(no subject)
I see little ones, on occasion, and I see their smiles and how each thing in the world delights them. I was enamored last night, the reason is irrelevant, but the purpose is true, and that is of my forlorn and mostly forgotten childhood. If only I had those memories and those moments back, the ones that I had only for a little time. And now there are but a few. I didn't start my daily journaling until I was fifteen, so before then, I have only vague memories.
But each thing now, it has covered my childhood. I have lost much of my imagination, just as someone loses their memory when they are old or drugged, I am losing it and I feel like I have this weird feeling that has supplanted it. It is bitterness, it is despondence, it is irrelevance, big, too big words for a child. And yet the children run around and they smile. Even if their world is being destroyed by the same adults that swear to protect them, even if they are being brainwashed to be guiltless consumers. Even if, perhaps, even if.
I want to squeeze pokeberries into plastic jars, I want to get excited when my father was burning brush and I could take just a bit of that flame for myself, I want to be excited for when my uncle had go-kart rides for us, for when we could imagine entire kingdoms, build out worlds that were brilliant. We built a bridge once, and that bridge over that tiny muddy stream is something I am proud of, we built a jail that we never had anyone to put in and even if we did, we had to make it illegal to remove the sticks from the jail. I went walking on those fields over break with Nathaniel and my childhood was there again, and even if those places are overgrown, they are still in my mind. Each is a special memory and a pristine imagination.
And so what are adults, people that eke out a meaningless job to have money that they can go sit in a bar and drink, that can find a moment of ecstasy with sex and yet not find love, that are desperately searching for that love and yet they are unable to find, that they have to show off, to build pride. So we consider people that are living like this mature and such yet the children and their fantasies are the false ones. I want to go back to life where it was simple and where I wasn't that upset, even if I had a pretty miserable social life as a child.
And I, I am just so bitter, those days are past. And what am I doing, I'm converting the imagination of a child, the beauty of creative thought, the very uniqueness of human emotion, and how we see the countenance of others to reaction times to get publications, as if the disparate way science is structured could lead to any improvement of life. I want to go to an orphange, to write stories, if only any people would care. Perhaps I could actually send one of my stories, or a batch, and see if they're any good. Yet then it isn't mine anymore, perhaps what i read is what I'm infusing into my mind too and I'm unable to elucidate anything. When I try to barely say my philosophy, the words don't fit it at all, it's a vague variant of solipism, or the fact that I can't even conclude that cultural automated flesh bots have conscious thought and a soul.
Read a good book (or a tiny bit of it) on consciousness and fits in the concept between the psychological and phenonemonlogical aspects of consciousness. We can define the perception of red, or the neural correlates of fear, or the behavioral analogues of love, but can we ever describe or define the actual qualia of perceiving that? Can you describe the beauty of seeing the color red, or the weakness and the panic of fear, or then the feeling of love? Could I ever tell Sara what I ever thought of her, could I ever quantify what it means to be alone at times, or what it means for someone to hold me. The answer, the simple one, that is no, and that gives me the hope.
But each thing now, it has covered my childhood. I have lost much of my imagination, just as someone loses their memory when they are old or drugged, I am losing it and I feel like I have this weird feeling that has supplanted it. It is bitterness, it is despondence, it is irrelevance, big, too big words for a child. And yet the children run around and they smile. Even if their world is being destroyed by the same adults that swear to protect them, even if they are being brainwashed to be guiltless consumers. Even if, perhaps, even if.
I want to squeeze pokeberries into plastic jars, I want to get excited when my father was burning brush and I could take just a bit of that flame for myself, I want to be excited for when my uncle had go-kart rides for us, for when we could imagine entire kingdoms, build out worlds that were brilliant. We built a bridge once, and that bridge over that tiny muddy stream is something I am proud of, we built a jail that we never had anyone to put in and even if we did, we had to make it illegal to remove the sticks from the jail. I went walking on those fields over break with Nathaniel and my childhood was there again, and even if those places are overgrown, they are still in my mind. Each is a special memory and a pristine imagination.
And so what are adults, people that eke out a meaningless job to have money that they can go sit in a bar and drink, that can find a moment of ecstasy with sex and yet not find love, that are desperately searching for that love and yet they are unable to find, that they have to show off, to build pride. So we consider people that are living like this mature and such yet the children and their fantasies are the false ones. I want to go back to life where it was simple and where I wasn't that upset, even if I had a pretty miserable social life as a child.
And I, I am just so bitter, those days are past. And what am I doing, I'm converting the imagination of a child, the beauty of creative thought, the very uniqueness of human emotion, and how we see the countenance of others to reaction times to get publications, as if the disparate way science is structured could lead to any improvement of life. I want to go to an orphange, to write stories, if only any people would care. Perhaps I could actually send one of my stories, or a batch, and see if they're any good. Yet then it isn't mine anymore, perhaps what i read is what I'm infusing into my mind too and I'm unable to elucidate anything. When I try to barely say my philosophy, the words don't fit it at all, it's a vague variant of solipism, or the fact that I can't even conclude that cultural automated flesh bots have conscious thought and a soul.
Read a good book (or a tiny bit of it) on consciousness and fits in the concept between the psychological and phenonemonlogical aspects of consciousness. We can define the perception of red, or the neural correlates of fear, or the behavioral analogues of love, but can we ever describe or define the actual qualia of perceiving that? Can you describe the beauty of seeing the color red, or the weakness and the panic of fear, or then the feeling of love? Could I ever tell Sara what I ever thought of her, could I ever quantify what it means to be alone at times, or what it means for someone to hold me. The answer, the simple one, that is no, and that gives me the hope.