When the clock strikes randomness. . .
Wait, is that even possible? I'm not so certain it isn't. I'm not certain of much, these days, other than good times. I love the summer time. It is true, however, that character is found, challenged, determined, preserved, and etched out, like a ripple in a pond, every day, and every season of our glorious existence, however, the summer time is a time for my character to be found resting, to be challenged by comfort, determined by the books I read, and preserved by the memories. I must etch out who I am. I don't think any of that pseudo-profound, pseudo-intellecutal rubbish that was one --yes, one-- sentence makes sense.
Someone randomly popped by. In search of others. It's amazing, how that happens. My, I do believe I'm developing a social life. And, I'm pretty thrilled by it, actually. However, I must admit I still like my quiet days of rest, work and solitude otherwise known as Sundays. But, as Morrissey sang, "everyday is like sunday, everyday is silent and grey. .." man, it sure is true. Lately, however, my days have been more than grey, or melancholy or morose, they've been faniciful. I want to make love to this moment, for it is my one true love. It will always return to me; I can't even say that about myself. Just because my character is etched out, doesn't mean it won't fade or be miscontrused, it just means that like that ripple, it will strike a chord, and make a glorious symphony forever to be heard by those willing to listen, by those with the hearts and imaginations to listen.
Why on earth would we humans invent logic when we can have the beauty and inconsistence and decadence of good old-fashioned emotions? Because, after a century of roller-coasters, that was also dubbed the age of physics, we realised that this elated euphoria shall give way to cold-hearted hell. And, after all, even after 2,000 years of civilization, it's the books on hell that sell. True, there are those fabulous self-help books, and wonderfully remembered inspirational stories, but only after we confront the beast, particularly the self-made beasts within, do we realise the beauty of nothing, otherwise known as the beauty of life. Unfortunately, we can't confront, or conquer, the beast everyday. All we can do is try, and live. "So we go on living trying to make this image real, straining every nerve not knowing what we really feel. But all I know is what I feel, whenever I'm not playin', happiness ain't where it's at, and neither is feeling pain."
I don't know what I was supposed to get at. I do know, however, that I did get my license, and am still in the process of trying to look for a job, even though I know that will only spell trouble in the long run. It doesn't matter much though, does it? No. It matters now, because you and I matter, and we always will. The Rennaissance established certain modern ideas about man, how man ought be celebrated; We know centuries later, the twenty-first, perhaps, closing on the age of the World Wars, the Cold War, and the Glory Age of America, that now those gloriously decadent principles have been manipulated to spell capitalist greed. Darwin is still being spelt with the world social casually dropped in front, and it's as casual as the cold disgrace we greet the "bums" "low-lifes" we pass on the busy street corners, when we avert our eyes and clutch our wallets. But when lord, when will we clutch our hearts? Not until the beast confronts us directly.
I'm tired of waiting for my beasts to confront me, and I don't know how to confront them. But, once they are conquered, where do we go? What is there? I'm seventeen years old, and life couldn't be much better, that I know. And you know what, even with all the bitching and moaning I do, I wouldn't want it to be. Bitching and moaning are some great hobbies of mine, but it's time I add compassion and caring with greater frequency. I don't know how this will sound an hour from now, a day from now, or even a lifetime, but these worlds, self-ishly purported online will mean something, if only a ripple in my life. Remember, even that disgusting penny does matter, if it was disgusting enough to catch your attention or alluring enough to get you to pick it up off the street corner, as you bent sharply alongside the abandoned bubble-gum.
Yeah. I don't know. But, and I'll probably renounce this later -- hell, please remind me of this entry if and when I do, if I don't -- but, the meaning of my life, is love. The love and approval of someone else, that will hold and cuddle me and tell me it's gonna be all right, even though I already knew that. We just gotta remember that it will always be all right. So, I'm sticking to Progress (of what, I don't know) and Love. Perhaps I'll add religion later on, as I am only 17. Christ, I sound silly. I'd better go know. I got a phone call about the third sentence of this paragraph (idiot boy, as becky calls him), and my thought pattern was seriously altered. I hope to come back to this later, either with tears in my eyes or laughter in my heart. Yeah. Well, it's slow online, and the phone. so, this update is. .. done. :D
Someone randomly popped by. In search of others. It's amazing, how that happens. My, I do believe I'm developing a social life. And, I'm pretty thrilled by it, actually. However, I must admit I still like my quiet days of rest, work and solitude otherwise known as Sundays. But, as Morrissey sang, "everyday is like sunday, everyday is silent and grey. .." man, it sure is true. Lately, however, my days have been more than grey, or melancholy or morose, they've been faniciful. I want to make love to this moment, for it is my one true love. It will always return to me; I can't even say that about myself. Just because my character is etched out, doesn't mean it won't fade or be miscontrused, it just means that like that ripple, it will strike a chord, and make a glorious symphony forever to be heard by those willing to listen, by those with the hearts and imaginations to listen.
Why on earth would we humans invent logic when we can have the beauty and inconsistence and decadence of good old-fashioned emotions? Because, after a century of roller-coasters, that was also dubbed the age of physics, we realised that this elated euphoria shall give way to cold-hearted hell. And, after all, even after 2,000 years of civilization, it's the books on hell that sell. True, there are those fabulous self-help books, and wonderfully remembered inspirational stories, but only after we confront the beast, particularly the self-made beasts within, do we realise the beauty of nothing, otherwise known as the beauty of life. Unfortunately, we can't confront, or conquer, the beast everyday. All we can do is try, and live. "So we go on living trying to make this image real, straining every nerve not knowing what we really feel. But all I know is what I feel, whenever I'm not playin', happiness ain't where it's at, and neither is feeling pain."
I don't know what I was supposed to get at. I do know, however, that I did get my license, and am still in the process of trying to look for a job, even though I know that will only spell trouble in the long run. It doesn't matter much though, does it? No. It matters now, because you and I matter, and we always will. The Rennaissance established certain modern ideas about man, how man ought be celebrated; We know centuries later, the twenty-first, perhaps, closing on the age of the World Wars, the Cold War, and the Glory Age of America, that now those gloriously decadent principles have been manipulated to spell capitalist greed. Darwin is still being spelt with the world social casually dropped in front, and it's as casual as the cold disgrace we greet the "bums" "low-lifes" we pass on the busy street corners, when we avert our eyes and clutch our wallets. But when lord, when will we clutch our hearts? Not until the beast confronts us directly.
I'm tired of waiting for my beasts to confront me, and I don't know how to confront them. But, once they are conquered, where do we go? What is there? I'm seventeen years old, and life couldn't be much better, that I know. And you know what, even with all the bitching and moaning I do, I wouldn't want it to be. Bitching and moaning are some great hobbies of mine, but it's time I add compassion and caring with greater frequency. I don't know how this will sound an hour from now, a day from now, or even a lifetime, but these worlds, self-ishly purported online will mean something, if only a ripple in my life. Remember, even that disgusting penny does matter, if it was disgusting enough to catch your attention or alluring enough to get you to pick it up off the street corner, as you bent sharply alongside the abandoned bubble-gum.
Yeah. I don't know. But, and I'll probably renounce this later -- hell, please remind me of this entry if and when I do, if I don't -- but, the meaning of my life, is love. The love and approval of someone else, that will hold and cuddle me and tell me it's gonna be all right, even though I already knew that. We just gotta remember that it will always be all right. So, I'm sticking to Progress (of what, I don't know) and Love. Perhaps I'll add religion later on, as I am only 17. Christ, I sound silly. I'd better go know. I got a phone call about the third sentence of this paragraph (idiot boy, as becky calls him), and my thought pattern was seriously altered. I hope to come back to this later, either with tears in my eyes or laughter in my heart. Yeah. Well, it's slow online, and the phone. so, this update is. .. done. :D