i finished your book. i will trade it for your movie.
there was a time when philosophers traveled miles on miles and miles to visit ideas and thoughts and have a great conversation. in recent years we have evolved out culture to one of sit and accept. we no longer feel the need to expend physical effort in search of the truth. we feel that "if it is of" worth, it will be given us. por exemplo - myself. i sit here and type a million thoughts synthesized into another cliche monologue, just know that if you want truth, it is there to find it. it is held by turtle's hands and grasses have it the moment the wind blows them past forty five degrees. i saw beauty. it took the form of mist settling slowly lower and lower on utah mountains. rain came across the vast valley in search of me, when it found me i said thank you and then went on my way. the cold stopped bothering me, it isn't something to argue over, it just is. and is truth to me. i accept it as truth to me. because that is all i have. truth to me. i believe i won't write much more in this "little hello" i started. it was beautiful and vain, and never quite for me. now i escape into a small pink green and white "journal" of sorts. it holds more than speculation. it holds more than young girls saw of me. it holds all of me. it is for me. it is not for you or for the world, or for the media. it is for me. some days i may dance my waltz of vernaculated painting, but who knows where it will turn up. the he/she s of yesteryear are cliched, but it works. here goes.
she wrote a blog. she wrote a blog of cryptic beauty. she took a small brush and painted the tree of life as she saw it through her angst ridden features, and her constant desire for what she thought was truth, but what was really just getting by.
he wrote a blog. he wrote a blog in response to her pure candid concise, charisma. her syntax spread as tears on the sidewalk, with ease and effortless perfection, taking new directions because that was only the natural course for them to follow. he wrote in envy and emulation. alas it was in vain, because that was not his niche. soon he would find his place, and it would not be with the artist. it would be found through lessons on introversion and learning that only through rejection of truth can truth be found. pop culture can dance on its merry way but this homeless adolescent is founding his own pop culture of one. one to battle the masses and one to win.
she saw his, because she was just stalker enough and his bread crumbs fell like scat. she encrypted in her own he/she dialogue
and he gave his own dialectic, or tried.
she pulled
he pulled but nothing was found.
this flower had waxed cold and unbeknownced to the pedals, this dandylion was cast aside to make room for the sunflower, or was it the other way around? was he (myself) a sad but essential stepping stone on the way to a better life. i like to think i was.
she wrote a blog. she wrote a blog of cryptic beauty. she took a small brush and painted the tree of life as she saw it through her angst ridden features, and her constant desire for what she thought was truth, but what was really just getting by.
he wrote a blog. he wrote a blog in response to her pure candid concise, charisma. her syntax spread as tears on the sidewalk, with ease and effortless perfection, taking new directions because that was only the natural course for them to follow. he wrote in envy and emulation. alas it was in vain, because that was not his niche. soon he would find his place, and it would not be with the artist. it would be found through lessons on introversion and learning that only through rejection of truth can truth be found. pop culture can dance on its merry way but this homeless adolescent is founding his own pop culture of one. one to battle the masses and one to win.
she saw his, because she was just stalker enough and his bread crumbs fell like scat. she encrypted in her own he/she dialogue
and he gave his own dialectic, or tried.
she pulled
he pulled but nothing was found.
this flower had waxed cold and unbeknownced to the pedals, this dandylion was cast aside to make room for the sunflower, or was it the other way around? was he (myself) a sad but essential stepping stone on the way to a better life. i like to think i was.