Doppelgänger

What is a man but the sum of his memories?

We are the stories we live.

The tales we tell ourselves.

This is Spencer Armstrong. And this is my story. My tale. My memory. 

My all. 

Now get out of here.

Chocolate Cake

Whilst on the topic of cake, I thought I'd expound on the simply unbelievably delicious treat. Really, anything chocolate can be considered a delicacy. There's chocolate bars, chocolate strawberries, chocolate bites, chocolate candy, chocolate Easter bunnies, chocolate Santas, chocolate fountains, chocolate cake. 

Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate! 

I just realized that I'm starting to sound like that guy in Spongebob with a very similar craving. Maybe I should stop writing before I go ballistic. 

Really, though, chocolate is good. 

But, not dark chocolate. Don't waste any time there.

Cacophonous Thoughts

I never thought I'd rant on this blog. It was supposed to be a means to realize myself through a series of cool anecdotes and stories that I've cooked up. But, now I'm willing to experiment.
I've been thinking a lot about wedding rings lately. Call it coincidence, but I swear I wrote a piece on them in class. That might just be my head playing tricks on me. Can heads actually do that? I've never understood it when people say their bodies play tricks on them. They're your body - you should be the one in control. Control is a fun topic - I believe we should be able to control how our grades turn out, give ourselves the score to teach ourselves discipline and academic freedom. By the way, that kind of freedom is a lie. People aren't wrong when they say that school is like a prison. We follow orders without question, falling into line behind our teachers, our wardens.
I haven't a clue what I'm really writing, I kept my eyes closed for that last part. I was imagining rings and a slice of cake. Cake is not unlike a wedding ring. It's delicious, sumptuous, filled with flavor, and I  want some. Either that or a sack of potatoes. Even in the depths of night, I still have a craving to write nonsense and eat everything in sight.
Where is my sack of potatoes, already?

[insert blog here]

I would tell you that I am a terrific writer. That I don't tear my hair out trying to conjure up new words, sentences, and ideas. That my blog simply doesn't suffer from mundane posts I expect everyone to read.  But, I was and never will be a good liar. 

At the end of the day, I'm not thinking about blogging. 

That's why, at midnight, I come to you with this. 

I honestly don't have a clue of what to write. Fortunately, I may not be the only one struggling with that. This post isn't just for me - it should be for anyone robbed of a palpable paragraph or two to be proud of. 

So, the next time you're sitting in your bed late at night and you're stressing over what to write, take comfort in the knowledge that you are not alone. 

Perhaps this picture should illustrate what one should post about:

Thanatophobia

You're in a room. Trapped. Unable to breathe. Unable to move. Your heart's racing, ready to pounce free of your chest. You don't know what to do… and it scares you. 

That's where I come in. 

I am fear. That monster underneath your bed, the spider brandishing its fangs, the yawning chasm spread out before you. 

Most people tend to discount me. They shut me out, not willing to listen. Not willing to give in. No matter how hard they try, however, they cannot avoid me.

You cannot avoid me. Not any more than you can avoid the labels on your clothes, or the consumerist logos that surround you. I'm in your face. And I've got nothing better to do. 

I can quicken your heartbeat, tear your sanity to ruins, and destroy anyone in my path. But, I can also give you hope. The short little burst of energy you need to survive. The key to your escape, because you're still in that room. 

For how can you truly live and continue living without the most powerful impulse of the spirit: the fear of death. 

I know you. You don't want to admit that fear, that I, am a necessary evil. 

But, I'm not going anywhere. 

Avail yourself of my ageless knowledge. 

Your future begins with me. 

 

I Don't Want

I don't want this to sound poetic; no one takes poets seriously.
At least I don't.
I don't want to fall into mediocrity. Mediocre is not something I was born for. I don't want to fail - in life, in filmmaking, in family. I don't want to be addicted, to be controlled, or prioritized. I don't want to be a worthless cog, forced to perpetuate a boring, mundane lifestyle of work. Work. Work.
I don't want to be homeless, to be robbed, or be a real estate agent. I don't want to be an agent of anything, for that matter.
I don't want people to discount me simply for being a teenager, or for slacking in one area to improve another.
I don't want.
I don't want.
I don't want.
I don't want to end up an old man, filled with regret. The first of those being this ends up sounding poetic.

The Conundrum of Death

Your world can end in the blink of an eye.

One event, one unexpected twist of fate - and suddenly the world as you knew it is gone…

…forever.

All that you held dear… all that you held close… is washed away into the sea of distant memory.

Life is cruel.

Of this I have no doubt.

But life continues on, with or without you.

One can only hope that they leave behind a lasting legacy.

But ever so often the legacies we leave behind are not the ones that we intended.