Head In A Jar

"Life from behind 3D glasses is highly over-rated.
We always love reaching out to touch things.
But don't want them to touch us.
But that's the downside to 3D,
It works both ways."

You're Not the Same And I'm Not the Same

I havn't.

Gone crazy that is.

If you havn't gone crazy then I havn't gone crazy.
I wrote a song about being crazy and I drew a picture and I stopped and I felt strange being that person. Impersonating the unwell. We are very similar and he doesn't even take the right medicine for what he's got.

Please lower your voice when you talk to me, because when you speak, it sounds as though you are yelling at me.

I apologize to you all personally, myself this time not a fictional character or creative line whipped up to sound more profound than any statement really can be.

My dramatics, idiosyncracies, general nonsense.

I think I'm strange.
But I doubt that I am.
Nobody else seems to think so.

It's weird that it's not weird.

That make sense to you?

Sometimes I feel like you don't appreciate me and I want to yell at you.

But I know that I barely deserve any of you.
Now I'm fed up with reading this, I want to erase it.

but here it is right?
You want to see how I think?

You want to see what's real?
Really I'm just frustrated at being inadequate to the artistic fantasies I surround myself with daily, hourly.

I'm just sorry I'm not around for you more.

And if you think I am, I'm even more sorry.

Because trust me, I'm not.

I suppose I don't know.

But that song was a joke and it was sarcasm and it was happy.

Why do I feel so miserable for him.

God don't leave me alone here again.
Personally, I am afraid of the dark, yes I am.

I pull my sheets up and just pretend like I'm not afraid of what's looming just above my head and I pray and force myself asleep.

But I pass it off real smooth and I write and I seem to be more appreciated as an Idea than as a real person, and I agree.

You can see where I'm going.
Can't you?
You know what I'm trying to say and you can apreciate that someone is trying to explain the unexplainable and attach feelings to colors and words to birds nests.

It just makes me want to be a real person less of the time, and an Idea more often.

I am happy.
I revel in the uphill struggle.

Just because the hill is either invisible or not there at all, doesn't matter much to me at all.

Sleep well, my friends.

Please smile when you see me frowning, because I'm playing out a story in my mind and I'm being a boy who has a lot to deal with, but I'm helping him get through it.

I can save the entire fictional world in my head, and I'm doing it.

One person at a time.
You all are the best.

Love, Tyler.

That Poor Boy

What a difficulty for an aspiring dreamer to sulk in the high grasses of the backyard.

To mope with two bare feet in the lake.

He sits and ponders and yet his muse eludes him.

Why has she forsaken you, you poor, misunderstood child?

You deep thinker, a soul seeker.

It's okay, those clouds up ahead look like rain, perhaps it will remind him of the day that life was static on the television screen and his shoes had holes in them.

But what if they aren't rainy?

What if it's just not that bad?
The boy with the wooden face sits in his room all alone, wondering at the outside world and it's splendor, trying to recapture an ever-more elusive memory of the world he once enjoyed.

And now he wishes he had simply enjoyed the colors rather than trying to see the tiny rainclouds orbiting the bottlebrush blooms.

But he is alone again, and will continue to be.

At least his muse has returned to him.

Sadly, his pens have all run dry, and he doesn't really feel like writing anyway.

"Maybe tomorrow."

Fireside Chats

A Note to His Wife (abridged)
...I don't know if you're seeing these things I'm seeing.
But you're doing a damn great job of seeming like it.
I don't know where this is leading me, if anywhere at all.
I can't stop hearing them, seeing them, strange ghosts.
All I can do is write and sketch poorly what I remember.
My notebooks are tired and repetitive.
My eyes are ringed and bloodshot.
My hands shake and cannot grip.
But my chest kicks at me like I'm an old mule.
It ushers me onward relentlessly.

You're a saint for staying with me.

I wouldn't ask any more of you if I wanted to.
My love, you are truely the only thing I have left.

This empty house would bend to hold me down to earth
But you would embrace me and ask me why I did not ask you to fly away with me.

Thank you.

-Oscar

No Present

I have nothing to give tonight.
I am mentally and physically exhausted.
I don't know why I feel like I'm letting you all down.
Maybe it's something I invented to motivate myself.
Old people in love is very adorable.
Adults can only seem to meet other adults in bars.
If God is a loving God, how far does love transition to forgiveness?
How far does forgiveness transition to acceptance?
Tolerance?
Expectation?

I don't know...things that are running through my mind seem jumbled.
I want to do so much, and I can see it all falling together I just need to be more like Captain America and have the charisma to convince others.

I had a vision of a black spot on white paper.

It branched out like a tree and started to grow with anticipation and planning.

Each branch grew a new one, and slowly but surely, all I now see is a fuzzy black smear with few white spaces shining through.

It's become confusing and I can't quite tell if I'm going to get where I'm going or get caught up in all the self-invented brambles.

But the journey is an irresistable one.

In the words of Kanye West,

"I know my destination
I'm just not there in the streets."

be tea double you's!!

OMIGOSH TYLER DID MORE THAN ONE POST A NIGHT!!!
it's because it wasn't related to my actual post.
deal with it.
if you (or your friends) would like to recieve emails when i post a blog so you don't have to keep refreshing the page in anticipation (i know you do) comment this post with your email adress (or name, i mean i know you all already) and i'll set that whole deal up. i can do these things.

also.

for those of you who don't know (which is like nobody on here but i figure'd i'd be official and post it anywho) i have a music myspace at myspace.com/anythingiseverythingmusic and i have a song roughly based around that post from last night...like the second one under this. go take a listen eh?

and finally.

COLOR OPTION FOR THE SHIRT!
OMIGAWDDDD COULD IT GET ANY COOLER??


so please my friends, whore me out to YOUR friends.

maybe not people who couldn't give a shit.

or people who my apparently 12th grade level writings will confuse and bewilder.

but surely you have some friends who like useless babble?

or trees that look strikingly like the cover of ...Is A Real Boy?

or music that sounds like Max Bemis trying to sing a Postal Service song?

idk, just gimme some help eh? help a brother out? a blog is nothing without readership, and i'm trying to get the music(myspace) writing(blog) and art(also on blog) to kinda go together.

i'm considering having things once every now and again where i write part of a story and you guys all get to comment and finish it for me, but that would require a larger readership to be any fun.

awesome adult level mad libs lol.

also i want guest artists to do things based off of the blog/songs (already HIGHLY related) for more shirts.

help a brother out eh?

you know you can afford it.




DOUBLE BONUS POINTS IF YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE LAST TWO LINES WERE REFERRING TO!!!

Here We Go Again

And so it went, every night.
My tired bones removed themselves sleepily from my work at some ungodly hour and I would feel such an urge to just fall dead where I lay.
Instead I trudged outward into the blackness, my hands knowingly seeking his warm comfort, my giant guardian. He remained camly outside of the only door into my chambers until the dawn broke, lest some ghastly phantasm should arise to give me night horrors.
Such a proud beast, noble of complexion and wise in his gaze. I don't know what compassion he felt for me, why it was his sworn duty to watch over me, but I don't complain.
Who asks our savior why he saved us when they think it might jeapordize their wellbeing?

None.

So I whisper warm words of soothing to him as I stand beneath this massive chest nightly. I ask him what those cool eyes have seen. He never responds but perhaps leans in closer, if but an inch.

Companionship, care, the most difficult to attain when comfort and respect among men is all we can earn, or truely care to at least. How strange it is then when the true blessings of genuine consideration fall upon us. And who is our sworn protector?

But a figment. A ghost like the rest of the ghouls that wrack our brains. But this one carries the emblem of friendship across his breast, and I would trust him with my life.

Goodnight old friend.