Sublimation for my Insecurities: A Play of Satire

People in academia piss me off. They stimulate their brain with respectable ideas for the purpose of making concrete changes in the world. I’m jealous. I prefer to investigate the motives of people’s drives and the reasoning behind their morality for no reason than the stimulation of it. There must be something missing in me. Most logically, I didn’t play well with others growing up and the belittlement made me avoidant and angry. Academia nerds were treated well, so they give back to the world—I will too, but not anytime soon.  For now, I’ll belittle domesticated travelers because they’re too square to fit into any experience other than plane tickets to two-week spectator trips—far away from the assimilation of any true experience. They would rather walk through sterile streets and gaze from far distances instead of getting their hands dirty. You’ll never see one of these weak assholes driving their car across the border into Tamaulipas, no, they’ll be isolated on Cozumel instead. There are also the people locked within a fifty-mile radius inside of a continent that spans a thousand miles. These people’s minds are such a prison that their county line acts as a river of sulfuric acid threatening to destroy their paradigm and subsequently leading them to fits of schizophrenia and psyche shattering if they dare to cross. And I sit in the middle, neither committing to changing the world through refined worldly paradigms or holding my own weight by shoveling coal to support the local community. For now, I’ll sit on the outside choosing not to be too connected to the mundane world; however, we all wear something on our chest, because being alive and human means having an ego. What I carry on my chest is sanctimonious superiority for choosing to live for the experience of life instead of the recognition and validation that comes with being a part of a community.


Nikolas Cruz

This emotion is deeper, more thoughtful, and less instinctive than anger.

 Growing stronger through reliving, understanding, and judging.

It burns hotter within and changes the form of what contains it.

It’s not about reacting, but instead a calculated desire for painful and hateful justice.

I don’t just wish to punch back with the same pain that the original punch caused.

I wish to punch back with the festering evilness that came within, causing the punch to be thrown.

Throwing the punch out of their own moral character.

The punch revealing to themselves who they,

 and also who I am, which is what the world is also.

It’s a desire for expression.

I want to throw themselves back at them,

while thanking them insolently.

Unless love puts it out

The Truth is Ugly Today

At twenty-three I’ve been with 4 women and loved maybe two;

And one of the two I never had actually been with, but loved regardless

At twenty-three I don’t know what love is, yet it controls me

Love is something like unwavering conviction to something you value  

Love is permanent yet it loses its acuity at times

It’s something like that

At twenty-three I’ve been to 4 countries, of which I don’t count Honduras—so three

At twenty-three I often remain inconsistent with my practices except that which I have a strong passion for

That which I have a strong passion for is rock climbing




Beautifully unconventional and creative

At twenty-three I live with family after giving up a respectable job

At twenty-three I like to dance and read Dostoevsky

Dostoevsky teaches me something about psychology and morality, I suppose

He believes in God but I don’t know if I do

I hope to find something valuable enough to believe in eventually

Because this poem isn’t even believable to myself

In fact I only wrote this to practice being habitual

So I guess I believe in that

Being habitual and the truth that is

An Empty Form

When I go against what I want, I turn pitiful and weak; my strength atrophy’s because it’s being completely ignored. When my strengths are ignored all that exists are my weaknesses, and so I turn pitiful and helpless—unable to fight off my self-malicious attacks. I become so weak and self-helpless that I must grab at whatever I can, and so I lose myself while people carry my dead body around as to be able to go through life with meaningless motions. My leaves die and I begin to rot, yet my decrepit form remains standing as a reminder of how I failed. I become a living reminder of death. I can’t be scared to grow into a seemingly ugly and unconventional form within a forest of conventionally formed creatures. It’s better to be ugly, alive, and strong than a living embodiment of death. Pretension shows through weakness; I want my form no matter how ugly or beautiful to be true and strong. Pretension is the weakest of forms—barely better than the living dead—and in fact a farce to hide the rottenness and decay behind a deceivingly beautiful veil. Pretension lives for the emptiness and lifelessness of validation, because after all the fuel required to keep such a thin veil alive is close to nothing. Weakness lives for the laziness and lack of morality of nothingness. I want to care, to give a damn, to live as much as possible and in the best way possible.

Some Ethics

You should be broke when you decide to travel. It’s important not to wait until you have money and a stable career. Imagine traveling while knowing what you’ll be doing the rest of your life. Travelling is informative; it’s not an activity or hobby to survive the rum drum reality of honking your way through traffic on the way to work. Travel is about the assimilation of experience; what good does travel do when you’re no longer malleable. The reward is growth, perspectives, and valuable experiences, the risk is addiction, instability, and loss of control. It can be disorienting not to have a home or be in control of your environment, but that’s the point–no one has control.

Sometimes it can be suitable to lighten up to be able to dance through life and maneuver through the bull shit. Get too strong and you weaken your other aspects–you’re unable to breath freely because your consumed by yourself. But never lighten yourself to the point of emaciation; you should never forget where you came from and your strength is a reminder of who you are. Emaciate yourself and you can lose yourself completely. The identity is this duality of individual and collectiveness– each so important and beautiful when in harmony. A sensible, melodic, chaotic dance is the product. It makes perfect sense while at the same time it makes no sense.

A Lull

There’s been an artistic lull in my life. My mind has been stagnant lately. In a practical way my life is full of sustenance. My body and intuition control my life; there’s not much time for pondering when you’re doing what you want to do. Life has been active, and events and opportunities come my way. My mind is emaciated because my body is living too hedonistically. It’s all too easy now. I’ve cashed in my hard work over the last two years and now I’m complacent. Soon I’ll have to get back to work: hit the books, learn about the world, feed my soul again by appreciating the mystery. But it’s all too practical now: plan to spend time with this girl on this day, plan to dance that day, plan to rock climb another day. The people around me have been consuming me, and now I feel claustrophobic. My relationship with myself is no longer intimate. I only know myself in a casual way. Because I’ve been spending too much time with other people, I now don’t have time to nurture a meaningful relationship with myself and the mystery. But after all, maybe this is not a game for the youthful, but for the wise, and what I’m doing now of putting on miles and collecting information may create the old man that can play the more mental game. Lest I forget when the time comes, this serves as a requiem for the philosophical and artistic side of life. For now, I’ll be in a happy lull, and hopefully a meaningful one.

Weakling Cesspool

Seemingly strong and powerful, but really weak. You fight the pathetic and weak—weaker than you. Validation is the name of your game. Your hunger never satiated because your meals have no sustenance. So you eat the pathetic nothings—and they come crawling to your ugly beauty. Your scent powerful, your glow incandescent, but there lays no tangible and real beauty in you. Beauty repressed by coyness and deceptively enchanting words. You’re only here to eat. To be one and to bond has no worth in your corruptness. All you know now is to eat. I came crawling close—enchanted by your scent—now I turn around and leave you to rot.

Petite Thing

There’s a pattern that my mind has recognized: petite girls develop insecurity through their less than perfect sexuality, as a result they use deceptive tactics on desperate men to validate their sexuality. They ask you out, knowing you’ll come crawling—broken spine and contorted just to get to them. Ask them into your world (say, to share an experience) and their power is out of the game, and they’re no longer interested. This is their world: they’re the player and you’re getting played; they only like who doesn’t like them—the truly valuable.  It’s besetting dealing with these petite things.  

They’ll remind you of your pathetic neediness every time. The sex doesn’t matter, but the disrespect you put yourself through does. This is love—giving yourself to something, but this attraction was much cheaper and more seductive. The outer beauty and glib talk conceal the looming beast; it’s only job is to feast on your desire to feast. It was your fault to begin with. Learn their game to feast on their hunger instead.

Dead at Sea

Once again, he was disoriented.  He hoped for inspiration to come; there was no more spark, no more catalyst within him.  External energy was required for him to create art.  This is what he wanted: to create art.  But he couldn’t fight the destitution of his life—paying bills, grocery shopping, observing automobiles as they zoomed to work and shopping stores.  He was entangled in this world—the world of complacency.  Although, complacency was too much of a euphemism to explain something so complicated. 

He stared at his screen for a few more minutes, before stroking his rabo and slipping under his covers.  In a world so obsessed with being someone, he could never enjoy life through experience.  He would look back on his life with regret and contempt; his pursuits were a series of short-lived progressions leading nowhere but complacency and boredom.  It was always the two-year mark when he would change ambitions.  His current ambition was writing.

Writing was different.  This ambition wasn’t made of only flesh and blood; it wasn’t about a Nietzschean pursuit of power.  There was an understanding and consoling of the soul which none of his previous pursuits could give him. To be someone was demanded in life regardless.  To be someone was a necessity of being human; and if you chose indifference instead of being, it would be picked for you.  He was lucky to have picked a good set of ideals he could base his identity and life around.  If not, he would’ve ended up truly free on the side of the street as a schizophrenic.

Schizophrenia has strong roots in ontology; there is something to be deciphered about the human being from studying schizophrenia. Schizophrenics look at themselves not as selves, but as a series of different mechanisms; they’re unable to organize the complexity of the human being to form a stable identity; their identity is not even precarious; their identity is shattered. Writing was the glue holding this complex being of multiple parts. But unlike other pursuits—bodybuilding, athletics, entrepreneurship, being a family man and worker—writing was a less adhesive glue.

The form of the writer is less structured and stable than most forms of being.  The only structure is a loose set of grammatical guidelines.  Chaos, symbolism, illogical thinking, and contradiction all can be used for a rhyme or reason.  Sometimes this writer would write illogical nonsense, just to appease his animal and induce catharsis.  Music was the only thing that was similar for him.

So, he wrote daily.  The more confused, the more he wrote.  And he was always confused and filled with an internal noise.  Only when the noise stopped could he experience life through being it.  For now, he was a voyager on a stormy sea looking out at the world from afar.  Rarely would the sea calm, but when it did, he would dock his vessel on shore and become another reactive biological organism traveling through space.  From another vessel far into the sea, this failed writer was now seen as part of a mass of chaos reacting in a unified way; no longer an individual, no longer a writer.  Another writer dead at sea.