In the beginning,,,
Right. Here we are again. I have a dreadful habit of starting these damn things and then letting them die on me, and yet, it's peaceable talking, but to no one in particular. The ultimate sounding board, I suppose, the assembled ears of humanity.
Well, not really; that would be a desperate cry for help, and this isn't one of those. At least, not yet. Ehhh, I'm giving the wrong impression. I'm not suicidal, angry, depressed, self-loathing, christian or communist, despite the fact that Lenin had a damn awesome beard. No, I'm just philosophically inclined to leave every door of possibility, as it where, open. That is, with regard to perception.
Right, where was I before I started digressing? Oh? I hadn't started yet? Damn and blast. Despite the great value of digression, must say that it makes things harder to read. But I've just read this book, and I think it's messing with my written 'voice'. 'The Catcher in the Rye', lovely book, but every time I read, I find myself imitating a little, trying it on, taking it off, and slotting it in. Suffice to say that reading too many books, while good for the soul, can be rather detrimental to the character of one, in my opinion, without consideration and application. Basically, sitting around going 'wow' after reading 'Paradise Lost' and SWEARING never to eat another apple.
Wow. A whole lot of mental tripe there, dripping away and pooling the cavities of my brain. Disgusting image, but probably marketable in the right circles. 'Brain tripe.' Ah, the wonders of capitalism. You can sell a Yak's left breast if you're eloquent, and rich enough. Money breeds money. Right. Mental tripe. Probably built up because I've been doing pretty much nothing the past week. Holiday. I can't *do* nothing. Nothing is... stagnation. Death. Well, that's a tad melodramatic, but I'm sure given the timbre of this entry, if you've persevered thus far, you'll have gathered that I have something of a passion, for the melodramatic.
That's it... I'm wasting mental energy, I'm going to piss off and *write* something... anything. An idea. Thank you for your ear, gentle world. and remember: change, and desire unattainable, are the quintessence of life.
Well, not really; that would be a desperate cry for help, and this isn't one of those. At least, not yet. Ehhh, I'm giving the wrong impression. I'm not suicidal, angry, depressed, self-loathing, christian or communist, despite the fact that Lenin had a damn awesome beard. No, I'm just philosophically inclined to leave every door of possibility, as it where, open. That is, with regard to perception.
Right, where was I before I started digressing? Oh? I hadn't started yet? Damn and blast. Despite the great value of digression, must say that it makes things harder to read. But I've just read this book, and I think it's messing with my written 'voice'. 'The Catcher in the Rye', lovely book, but every time I read, I find myself imitating a little, trying it on, taking it off, and slotting it in. Suffice to say that reading too many books, while good for the soul, can be rather detrimental to the character of one, in my opinion, without consideration and application. Basically, sitting around going 'wow' after reading 'Paradise Lost' and SWEARING never to eat another apple.
Wow. A whole lot of mental tripe there, dripping away and pooling the cavities of my brain. Disgusting image, but probably marketable in the right circles. 'Brain tripe.' Ah, the wonders of capitalism. You can sell a Yak's left breast if you're eloquent, and rich enough. Money breeds money. Right. Mental tripe. Probably built up because I've been doing pretty much nothing the past week. Holiday. I can't *do* nothing. Nothing is... stagnation. Death. Well, that's a tad melodramatic, but I'm sure given the timbre of this entry, if you've persevered thus far, you'll have gathered that I have something of a passion, for the melodramatic.
That's it... I'm wasting mental energy, I'm going to piss off and *write* something... anything. An idea. Thank you for your ear, gentle world. and remember: change, and desire unattainable, are the quintessence of life.