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We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 42
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Line
Shuffle
Walking
Medals
Lines
Cheering
Sleep
Fog
Marathon
Medal
Cheer
Finish

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One mistake, one brief lapse of my new found judgement-that's all it took to unravel everything. What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature.
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I wish people were willing to dig a little deeper than the surface elements of a premise before tossing one story in with another.
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I want a new past,new memories, a new first handshake with love. I want to start over in every possible way.
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Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.
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Once again the absurdity of my inner thoughts overwhelms me, and I want to crawl out of my skin, escape my ugly, awkward flesh and be a skeleton, naked and anonymous.
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It's hard to take your life so seriously when you can see it all at once.
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Warm Bodies ended up becoming one of the most personal relatable things I've written.
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How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?
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You can order yourself to treasure a moment, to cling tight to a feeling and never let it fade, but it's your brain, that three-pound lump of hamburger, that makes the final call.
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I don't want to hear music, I don't want the sunrise to be pink. The world is a liar. Its ugliness is overwhelming the scraps of beauty make it worse.
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I can no longer believe in any voodoo spell or laboratory virus. This is something deeper, darker. This comes from the cosmos, from the stars, or the unknown blackness behind them. The shadows in God's boarded-up basement.
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No praise, no blame. Just so.
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I crush her against me. I want to be part of her. Not just inside her but all around her. I want our rib cages to crack open and our hearts to migrate and merge. I want our cells to braid together like living thread.
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I think we crushed ourselves down over the centuries. Buried ourselves under greed and hate and whatever other sins we could find until our souls finally hit the rock bottom of the universe. And then they scraped a hole through it, into some ... darker place.
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I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.
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Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
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My favorite songs change every year.
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What happened? How did I get here? How could I have known that my choices mattered?
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Once you've arrived at the end of the world, it hardly matters which route you took.
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