The only thing that makes sense to me right now is writing, and maybe typing. Thinking is up there, too. But writing is the main vehicle through which I channel my energy. I can’t even pay my taxes alone, but writing, it just makes sense. I’m not saying I’m the most talented, I’m not in competition with anyone but my previous self. Hell, half the time, I forget to zip up my fly. So if this is what it’s come to, then so be it. I’m not writing for any particular audience, nor any particular creed. I’m just writing and that’s about it. Does it make sense? Maybe. Will it influence lives? Possibly. But in all essence, it’s just there. It exists in time and space and it’s out there for you to read, if you feel so inclined to do so. I’ve shed all biases and egocentric qualities from these writings and I just let go, channeling from my inner self, my spirit, to allow for these conversations to take place within my own mind. It’s a hell of a thing.
I may not be as eloquent as Dickens or descriptive as Brett Eason Mills, but I have some sort of voice about me. I really don’t follow complete grammatical rules, nor do I care to place my words in such a limiting context. Maybe my sentences sometimes run together, coexisting through abstract media. Is that going to be a problem? I hope not. I’m currently writing a book, 82 Microsoft Works pages done single-spaced 12 font. No chapters, no divisions except paragraphs. No time to stop, no time to begin. Is it straying from conventional norms? yes, I believe so. Do I care? No. Am I doing this “just to be different?” No. I’m doing it because it makes sense. If it didn’t make sense, I wouldn’t be doing it. Go ahead, try and stop me. I need to be heard. We all need to be heard to some extent, but this is quite a different story. These words need to get out there, need to be seen. And I don’t care if I’m using passive voice. You can all pass a voice up your ass.
My paragraphs don’t follow conventional paragraph structure, and neither does my logic. I just write until I can’t write anymore, then I think about what else to write. I do it to get out the things that are going on inside my head, the pressing issues: Should I wear a lilac sweater to the Homecoming Dance? Just kidding. Here I am, take me or leave me. My subtle nuances my creep you out, even scare you away, but I’ll still be here, belting out line after line, waiting for you to return. And I won’t stop. I thought I told you that we won’t stop. Ha ha. I live in this world, this insane place we call a world, a place where things happen. I don’t think I can be any more vague. But that’s beside the point. Or maybe it’s behind the point. How the hell should I know? I didn’t write the book on clichés.
I’m not going to spend all my time polishing off this piece of work. I really don’t care enough. Should I care that I don’t care? That doesn’t seem logical, now does it? Maybe it does, how would I know? I didn’t write the book on logic.
I guess my life is now devoted to uprooting social norms in my life and the lives of others. Just because “everyone” is doing something does not mean you have to. You do not have to me part of a group mentality, where you lose much of your individual creativity. You do not have to conform, although I do not mandate you never conform, because that is another form of conformity. But it’s not just anti-conforming that I’m getting at here, it’s being your own person, being yourself, not what others want you to be, not who others want you to be. Just do what feels natural. Don’t let people’s judgments get in the way of you enjoying internal success.
Or maybe you could change your mindset to “People are supportive of everything I do, no matter how eccentric it may be.” Maybe that will open the doors for erratic behaviors like cross-dressing or curling. When you remove judgment, remove cultural value, you’re just left with an activity. Not one that defines you as a person, but one you do every once in awhile. You may continue to pursue it, or you may decide not to do it anymore. Just don’t allow people to label you with one certain activity, unless that’s all you do.
I am not a writer, not a worker, not a student, not a health nut, not a tourist, not a sarcastic bastard, not a comedian, but a culmination of all of this and more. I look to the sky and proclaim I am whoever I want to be, and nothing else, nothing less.
In all of this rambling, incoherent drivel, I tend to look back at all the progress I have made since last February when I was thrown out of college and allow myself to breathe and let all thought go and just enjoy the moment so much, so vividly, I lose all sense of time, space, and reality. It’s like a dream, but slightly less abstract.
But whatever. Sometimes I just get lazy, get apathetic. And it’s there. It’s how I feel. So I just don’t do anything for awhile. So what? I’m not going to push myself if I don’t feel like it. Sometimes I wake up and contemplate not getting up all day. To an outside observer, that may be wasting time, but to me, it’s a sign I need to recharge my batteries. It would be funny if I actually had a cord sticking out of me that went into the wall. I have no idea where this is going, but I’m just along for the ride. My intuition has taken the reins and could be steering this sled of consciousness to the ends of logical thought.
Thank God. Transcending logic would be something nice to do. It may be a tad bizarre to some extent, but what do I know? I didn’t write the book on bizarre. But I have some sort of idea what it looks like. I can’t say for certain what is bizarre and what isn’t, but I’m sure most bizarre occurrences I can label as bizarre, but I’m not one to label, I try to just allow. If I was reliving the same day over and over, I wouldn’t know because time has almost become completely irrelevant. This is probably why I gave up distance running. What?
Inclusion in sedentary activities has bolstered my idiosyncratic abilities to pick up on subtle clues as to the states of mind in other individuals. Below all of this, there are wheels in motion, a carousel. Some sort of analogy that cannot really be described, except in D-minor. Maybe I should do a rant about ranting and a poem about poems, a book about a book about a book about the Bible. It’s all inside, waiting to come out, waiting to get its recognition. So, if you’re ready to enter the crazy world I live in, take the red pill. And it’s not a fucking chewable. It’s the size of a horse tranquilizer.
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