In strictly the most pretentious and minimalist manner...
It seems that the only person I can form complex, semi-intelligible, borderline artistic thoughts, while talking to... is myself.
I am wholly, and completely, uninspired.
This is an exercise, an endeavor in futility, to illiterate some of my most front ordered thoughts.
I need to organize them. Look at them. Consider them. Understand them. Then, place them back into my own mind. It seems, I must do this.
Life has been thoroughly intoxicating, as of late.
In that sense... or, order of thoughts... I've been thoroughly intoxicated lately.
Dyslexia. It's a simple word, that can be described as a boggle effect on an afflicted person's mind... which causes them to mix things up. Sentence word order, out of wack, and reading things in improper order. What about conceptual dyslexia? Artistic dyslexia? Are we going to christen these as gifts and reward them with artist's benefit? If that be the case? Then I'll be the glad one.
Honestly, I think I've realized the same thing, many times recently.
I've actually lost my mind. NO. Really, it has taken the first train out of town, and left me with the active contents of a semi-functioning human being. With it, went any remaining personal sense of sexual morality. Wait, no... I lost that years ago. hah.
There has basically been no outlet for my mind. No reason to focus. No reason to think. No reason to live. You know? And, don't give me that shit about pressing political issues, starving children, or the AIDS rates in Africa. It doesn't matter. None of it does! Why should I care? We're all fucked anyway. One way or another. "What about ____?" That's life. Asshole.
I am becoming my own personal psychological experiment.
Mental neglect. Personal intellectual absence. I'm beginning to think that it's far more damaging than any temporary plunge into a personal substance abuse issue.
Social interests, fade, but still seem to pull themselves into a position of priority. I don't believe I need them, but I seem to make every excuse and effort to have my social time. Is it the booze, I use to handle everyone's idiocy, that I'm addicted to? Or, is it the people I simultaneously hold contempt and respect for, silently and thoroughly critiquing their every mannerism...until, I'm too drunk to function on multiple mental levels...so, I slide down the ladder of mental hierarchy to the lowest level of small talk. Or, is it the moments of insanity, which I interject into regular conversations...causing these pseudo-friends and semi-strangers to stare blankly?
I'm really not all too sure yet.
I need to write a book...but, I don't believe I'll be capable...unless I personally live the lie that I'm writing...and, fictionalize reality, while hating myself for being this sad character I write about. I'm afraid of that.
Oh, and syntax? I'm sure. Absofuckinlutely a genius in that field, as you can probably already tell.
You.
The elusive inner direct object of conversation. Religious you, prayers. Personal you, thoughts. Verbal you, schizophrenia?
This hell has got to have a resolution. I can only think, live, and work...until by serendipitous circumstance, I happen upon the solution. It may just be a race, which I have an unknowing hand in. Does my own personal pollution get the better of me? Or, do I find my way out of the days of haze, into a hopeful, promised land of a future. Or, another question, is there even a promise land?...or, do we journey all throughout our existence, merely for the carnal and ephemeral pleasures which provide themselves to a human life? Don't know. No one can.
And, on tic the clock. On pound the waves onto badly beaten shores. On go the days.
I am wholly, and completely, uninspired.
This is an exercise, an endeavor in futility, to illiterate some of my most front ordered thoughts.
I need to organize them. Look at them. Consider them. Understand them. Then, place them back into my own mind. It seems, I must do this.
Life has been thoroughly intoxicating, as of late.
In that sense... or, order of thoughts... I've been thoroughly intoxicated lately.
Dyslexia. It's a simple word, that can be described as a boggle effect on an afflicted person's mind... which causes them to mix things up. Sentence word order, out of wack, and reading things in improper order. What about conceptual dyslexia? Artistic dyslexia? Are we going to christen these as gifts and reward them with artist's benefit? If that be the case? Then I'll be the glad one.
Honestly, I think I've realized the same thing, many times recently.
I've actually lost my mind. NO. Really, it has taken the first train out of town, and left me with the active contents of a semi-functioning human being. With it, went any remaining personal sense of sexual morality. Wait, no... I lost that years ago. hah.
There has basically been no outlet for my mind. No reason to focus. No reason to think. No reason to live. You know? And, don't give me that shit about pressing political issues, starving children, or the AIDS rates in Africa. It doesn't matter. None of it does! Why should I care? We're all fucked anyway. One way or another. "What about ____?" That's life. Asshole.
I am becoming my own personal psychological experiment.
Mental neglect. Personal intellectual absence. I'm beginning to think that it's far more damaging than any temporary plunge into a personal substance abuse issue.
Social interests, fade, but still seem to pull themselves into a position of priority. I don't believe I need them, but I seem to make every excuse and effort to have my social time. Is it the booze, I use to handle everyone's idiocy, that I'm addicted to? Or, is it the people I simultaneously hold contempt and respect for, silently and thoroughly critiquing their every mannerism...until, I'm too drunk to function on multiple mental levels...so, I slide down the ladder of mental hierarchy to the lowest level of small talk. Or, is it the moments of insanity, which I interject into regular conversations...causing these pseudo-friends and semi-strangers to stare blankly?
I'm really not all too sure yet.
I need to write a book...but, I don't believe I'll be capable...unless I personally live the lie that I'm writing...and, fictionalize reality, while hating myself for being this sad character I write about. I'm afraid of that.
Oh, and syntax? I'm sure. Absofuckinlutely a genius in that field, as you can probably already tell.
You.
The elusive inner direct object of conversation. Religious you, prayers. Personal you, thoughts. Verbal you, schizophrenia?
This hell has got to have a resolution. I can only think, live, and work...until by serendipitous circumstance, I happen upon the solution. It may just be a race, which I have an unknowing hand in. Does my own personal pollution get the better of me? Or, do I find my way out of the days of haze, into a hopeful, promised land of a future. Or, another question, is there even a promise land?...or, do we journey all throughout our existence, merely for the carnal and ephemeral pleasures which provide themselves to a human life? Don't know. No one can.
And, on tic the clock. On pound the waves onto badly beaten shores. On go the days.