Hmmm

I’m probably going to go home, lock my room take two Molly’s, smoke a gram of pot, and drink a bottle of wine. Ill pull out my easel, blast some trippy trance music and start painting. Honestly I’m just going to disconnect completely from this fucking world for a couple of hours. I’m just fucking exhausted from 21 years of existing in a cycle of happiness and suffering. If it wasn’t for drugs and alcohol I’d be dead by my own hand. As a coward, this escape is easier than ending my fucking life. As a vain piece of shit, this escape is prettier than scaring my body physically.

There is a certain beauty to the act of suicide. Having the ability to dictate ones own death. To overcome the fear of death, and rise stories above the world to gaze upon the pitiful human race. To look straight down and actually see the end off your life like the entrance to a tunnel on an empty road. Then, In that moment, to feel all of the sadness of the world and the violent adrenaline spike of being on the edge. A drug so intense that you’d be hooked if it weren’t already your end. This is it, the performance of your last flight. Finally relinquishing your earthly ties that chain you to life. Gliding down in spirals of intense emotion, knowing that only milliseconds before you exchanged life for death. There is no soft landing for this your ultimate fall, your timely demise. The asphalt beneath has never look so gorgeous, like a conspicuous gray canvas begging to be splattered with red. You’ve succeeded and I will miss you, because as I watched you cry yourself to death, I understood that I was to vain to ever follow you to bed.

(Source: raulrants)

I met this poet the other night. He was sitting on the corner of the street, just minutes away from the bar I had just left. I walked up to him in a drunken haze and offered him a smoke. He graciously thanked me and promised to tell me a story of such grandeur the heavens would shake and the deepest waters of the seas would bake and evaporate. A tale so unheard of that the language center in my brain would shutdown and leave me deaf, dumb, and mute. The wonder of the words he was saying and what I expected drove my adrenaline through the roof. He told me that he was such an accomplished storyteller, that even kings and queen lost their minds in the stream of his words. We continued to smoke and as the smoke floated to the starry sky above, so did his words as he explained the excellence of his skill.
My cigarette was reaching its end and my ears were shrieking with anticipation. A story of such grace would not go unheard by them. My companion’s skill of persuasion had me groveling at his feet. Then just as he was to commence his great Iliad, my eyes were sucked into the back of their sockets and I entered a dream of unimaginable scenes. A world so crystal clear my sight evolved to my other senses, I saw this world through my smell, touch, taste, and hearing. So vast was the wealth of information, only 5 seconds worth remained in my memory banks at a time. It did not matter, for my feeling of joy heightened with each passing moment. My body shook with such ecstasy that the ground beneath me began to crumble. I fell down to land limply upon the sidewalk I passed out on. The poet was gone but I swore I saw his face upon the newly born blazing sun. In that moment, I knew bliss and I allowed the wind to carry me away.

(Source: raulrants)

(Source: raulrants)

I once saw a whale belly up. I knew not how to help, so I didn’t give a fuck. I passed through a withering forest, I knew not how to revitalize it, so I dropped a lit match. I journeyed trough a prison of starvation, aboard a ship with foods from every nation. I did not now how to feed all those that from hunger pains groaned, so I gorged and ate it all on my own. I watched as my brothers were sent to heaven from their early graves. I did not know how to hold on, so I wandered the earth unsaved. Later I heard of fellow with a heart of gold. I sought him out and stole it to fill my hole. I now sit here in flames of hate, while he ascends to the pearly gates.

(Source: raulrants)

ohwell-atleastilearned:

I believe in paintbrushes, pencils, and canvases. I believe in creating; creating something unique to you. I believe in the individuality of art. I take comfort in expressing my feelings without the sound of my voice, and in telling my life story, but not to people. I believe in confiding in a blank canvas, and in not holding back on what you truly think because you know all the canvas can do is accept.

 It’s really a beautiful thing. You can give the same canvas to a million people, and everyone would create something different. If you give a nine year old boy one, you might see him paint a picture of the hulk, it might be filled with exploding cars and action. On the other hand, if you hand an eighty year old woman a canvas she may paint her family during her favorite vacation; but then again, she might not. You never know what someone could create. I love to see what colors people choose to paint with. I feel that color of a picture is one way that emotion can shine through. If you see a picture with all kind of blues and blacks, then it might give you the feeling of sadness or loneliness. At the same time, if you saw the same picture with vibrant pinks, oranges, and reds; it could give strong feeling of happiness, and completely change the way that you interpret the painting. I like to look at art, and try to peak into the mind of the artist.

If I was handed a canvas and told to create a picture showing the way art made me feel, this is how I picture that canvas to be in the end. It would be completely filled, with all variations of colors, a little bit of red, but some blues too. Maybe even a splash of green or yellow, I’m not truly sure exactly what colors it would turn out to be. I know for a fact that it wouldn’t be black and white, and there wouldn’t be a single blank spot. It might have a sea gull, soaring freely with the wind as its guide, holding it high above beautiful scenery. Under the sea gull there would be a sea dock with a few boats parked and some even gliding across the soft waves. One of the boats docked closest to the sea gull, there stands a young boy. He is happy and eating a vanilla ice cream cone, covered in crazy colored sprinkles. He would have the comfort of his parents behind him. It would be a felicitous scene, because that is how art makes me feel.

I believe in feeling free. It’s a great thing to have a passion. It’s wonderful to be able to lose yourself in something, to be able to express your thoughts and your feelings in a way unique to you. For me, that something is art. 

Post like this, remind me of way I joined tumblr.

Can I grow up to be a tree? Spread my branches out like wings and have my feathers soak up the sun rays. Will my leaves gleam of gold and green? Would I be able to grow legs and up root, leaving a river of dirt in my wake? Could I migrate to places with no shade, plant myself according to seasonal change? Will the natives judge me on the color of my bark? Do trees even make such remarks? Can I be a tree, a lonely tree amongst a busy forest? A forest so thick all creatures within are slim and slick. Could I be me, alone in agony and grief?

(Source: raulrants)

We are not all swimmers, neither of us are winners, or gold diggers. You probably aren’t a writer, while I may not be a reader. One of us may be grieving as another is deceiving, for in this existence we are all sinners and none of us priest. You must learn to give and give up the hate you preach. A lesson learned by you, is a service provided to each, regardless of who teaches. Learn to love and live with one another. You will find no greater brothers than those that consider others.

(Source: raulrants)

Tearing flesh, strip for strip, A form of heartache that make you sick. Place the glowing orb upon the center floor as the vile proceeds to flood the halls. The wretched seeks to blotch out the bleach white walls, melting them into muddy waterfalls. Spewing sludge throughout the rundown streets. A broken home has a communal outreach, blackening the souls of the feeble and weak as it spreads deceit. Mindful of our vengeful god, we must set upon. Bringing bright angelic songs for the misguided kind.

(Source: raulrants)

(Source: raulrants)