...But home is nowhere

Beginning to strive forward. Setting and achieving goals and finding new passions. The intricacies of life. Of living. What purpose do we have but to explore this world we are slowly condemning. How long to we have left to explore? Why do we keep using archaic fuels to function when it is completely possible to move forward. Is it greed or the idea that we can just fix what we are causing? That maybe earth itself will somehow restore homeostasis once it gets to a tipping point. I have moved beyond Oilfield work presently, after many depressing days in the northern world and many disappointing interactions with a less than satisfactory company, I have moved forward. Granted they had the last straw by "laying me off" after I gave my two weeks notice and not "Wanting my fucking respect". I had lost much faith in this human race. But upon moving to Nanaimo I have met many pleasant people. Visited places were the quality of trust and respect and any redeeming human quality has been rediscovered. Maybe it's the ocean, the mountains, the beauty of everything that is this world makes a person just overall less shitty. Regardless life is good and I leave whoever reads this with one of my favorite poems from the AFI track on their album "Sing the Sorrow". Its the final song "...But home is nowhere". Enjoy we held hands on the last night on earth. our mouths filled with dust, we kissed in the fields and under trees, screaming like dogs, bleeding dark into the leaves. it was empty on the edge of town but we knew everyone floated along the bottom of the river. so we walked through the waste where the road curved into the sea and the shattered seasons lay, and the bitter smell of burning was on you like a disease. In our cancer of passion you said, 'Death is a midnight runner.' the sky had come crashing down like the news of an intimate suicide. we picked up the shards and formed them into shapes of stars that wore like an antique wedding dress. the echos of the past broke the hearts of the unborn as the ferris wheel silently slowed to a stop. the few insects skittered away in hopes of a better past time. I kissed you at the apex of the maelstrom and asked If you would accompany me in a quick fall, but you made realize that my ticket wasn't good for two. I rode alone. you said 'The cinders are falling like snow.' there is Poetry in despair, and we sang with unrivaled beauty, bitter elegies of savagery and eloquence. of blue and grey. strange, we ran down desperate streets and carved our names in the flesh of the city. the sun has stagnated somewhere beyond the rim of the horizon and the darkness is a mystery of curves and lines. still, we lay under the emptiness and drifted slowly outward, and somewhere in the wilderness we found salvation scratched into the earth like a message.