Despite what Arnie says...
Two in the morning.
What the hell are you doing up still?
I don't know. Actually I do. I have reached a state of being so worn out that it surpasses my need to act, to behave sensibly. To follow protocol as it were. Why, you ask? Perhaps my mundane need to replenish my mind with the sultry hours of the night harkens my whim to write. After all, I hate writing. So, why am I here then?
Verbal diarrhea. Need to get it loose, gooing, gucking off my chest, my brain. How it sticks to my cerebral fluid, impermeating my mind with the garbage of an everyday's load of work. Travesty? I think not! Moreso, pathetic.
When you get so cluxed in the mind ... all you want to do is shmuck around. Be forewarned that I will make up words as I please. I expect I'll be the only one reading this, after all.
What is creativity? I read the other entries of fellow compadres. They write eloquently, interestingly, with not so much as a hint of hesitation to their stories, their journalistic memories, splayed out for the public to see.
Maybe I write here to practice this foreign idea.
What is creativity? Such a vast topic to which I cannot define, for its elements seep underneath the cobwebs of pattern and structure and routine---and anything else that you would consider the right-wing portals of the human brain.
Perhaps I analyze too much. But that's just how I think.
Sometimes people just 'don't get that I think.... the way I think. To work so hard, I think slowly. But I usually do not overlook details. I am meticulous, I am wary. I read into things a lot, even when I shouldn't---but sometimes that's where my best material comes from. Is that creativity?
I doubt it.
Wow, I had no idea it was so easy to flatulate onto this non-existent page.
How stimulating truly.
Too bad I have no time for your quintessential netpage-ness.
So long.... my new, friend? acquaintance?
Perhaps, after all, you are just another element in my mind, construed so as to preserve my sanity. Whatever that is.
But still. This feels good. Writing... about nothing. Who would've thunk?
I will be back.
Despite what Arnie says.
What the hell are you doing up still?
I don't know. Actually I do. I have reached a state of being so worn out that it surpasses my need to act, to behave sensibly. To follow protocol as it were. Why, you ask? Perhaps my mundane need to replenish my mind with the sultry hours of the night harkens my whim to write. After all, I hate writing. So, why am I here then?
Verbal diarrhea. Need to get it loose, gooing, gucking off my chest, my brain. How it sticks to my cerebral fluid, impermeating my mind with the garbage of an everyday's load of work. Travesty? I think not! Moreso, pathetic.
When you get so cluxed in the mind ... all you want to do is shmuck around. Be forewarned that I will make up words as I please. I expect I'll be the only one reading this, after all.
What is creativity? I read the other entries of fellow compadres. They write eloquently, interestingly, with not so much as a hint of hesitation to their stories, their journalistic memories, splayed out for the public to see.
Maybe I write here to practice this foreign idea.
What is creativity? Such a vast topic to which I cannot define, for its elements seep underneath the cobwebs of pattern and structure and routine---and anything else that you would consider the right-wing portals of the human brain.
Perhaps I analyze too much. But that's just how I think.
Sometimes people just 'don't get that I think.... the way I think. To work so hard, I think slowly. But I usually do not overlook details. I am meticulous, I am wary. I read into things a lot, even when I shouldn't---but sometimes that's where my best material comes from. Is that creativity?
I doubt it.
Wow, I had no idea it was so easy to flatulate onto this non-existent page.
How stimulating truly.
Too bad I have no time for your quintessential netpage-ness.
So long.... my new, friend? acquaintance?
Perhaps, after all, you are just another element in my mind, construed so as to preserve my sanity. Whatever that is.
But still. This feels good. Writing... about nothing. Who would've thunk?
I will be back.
Despite what Arnie says.