Maybe I'm a trickster, tricking myself. Maybe I'm not as _____ as I think I or others think I am. I've figured out the proper formula and functionality of certain normal human characteristics and situations and I've manipulated myself into thinking the way people think in order to exploit weaknesses and expose others.

This is all speculation.

Maybe I'm not over the idea of the lack of worth in action, inaction and life in general. Maybe my hunger stems from avoiding life instead of surviving it. I might've tricked you as much as I've tricked myself into believing that I am who I want to be rather than who I possibly am. The weirdness I have might be filtered into being a harmless characteristic when in actuality it is discordant and destructive.

How else to explain where I am, what i am and how I am? How else to comprehend what others think of me and what I think of myself? Is there a certain type of medication that I should be consuming? Is there a cure for the blues that is not synthetic or based on faith of something that can't possibly be there?

I've attempted to de-emphasize deconstruction of minutae, relating things to liberal interpretation of what life is supposed to be. It was all a diversion from the realistic potential of wasted potential. But what can be wasted when the goal seems pointless in the whole spectrum, fruitless at the end of the day. You have no idea how disgusted I not only feel typing this but ingesting it as some sort of simplified truth serum, becoming another dissonant malcontent with no airs or aims as to what to be malcontent with. I'd think I'd have gotten over this feeling a half-decade ago. I wish I did, honestly. To have moved on and accepted certain aspirations and dreams are dead, tossed into the woodpile of future "astronauts" and other goals. But the itch still lingers in my spine, prodding me to crash and burn.

So I wake up, listen when I have to listen, safely chime in my two cents, looking at the bright side, figuring out the best possible strategem to act normal. And just when I feel like I'm making strides, things unravel and they're neither a quick descent nor a slow burn of consequent actions. The pace is inconsistent, taking a hiding until finally caught red-handed with nowhere left to go.

I don't deserve a lot of things and feel blessed that my life has resulted in me being alive and in at least not-bad health. I sit amongst people with important things to do and important things to ponder and I make myself as anonymous as possible, as many important things to do and ponder. And yeah, I guess they're important. But they're only important in keeping my cover. Also because I have lived a lifestyle where homelessness wouldn't be able to work, nor would it be desired.

So I type in vaguespeak in order to sleep, wake up and continue; constantly looking for mini-diversions until my last breath (and fearing my last breath with the same veracity of my search).

Do not trust me, do not put your faith in me. Sure I'd be alright for a drink or some banal conversation inbetween your important things. I can give you some advice that might be useful. I can talk shop, say things I mean and feel. Feel things I can't say or describe. I can be your diversion and you can be mine. But do not bet on this horse. Like I said, this is all speculation but the odds of me being part of the walking dead seem to be so well right now it is depressing.