Jesus H. Christ. 

I don't know how else to start what could either be the first of many pointless journal entries, or the last thing I'll ever write. The world I knew and loved died this morning. In many ways, this will serve as my eulogy for it, an obituary for a life I may never again see. 

There's no place for a journalist in the world of the undead. People aren't stopping to read papers or blogs anymore; they're too busy running for their lives. Nobody gives a shit whether Kim and Kanye are still together; frankly, I'm not sure anyone ever really did. But now, we have been reduced, as a species, to our most primal instincts. Somewhere, the Evolutionary Psychologists are laughing it up. All of a sudden, we no longer have any extraneous goals. The entire human race has been reduced to one, singular mission: survival. 

I can't help but play the observer in this God-forsaken mess. It has been my role for nearly a decade, and I guarantee will stay that way until my time here is up. But with nobody reading the news anymore, with no real news to report anymore, the only thing I can do is keep my observations to myself. That may very well prove to be the hardest part. 

I didn't have a family of my own to worry about, and my parents are long gone. I spoke a little while ago to my brother out in San Francisco, and he told me they were doing alright. He, a Lance-Corporal in the Navy, is safe with his family on the base. I, a shitty journalist in Brooklyn, can't even guarantee my front door will stay on it's hinges for more than a few hours longer. 

There's talk that the military will arrive to help extract the living and move them to safe havens, but every book I've read where this type of seemingly implausible thing happens, the military never comes. The whole of society collapses long before such a day ever comes. 

So this is it, the first day of the end of the world. I found myself rereading Richard Matheson's I Am Legend this morning when I finally saw what was happening. I've been hoping beyond hope that the story of Robert Neville's will to survive will keep me going in a time when death finally seems like the only appropriate solution. As long as the bastards don't get the power lines, then I might just be able to survive this. If they do, and the heat goes out along with it, then I'm doomed. Problem is, I'm not so sure that's such a bad thing anymore...

I wasn't alive during the Vietnam years. My parents, though alive they were, didn't pay very much attention to the way their world was changing. My mother was too young, and my father was only marginally older; old enough to know, but not to understand. The culture of the time was turbulent, like an airplane that had hit a massive typhoon and didn't quite know how to course correct. And, oddly enough, I see striking similarities in the world I'm stuck in the middle of.

Now we are faced with many of the same problems, and I am seeing signs of very similar social unrest. I don't believe we will ever hit the levels of protest and counter-culturism we peaked at during the late 60s and early 70s, but we're not exactly attempting to avoid that eventuality. Instead, we are still engaged in a war that nobody wants to be a part of, still battling for the civil rights of American citizens, and still unsure which of our presidential candidates is the least dangerous option. 

I never imagined in a million years that I would live in a time where half of the country wants to blow other countries up, and the other half thinks we ought to blow ourselves up so that we can start the whole damn thing from scratch. On some level, I sympathize with those who believe the latter. This country, as it is, has always required something nearly catastrophic to really change for the better. In the 1800s, it was the Civil War; in the early 40s, it took a World War to pull us out of the Great Depression and launch an era of economic prosperity; in the latter half of the 20th century, it took a widely unsupported war for this country to understand that the government doesn't always do the people's bidding. The common theme here is that chaos, in all of it's forms, has always been an agent of change for the United States. The question, as such, is just how chaotic do we need to get before the necessary changes are made in this generation, this version of the political system?

A few years ago somebody told me that thoughts manifest reality. 

It sounded ridiculous then

The idea that, for some unknown reason, if you think happy thoughts, the Universe will hand you happy things on a shining silver platter. 

Maybe it was my own cynical self-deprecation that had me in disbelief, or maybe I just didn't want to believe that I wasn't as in control as I thought I was. 

But after some extensive therapy, a dose of happy meds, and a swift kick in the ass by life itself, I finally understand.

It isn't the Universe making these things happen. 

No external force reading your mind and going "oh, they're being optimistic today, time to give them a winning scratch-off."

It's all, in the end, psychology. 

If you, the human being in the room, think with a positive frame of mind, a mental attitude that doesn't drain you completely of all will to carry on, then good things will actually happen.

The reason is this:

The more positive your outlook on life, the fewer negative things you'll see.

By eliminating the shit from your perception, you will gravitate towards the good.

So that maybe, just maybe, you'll wake up one morning and not regret doing so anymore. 

The burden of proof

In any relationship

Has always been

On the person that fucked things up

Yet the judge, jury, and executioner

In that relationship

Is always

The person that has a bias towards emotional justice

Regardless of the facts of the case

Regret

Is defined as the moment

When you realize that

Happiness

And fear

Are not mutually exclusive

But it's too late to do anything about it

My greatest teacher

Was a hypocrite called Time

She opened my eyes 

And showed me

That even if there is a life after this one

This one matters more

She taught me

About love

About losing love

About finding it again

And about how "the one"

Doesn't exist in the Hallmark greeting card sense

Typically

"The one" is the person you see

When you close your eyes

As your life is about come to a shuttering, screeching halt

You can't predict who that person will be

And you sure as shit don't always expect it

A hypocrite called Time

Gave me the misguided belief

That we are all nobody

That we don't have a purpose

Which prompted me to remind her that she exists because mankind created her

Out of need, not want, and it doesn't get much lonelier than that

I was born in the city of Neon Angels and dreams for days

To many, this is where the world focuses all their attention

Where true art is made day in and day out

High class shit

Shit for the people

But it's all a lie

This city is, very simply, the place where dreams go to die

Taking dreamers with it

Like some kind of fucked up graveyard

With a bright sign that never changes

"Spaces Available"

Why people still flock here is beyond me

This city is as depraved as it is a saving grace

If sex sells, then we must be rich

This city is the place where hope is demolished

To build another fucking strip mall

I'm not afraid of the bottle anymore

For a while, the vomiting blood and constant pain in my stomach scared the hell out of me

But now it's a part of my daily routine

Wake up at noon or later, drink, write, drink, write, drink, write, drink, et cetera

I don't know what made my wife leave me, though

Maybe it was the bottle, maybe it still scares her

Or maybe it was the death of hope

Watching me fall into the trap over and over and over and over and over

I lost my innocence to the bottle

The same one that my mother drowned at the bottom of

The same one my father left her when he passed

And the same one I'll leave for my son

I just hope he knows better than me

That if I leave it for him

He won't take it

That he won't drown

Because I'm sick and tired of drowning

But the current is too strong now

There's no swimming against it or breaking free

But they say if you don't fight the rip current, it'll take you home

I am often told I'm over-dramatic

That I exaggerate for the sake of sheer exaggeration

That I weave a story around a totally banal event 

To make it more interesting

I personally don't think I am

I think the circumstances of my life often lend themselves

To this kind of humorous or emotional landscape

To be made more interesting

I guess that it's simple

It's the mark of a true writer to take people

That in and of themselves are just plain boring, or moronic

And try to make them more interesting

If my walls could hear

They'd be ashamed

Be bathed in silence

Drenched in pain

If my walls could hear

They'd ask me why

Do I not laugh

Yet always cry?

If my walls could hear

They'd soon go deaf

As my records spin

From right to left

But if they could talk

All they would say

Is hang tight kid

It'll be okay