Fool Me

For 15 years or so I've been suffering from depression. It wouldn't be until the last five to seven years that I'd truly experience the abyss. I've been in a constant state of pain, ever suffering, hoping that one day it'd all be worth it. The way my mind works; constantly, aggressively attempting to impose order on everything, in all aspects, to increase functionality, to improve, all to progress forward. It is now that I find myself at a crossroad because of such a trait. Inescapable, I find that the last decision of my life must be made. There is no moving on until a choice is made. A choice that shakes me to the core.

As a child I idealized heroics and drew nothing but favor toward the black and white fantasy. Right and wrong. Just or immoral. Light and dark. Order and chaos. These were the concerns of my youth. It would shape my formation of an honor code which would later escalate to a council of individuals with similar moralistic integrity and finally an alter-ego or perhaps better yet a persona to take refuge in as what was once me became prey to the surrounding darkness and sorrow.

Blessed with the "sight" and an intellectual by nature, machinations and manipulations became common place. An intangible moral barrier was all that could contain such a vastly unique perception. But then he died. And with him, the proficiency to wield such an ability. In his place a hole was left with mechanism after mechanism springing forward to patch it. Me, the other, a being of such fallout. Bordering on sociopath, obsessed and jealous, I clung to his ideals but constantly fell short. Regrets and failures like blinders overshadowed all possible accomplishments.

'What is the point in continuing on?' was the question I fought hard never to ask. The answer, I fought so hard to never unveil. You see there were two paths, to embrace psychosis or to throw it all away. The driving force this whole time was the ideal set forth by a youth. The belief that only one so morally sound and just could defend the world from the greatest of evils. To succeed in some grand end-all battle that would decide the fate of existence. A delusion. A meaning so much greater than one's self it rejuvenates, motivates, escalates, and conjuring all adversities as necessity. Still, a delusion. But, what of the alternative? To have nothing? No reason to continue? To scramble rabidly in search of anything worth holding onto in the hopes that not only such could be found but that it dare be so in enough haste to subdue the already pressing desires for eternal rest? The paths were laid bare before me.

I'm in pain. I'm hurting and see no light of hope or chance. A choice had to be made. I will drink in the sorrow, be damned, and suffer absolute for the ideal. The delusion. I choose this hellish existence all for the slim possibility that fated end prophecised in youth be not error. No more luxuries. I bite down, grit my teeth, and bare it all. Sacrifice, loss, pain, sorrow, isolation, darkness.

The path is arduous and nothing is assured. Though it is not a man that can stand atop at the end and hope to survive. One need be more. The first leg of this new journey is to surpass. To forsake humanity, to strive for something else. Greater. Worse. Saint or perhaps Daemon. There may very well be no peace as reward but as reality continues to warp around me or as my mind eats away at itself, only such an endeavor could contain what's necessary to make living on even feasible.

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Hearing:  I Felt Free by Circa Survive

I've Got Friends (Postitutes Preface)

So I titled a post "Prostitutes I" and ended it with a question along the lines of, 'do you get why it was named such and such now?' A comment was left in response stating quite clearly, "No." Since this place doesn't exactly get the most traffic to begin with, I figure I should at least take the time to elaborate on anything left by anyone kind enough to visit. So, I guess, it has all to do with the title of this particular post as well.

"I've Got Friends" just so happens to be the name of a song by the Manchester Orchestra. I just so happened to be listening to it and figure, now's as good a time as any to address the aforementioned inquiry. I've left a link in case anyone's interested in making comparisons.

ANYway, this is a dotcom. I pay to keep this site running. And, for my money I'm given the keys to a medium in which I can express myself in a way or ways I don't have the ability to as regularly, if at all. Sort of like having a friend you pay for. But no one's so gullible to believe a friend is really a friend if you're paying them right? So. there that is. The essence of "Prostitutes." Because due to circumstances that have long gone past the point of avoidance, there just isn't any other alternative.

And there it is. Thanks for the read and obviously the visit.

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Listening to:  Propane Nightmares by Pendulum

African v. Black v. American

First I'd like to start off by acknowledging my lack of experience and sheer understanding in such a, perceived, hostile topic. However, professional or not, I have chosen to dive in and on an off chance, perhaps receive some answers. Again, I state that I am perhaps the least qualified for this kind of "pondery" but such is far from reason to not explore it at all.

African-American. African. American. It's a hyphenated term that has been used to describe people of a certain skin pigmentation. African derived of course from Africa while American derived from America. One a country while the other is a continent. Throughout the years another term has developed and begun to circulate. The term Black which stands, by many perceptions, as a more literal categorizing term for people with a certain skin color. Personally I would imagine that such  a label would be greatly preferred as it is far more general and stands to be more accurate. And, is that not what we could all hope for? A state of being accurate. I would like to then dissect the meanings of both terms to see just which is more so.

 African-American is a termed defined as, "an American having ancestors from sub-Saharan Africa; black American." With a definition like that. One could come to believe that there were absolutely no difference between African-American and Black as categories. And such is conceivable except when placed into comparison with other American ethnic groups titles such as Asian-American, European-American/Caucasian, and etc.. Once put into grouping like that it becomes something different entirely. It could be said that it in fact serves to segregate people from perhaps the one true home they've ever known. Not to mention the fact that primarily the use of such specific ethnic categories only seem to occur when addressing topics involving or related to all but Caucasians in America.  So it brings up the question, where is the line drawn? When does someone stop being American and start being African-American?

The line is drawn the moment one sees the color of one's skin. Instead of generalities such as white or black, people have decided upon more specific terms. Terms that are far less general and serve to associate a sense of dissociation with a world they believe themselves to be a part of.  Asking the question, when does a person born and raised in America stop being simply American and start being [insert continent here]-American is something one must ask themselves. When does it become natural to associate one with a continent that their facial features or pigment may resemble even if they were not born upon said continent or even taught the culture from said continent? And when should it ever become natural for a "natural born citizen" to be labeled as more than a citizen of the country they and their parents were born in? Those questions are asked because the purpose seems to be twofold. On one hand it's just a way to specify a particular group of people. Although on the other hand it serves a sinister purpose. It serves to drive home the belief that one of a different pigment or one with differing facial features can not and is not simply American.

To be American but not at the same time is an interesting conundrum. It's not impossible as people have left their countries to start new lives in other countries for centuries.  So instead of when, just why has it come down to a distinction defining the potential origin of a group of people become so politically correct? Were someone from Africa and migrated to America could the term African-American stand true? Of course. But if a person migrated (disregarding circumstances) to America and began a family, should those descendants after generations of generations still be considered African-American? Especially if anything their original descendants may have brought in the name of culture has been lost to them? And, therein lies the fallacy of using such highly specific terms to categorize a group of people.

There aren't many ways shy of DNA testing and inspection of the lives and lives of their parents for traces of a cultural differences, to be able to with absolute certainty declare a group of people African-American. So why has it become so natural? Why do it at all? Obviously semantics have always been an issue and it's just easier to please the majority of people than to attempt to get 100% of people to agree but, then, if nothing else, shouldn't that be a call for innovation. Could that not be the spark to find that illustrious common ground?

In a world of color, is there really much need to associate places with pigments and in turn pigments of people of a places with places that have a majority of the same pigment? Perhaps for now, but hopefully, not forever.