The Bending

The funny thing about regret is, often times it’s lamenting the consequence(s) of the action or lack thereof - not the action itself. As if it’s only acknowledged when your actions become the subject of scrutiny, or the perception of judgement from others. Is it truly moral to regret, if you’re doing so simply for the sake of others? Additionally, it’s irritating to see so many examples of people conflating ‘regret’ with ‘remorse.’ While the two aren’t mutually exclusive, there is a defining line to be had. But I suppose that’s too much to ask when all you can do is think you’re somehow a lesser person because of your actions, as if you refuse to learn from them. 

“The person I consider myself to be.”

Yet another crisis while driving home from Glendale the other night. 

I tend to perpetuate whatever I’m feeling until I’ve completely dissected and deconstructed each reason why I am so. Whether it takes a few minutes or a few months, it’s generally what defines my initial feeling for however long it’s relevant. Subsequently, my sense of time and pacing have become completely null; days string together in what can only be described as a tour of indifference. My lack of social and political progress is more than apparent, but with my external world being so neglected on a consistent basis (regardless of apathy or indifference) I’ve come to accept it as collateral. 

It brings balance, which I am admittedly a major proponent of. 

Everyone in the INTP tag: “Why isn’t there an INTP stereotype survey? The INTJ tag has one! Perhaps I should make one?”

*5 minutes later*

Everyone in the INTP tag: “Meh, I’m sure someone will make one eventually.” 

INTP STEREOTYPE SURVEY THING (kind of)

1. 40 living at home in their parents basement.
2. 40 year old virgin
3. Socially deprived
4. Game Addicts
5. Atheist
6. Geniuses
7. Anti-social
8. Perverts
9. Nerds
10. Computer experts
11. Schizoid
12. Stoned all the time
13. Star Wars/Trek fan
14. The most logical of all types
15. Pretentious

*Disclaimer: These are not self-prescribed, merely titles who some lovely folks on the internet have burdened us with. 

P.S. I’ll get around to answering this eventually…

My every little step makes a break for the wraith I embellish,
Keeping a warm hand for an empty canvas you can’t imagine,
You call that symmetry? I call that an iron combine at best,
It’ll float if you let it, but usually I’m not so inclined to let it rest,
Inclination at its best, there’s no time to be the rest,
There’s more to being the whole that missed the entire spectrum.
Two hands and a heavy heart later I find your love compressing innate narratives, 
Seemingly prophetic opinions when all I see is red. 
And this is this, that’s the turning of an era,
Posing lab rats to sniff out the cheddar that we’re all bargaining for,
Apex abound, the quality of what I can afford ain’t no joke,
It’s times like this where I stress quality control,
QUALITY CONTROL -
Some days I let her rung out the snow,
Show her the designating subtleties to compound and my grimace takes its toll, 
Some days I’m left with nothing in the here and now,
Step back into fathoming a peaking brow,
- Fuck that, I’m sleepy now; ha. 
Perhaps it was me buying into false marketing,
Or perhaps it was being dragged under for further questioning?
Either way, I’m dead, in fact I’ve died twice,
Once I left, and another when my name failed to be mentioned.
Here come the weary, alas legacies are heard;
I’m left to figure a knotted figure eight mystery that begs me for contentment,
Attempted, but the mask can’t be maintained in frigged temperatures.
And for all who’s here, myself included,
Let’s recap the past few or so tears - 
God is dead,
God is Dead, 
GOD IS DEAD, 
Can’t you hear?
I’m not one to brag, but damn I’m thinking clear,
Or at least I was, humbled by my little plummet,
I’m old enough to die young, but not quite old enough to say I’ve done it.

Hands turned back against the winds of dremora,
Eyes steeled from the richest civic proportions,
Ax-bane hatcher, a handsome death til the very end,
A once bogged orc surmounting ancient evil deliverance, 
Perpetual miasma, brutish amongst the sick winter,
Calming peaks clear until the piercing choir comes between them.
Seeming charlatans, but none weary of fog that stands forth,
Quietly amongst them I hear tales of a brave and bloodied orc.

 

A co-worker insisted on giving me her number today; she coincidentally got off the same time I did (which is when this occurred). I didn’t have the nerve to outright say I didn’t want her number, so I pulled out my phone and saved her number until she left - in which I then deleted it.  

Ironically enough, the one girl who I would actually like to talk to more walked by right when the girl who’s number I didn’t want was giving me her number, which surely gave her (the girl who I would actually like to talk to) a false impression. I could only smile and shake my head at the probabilities, and the statistical anomaly that occurred.

And if it’s whom, then none shall pass,
At least that’s what she said, 
As a ribbon chaser, I perched one step and saw my stance was left wide open.
One pillar to the moon, built upon the harvest,
But one foggy mirror means the village is left starving.
But I know how the vein go,
Look to the summit, but my high noon lasted about one minute til the storm fashioned my rain coat.
Knee deep, puzzling,
I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying,
My empty flask speaks volumes, and yet these words are on the brink of meaning nothing.
As for a sweltering heartbreak, just keep in mind the timing I can afford,
I’ve got burdens to bear, and a picture twice for every word.
Please forgive me, my frequency seems to be too loud to hear,
I guess I’ll tip the wine glass once more for the deaf ears to open up a little more clearly. 
A feeding frenzy, narrated by burning books,
On lingering ocean bottoms where the young dwell with anchors disguised as hooks,
And if you’re not going to eat that, killjoy,
Let me properly re-introduce myself,
I’m the soldier who sampled his handsome death for an anti-diligence movement. 

All I’ve got is a heavy heart, and wooden stake stuck straight through me,
Perched under a beating sun, and yet my blood is still damn near freezing.
A sticky silence, humbled by straw-men wielding stones and sticks,
Fashioned by legacy warlords and subsidiary stigmatics.  
I’ve got the world on a string? Nah, it’s just my head set with split ends,
I’d call them loose, but this noose just keeps getting tighter around my neck.  
You’ve got troubled thoughts friend, and I’m not sure what to make of it,
I’ve got the summit on stilts to try and make up for my deficits,
But it’s not enough, it’s never enough,
You’ll see what you want to see - 
So far every cause was lost,
Just to remind yourself that we were once buried.  

Steam vents

I am not a practical person.
I filter and analyze every thought and action, for the sake of competence. 
I’m not entirely sure what it means to be compassionate.
Thanks to my job, I’m becoming even more of a social chameleon than I already was.
It bothers me to some extent that the facade I put on is not genuine, but at the same time I find that it’s truly my only means of a manageable existence (politically speaking).
Most of the time, I sound like a pretentious cock.
I’m probably going to die alone, and that’s okay.
Every day I wake up, I question whether if today is the day I build up the nerve to just leave and start from scratch - new state, new people, new surroundings. And every day I wake up, I find that I can’t, and probably never will… And that makes me quite sad. 
Often times my initial interest to learn about someone is mistaken for a more relative interest, like that of a romantic nature. That’s rather annoying. 
I’ve had a crush on the same girl since my Junior year in high school. I’m not sure what that says about me - either I’m a creep, or I just can’t get over things. 
I’m pretty sure I’m going to read this post again sometime tomorrow, over analyze everything I said, and probably delete it.
I’m not entirely sure what this was supposed to accomplish.
MBTI has really helped me better understand myself, as well as other people. Despite the fact that it’s technically a pseudo-science, the patterns it describes are fascinating. I can’t help by try to type every person I meet, even if it only be for a few seconds. It’s my guilty pleasure. 
I miss my friends.