. Could you stay sane after that? Could you say that you’d be alright knowing these things? People are calling your daughter a fake and her mother a whore. You have to take it. People tell you to live with it and stop acting out against it. And you’re driving past some homeless man in your brand new ride valued over $1,000,000 or something like and all you can wonder is “Who is the real free one here?”
Sure, he’d give up life as this bum to be as rich and famous as Kanye West, but that homeless man has more of a right to his personal life. He has the ability to speak his mind without being persecuted, without being judged, without being misconstrued. He’s free from the cruxification that the media would give a celebrity and he could have the same opinions as they do.
And that’s the basis of the man’s insanity. It’s just a feeling of unfairness. All he’s doing is voicing how unfair it is. What’s so wrong about that?
And then, Kanye West is ALSO this genius. He’s also this guy that understands he’s hated, understands his fans, understands what he wants in life. And even with the world against him, he can convey that in songs, beats, interviews, whatever. He conveys genuine passion towards this anger. He puts it to words, to a melody, to a beat and on an album, some of which he doesn’t even promote.
And here he is, showing his dedication level, his passion, here he is constantly doing it. Not even because it’s necessary or anything.
And some people think it’s for attention or that he’s a dummy.
No depth, to their argument, no creativity. However, he’s the idiot somehow. He’s the one that needs to stop talking.
I’ve been hardly following this Kanye West situation for a minute and I’m already mad at a lot of things but this one gets me though people out throwing around the word dumb and uneducated when referring to him cuz he didn’t finish college. But wanna ask how they described Steve Jobs. Last I checked Kanye had earned a scholarship but I guess speaking anything less than standardised english is absolute proof of a lack of intelligence.
Kanye West (via omie)
Cower’s prologue has been getting some favorable reviews. So, here’s an unnamed chapter from it. Will probably upload the entire story to the internet again soon.
The darkness flows. It covers both the path ahead and the one left behind. It traverses across the terrain, covering the cracks of the earth, filling them with its essence. Like fog, it blinds his eyes of the path ahead. It is an uncertain place, somewhere between dreams and reality. It lies unknown in its own abyss. The plane of existence that none would wish to traverse. There was never a name for it. Before him, there was no living man who walked upon the trail. Even in his steps, he could see no name fit to describe what he was experiencing. His feet began to slow, feeling that it was pointless to walk. However, they would not stop, not patient enough to be still. This place gnawed at the very fabric of his conscience, hoping to draw from it the very substance that drove him.
Safe took every move cautiously. He looked around hoping to find some semblance of location. There was nothing. There were no walls to identify containment, but there was no light to identify freedom. He checked his pocket, hoping to find his phone so that he might be able to light the way. There was nothing. Nothing had been in his pockets, not his wallet, not his keys, not his phone. He found the path to be more than frustrating; it had become alarming as well. The walk now felt like it was on a treadmill. He was going nowhere. No matter how far he went, he never found an end. He couldn’t even be sure of what he was walking on. Darkness took over completely.
Suddenly, Safe spotted a glimpse of colors. It would’ve been smart to take heed in approaching, but he was too relieved at the spot of light to think. He would later wish he did think. The colors he’d seen were the colors that he seen too many times over the course of the night. One of the crime scenes he examined, it stood before him in a window of light. It was the only thing worth viewing as it was the only thing he was able to view. The crime had yet to be committed. He saw a man strung up by his feet, calling out for someone. He then saw the faceless killer approach from the shadows.
The faceless man mimicked the words that Safe once spoke. It was the words from his segment. The first episode he watched last night. Things began to seem a bit more live than before. That’s probably because they were. It hadn’t taken long for things to click in Safe’s head. He was watching the murder happen. He was seeing every single detail, from the looks of the victim to his voice. It was all there. It made his skin tingle because he knew what was coming. He knew all too well. Even though he knew, he could never prepare for it.
The man let out a fearsome scream. He yelled from the top of his lungs before they were pulled out of him. Safe backed away. He couldn’t take it. He could feel the cold trail of tears run down his face. He didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to acknowledge its legitimacy. The image of the blood draped across his face came to mind once again. It wouldn’t leave. Safe continued to back away, hoping the fog of darkness would take away the lit window of torture. It never did. He could still see it, it was crystal clear. Suddenly, he backed into something. It was casting his shadow. He turned around, believing that anything he could see was better than what he already envisioned. He was dead wrong.
It was a woman. She was strapped to some sort of table, unable to move. Completely naked and crying, she screamed at the top of her lungs for help. Safe banged on the window, hoping to shatter it with his fist. It didn’t matter. The window wouldn’t budge and the woman couldn’t hear him. And then, the faceless man appeared once again. Safe wasn’t prepared for what was about to happen. He ran, unable to tolerate what he was getting ready to witness. He ran as fast as he could, ignoring the stomach-curling screams from the woman he’d seen. The tears that ran down his face trailed behind him.
Eventually, he stopped running. He walked desperately, trying to escape the things he saw. Then, there appeared more windows. All of them had the sights corresponding to the crime scene photos. He didn’t want to watch anymore. He just wanted to leave. He tried to run again, but it didn’t matter. No matter how far he scuttled, he could hear the anguished screams of the victims. Some of them called for help. Some of them just screamed out as they cried for relief. The images of their deaths came back to Safe. They spun around his head, circling him. He fell to the ground, sobbing and squirming. The deaths were on his hands. The faceless guy might as well have been him. He had the same words. They were the words that inspired it all. And Safe was the mail carrier who delivered them.
He crawled into a ball and cradled himself. He tried to push it all out of his mind, but the problem he carried was far greater than his psychological state. It affected every single part of him. He couldn’t feel the urge to stand, to walk or fight, all he could do was cradle. The tears soaked his shirt as his eyes began to sting. He closed them and covered them with his hands, attempting to push out the images still fresh in his head. He cried to himself, denying his guilt, but it didn’t matter. He was already convinced of it.
Suddenly, another light began to glow. With his eyes covered, Safe couldn’t see it, but he could feel it. He took his hands away from his eyes as he beheld a magnificent light. It shone with a deep radiance, bringing Safe some comfort as he felt his body barely responding to his commands. With all of his strength, he crawled to the light frantically. It was another window, like the ones before, but it carried nothing more than light. Safe could care less. It was a fresh sight for him, encased in darkness, forced to hear the pain and agony in the screams that the murdered produce. He clung to the light, taking in the warmth. It began to make a sound. At first, it was faint, but then the ringing became louder …
Safe awoke to the sound of his cell phone. It was awhile before he could properly discern where he was. After taking a moment to focus, he realized his bedroom, noting that the dark place was nothing more than a nightmare. He silenced his phone, giving himself time to relax. Then, he answered it.
“Safe, are you up?” It was Vasquez.
“I just woke. What’s up?” Safe asked.
“Well, just wanted to let you know that we’re checking out the latest crime scene this afternoon.”
“Oh, okay, I understand. Hey, Rose.”
“Was there ever a female victim?” Safe asked.
“I never saw one in the reports or the photos. Though, some of these people were pretty bad, I could understand if anyone could tell them apart,” pointed out Vasquez.
“Alright, I’ll start cleaning up. Should I meet you at the sight?”
“Don’t worry, Safe, I know your economic problems, so we’ll carpool,” Vasquez joked.
For a moment, it put a smile on Safe’s face. He was going to at least enjoy working with her, if not anything else.
“Whatever, Vasquez, call me when you’re here,” Safe chuckled.
“You’ve got it, Safe.”
Vasquez hung up. Safe honestly didn’t want to work the case as much as he did last night. That dream had gotten to him. The way it felt, he could almost mistake it for reality. Not to mention, those screams felt so lifelike. His ears still rang from the noise of misery. Though, that’s all it was, a dream. Vasquez confirmed that there were no woman victims, so he concluded that the stress and the guilt combined must’ve been giving him the creepy crawlies. He hopped up from his bed, eased to the bathroom and began drawing himself a nice, warm bath.
Something irked Safe, however. His hands, they felt sore, right down to the knuckles. He hadn’t been doing much but typing on his computer. Even then, that wouldn’t warrant the pain he felt in his hands. For now, Safe would shake it off. He had bigger things to worry about, he needed to focus.
No sooner than putting on his pants, fresh out of the bathtub, he heard a knock at his door. If it was the usual situation, it would be Cherry coming over to ask for some sugar. Her story was that she’d always forget to buy it, but Safe was beginning to think she just liked coming over to check him out in the morning. Though, Safe felt like he needed some social activity before going to investigate this case. If anyone could talk, it was Cherry.
Safe began to walk out of the bathroom, looking down at his hands, still questionable about the origin of their ache. He then noticed that his legs were sore as well. He figured it must’ve been from being in the bathtub the way he was.
There was another knock at the door. Cherry really wanted that sugar it seemed. Safe threw on a t-shirt as he headed towards the door.
Don’t get me wrong, the new iPhones look interesting. But this is an excellent idea for the future of cellphones.
(by Dave Hakkens)
Completely agree with the OP. This is a very democratic, sustainable, and innovative path forward for cell phones. I hope such an idea can catch on.
I support this 100%.
A good move for the future.
By demand eatdacakeannamae
Dovecot, it’s a city of false imagery and broken promises. Not too long ago, the name of it used to mean something. People held high hopes entering a land full of intellectual promise. They’d think to themselves, “this is a nice slice of the world” as they found things to be much more trustworthy than they actually were. The city was made with trust in mind. It was made to be a nice place. Unfortunately, things aren’t always what they were made out to be. And over the course of a few years, people soon found that much out about Dovecot.
The truth behind the city was that it was a cesspool of evil intent and inexcusable crimes. Days went on where people would find their house emptied after a night out. Not a single thing was left. Citizens started losing that trust really fast. Soon, it got to the point where going outside at night was taboo, forbidden by those unable to risk the chance of losing anything. The streets remained clear for a time, but it didn’t stop things from happening the way they did. Murderers, thieves, aggressors, they increased in numbers. It seemed like anyone who took a step outside during the night was bound to come across adversity. After a while, having nightlife meant being a risky person or being a criminal.
For Johnny, it was the latter. He considered himself professional. He’d poach his targets for a while. Noting whenever they’d leave their house, he’d make his move. Over the last few months, he’d been getting exceedingly better at it. He could tell when a person was leaving for a night out or when they were just making a store trip. At times, he’d drive behind them to make sure they drove far enough. When they did, he would make a left and return to their building.
He used to have a team, but they got greedy. The months of free money would do that to anyone. He decided that he had the resources need to carry out things by his self. Whatever he couldn’t carry out on his own, he’d leave behind. Luckily for Johnny, that wasn’t much. Maybe there was a dresser or a refrigerator he couldn’t take, but there were always the clothes and the food. His truck held most stuff with room to spare. Check it into a locker the next day, sell what you could, then repeat the process. Things were easy enough for him to make a living. And living was never better.
The problem that the city had was also its biggest export: Intellect. Dovecot was a pulpit of ingenuity and thought. Unfortunately, criminals were getting smarter as well. Johnny had plenty of intellect. If it weren’t for the difficulties of the hiring process, Johnny often thought he could make it big in big in the industrial world. He always kept track of time, he was prompt in his movements and he never bit off more than he could chew. Yes, it seemed like Johnny would never get his come-upping. However, the thing about crime, it never promises anything. That’s why people would tell you it’s not a promising career. That probably explains why he’s hanging by legs over a nice, mahogany table. He knows mahogany; he’s taken his fair share of it.
How he got there was a more painful question than the sore spot on the back of his head. As the blur left his vision, he started to recognize where he was. It was his storage locker. The mahogany table was his. Well, it was one that he stole, per say. No more than inches above the table, he tried to move his hands. Something cold and hard had been restricting them, he could only guess chains. He tried wiggling for his freedom, not seeing the futility in it. Suddenly, he heard a noise. The silence after the sound froze his cold heart. Tears began to streak across his forehead before touching his hair. He cried out to his captor, his voice apologetic.
“Hello? Anyone? Please, let me down! Please!”
He screamed out from the top of his lungs. He couldn’t see anyone beyond 3 feet of himself due to the light he was hanging under. Darkness surrounded him. It frightened him. It made him cringe. Before, it was his friend, helping him creep through the houses undetected. Now it became an audience, surrounding him, waiting for the climax of his night. For a moment, all was quiet. The darkness was still. Then, a man walked out from the shadows. Johnny was glad he saw opportunity once he realized the man wasn’t wearing a uniform. Not a lot of people would side with the police at this time.
Things went wrong, however, when he noticed the right hand of the man clenching a kitchen knife. Suddenly, his tears flowed on double time. He preferred the police in this moment. Anyone would. Though he hoped that it was all a misunderstanding, looking into the eyes of his captor, he saw clarity unlike any other. It was surety. Whatever that man came to do, he had no doubt in it. Words began to escape the sturdy face he’d given.
“You’re probably wondering, ‘How did I get here?’ You ask yourself, ‘What did I do to get here?’ But that’s not the problem you should be worrying about. What you should be worrying about is getting back on your feet.”
Johnny was scared stiff. The man spoke like some sort of narrator, but everything he said sounded like some philosophical garbage.
“Please, man, just let me down. I’ll give you whatever you want. I have televisions, dressers, coffee makers, money, whatever you need. Please just let me down.” Johnny’s words were barely audible at the end. It was mostly replaced by a mixture of words and whimpering. Tears began to drip from his hair to the table.
The man looked at Johnny eye to eye after hearing his heartfelt words. He gave off a fiendish smirk. With a chuckle, he continued his speech.
“Sometimes, you find it hard to maintain. You’re upside-down and you can feel the pressure on your brain. You’re strung up and you need to get down. So, what do you do?” His stern voice heightened Johnny’s fears.
He walked closer to Johnny, coming within a reachable distance.
“Well, what you need to do it hold your back straight and get cracking,” he said as he put his hand on the back of his captive. “And what if that doesn’t work?”
He steadied the swinging Johnny with his hand, bringing the other hand and the knife in it to Johnny’s stomach.
“Well, that means the weight is too much and you need to put it all on the table.”
The knife plunged into the bottom Johnny’s abdomen as the cut was made towards his head, stopping short of his rib cage. Johnny’s screams were ignored as the man reached into his body, forcibly pulling his organs until they would fall to the table. Soon, he couldn’t hear Johnny’s screams anymore. And that’s where he stopped. Blood spilled onto the table along with the parts pulled from Johnny’s body.
The man stood for a moment and admired his work. The look on Johnny’s face was exactly what he wanted from it all. The sheer displeasure as tears forced themselves from his red, puffy eyes was pleasing. The agony of having his body scooped out, picked fresh like a vegetable, it satisfied the mysterious man. The blood from his cavity began to cover his face as it fell on the mahogany. The crimson mask preserved the last look of horror from the Johnny.
He took two fingers and dipped them into the pool of blood. He began writing numbers on the wall, dipping a second time to make sure the numbers were clearly legible. After making an underline with the leftover blood on his fingers, he began walking towards the exit of the locker before speaking his final words.
“And after you do all of that, I assure you, you’ll feel so much better than you did before. Hey, nothing feels better than relieving yourself of dead weight.”