Thursday, 29 November 2012

A Bunch of Stuff Today (Stream of Consciousness)

Well, here we are again, another nail in the 2 by 4 that I call my self expressive mind.  You'd better start running now.  NOT THAT I'M SELF CONSCIOUS.

We all carry a weight on our shoulders, conceptually, we understand this; I'm not the only one with money issues.  Somehow it's rude to draw attention to your financial problems, because you're immediately seen as disregarding other people's problems.  How selfish!

All of the sudden, we realise just how taboo our individuality is.  We feel the need to label ourselves.  Do we do it out of ennui and/or disgust at our individuality?  Perhaps in our lonely society, we strive for a common social connection.  By "being" gay, straight, religious, or liberal, etc. we're sacrificing our individuality in order to relate to the community.  Which isn't necessarily a bad thing; however, when our labels confine our individual expression to that which is socially acceptable, we limit ourselves drastically, and our individuality becomes quaint and unnecessary   Heck, even a bit scary.


It's stream of consciousness.

So there I was, briskly marching ahead of the pack, leader's my middle name.  They'd look up at me IN AWE, they would even name their children after me.

Yes yes, I'm introverted, and I don't tend to take the lead on things unless I know exactly what I'm doing.  The above paragraph was obviously sarcasm, I'm hilarious.  Wasn't sure if you knew that about me.  I make jokes, they come easy to me.  I go about my day to day life; standing up, sitting down, walking here, walking there.  And that's just the beginning.
"Golly" he said unironically, "wait'll you hear what happens next!".

They were tranced in flabbergasted bafflement.  None survived.

The rabbit floated on still water with broken wings guiding the way home towards the music.

He slept, fully aware of what happened the day after tomorrow.  Grinning, he chucked the beaver into the river, "GIT BACK 'O 'ERE 'OU CAME FRUM!" he exclaimed, privy to nothing but his singular path.  Jovial inside, he saw the reason in it all, even when she let him go.  It's no wonder the Sun still rises, and dinosaurs don't exist anymore.  Points make lines, and lines make cubes; linear motion is still a representation of the abstract, lest we forget.
All inhibitors inhibit.  All walls block, and all barriers stop...
"Some people are simple, some people are complex", only two kinds of people, eh?  Hmm.


Segue goes here, how about some all encompassing poem, yeah.  About flowers, they're nice; pansies are edible.  Stick your tongue out, catch a snow flake, whoopy doo.  Any-who, something to do, don't know, what about you?  ADEQUATE.


Wearing his job on his mind, he could no longer see his face two steps ahead.  Forcibly confined to the present, it seems.  Two roads to follow, one happily sequestered in escapism, and the other mishmashed with the other badgers underneath the grounded bolt of lightning as it strikes the new bridge on 57th.

Randomness is what exists right now, look any further than that and you get into some pretty confusing shit.  Either imagine an existence for yourself, or try to understand it all to the point where the confusing shit just doesn't seem so confusing anymore.  Neither is good nor bad, just don't do either if you're trying to get somewhere specific.


Eventually this will all seem like "a lifetime ago".  I had a good life!  Yes, surely worth the use of one of those fine meat bags that are so hard to come by.  The 50's were some of the best years of my life, gosh.  When we were younger...able to get around; we're getting old, you know.  Anyways, we used to drive through the mountains, spotting the eagles perched on the tops of trees.  I remember this one trip; oh, I don't remember where we were driving, up in Washington I think.  Anyways.  It was late November, and the snow was falling, it was beautiful.  So we pulled over, it fell slowly and softly...
How do I stop my life from turning into a story?  As if I imagined the whole thing.

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