i've been having bad insomnia lately
so i might as well make use of it
it seems my words always find the seasons.
is it strange that things that change somehow
end up trapped within the things that never do?
seasons inspire me
they do
it's fall
we can feel it
creep along the land
like a cold chill up the midwest's spine
and she shivers cold evening dew
shaken from the grass by my sandals
and my toes go numb and i kick myself
why must i always wear sandals? it's a very tree-hugger thing of me to do.
but i love them, my feet exposed to the air. it's almost so that if i feel trapped everyplace else than my feet are free. and that makes me happy.
i never used to wear sandals. but now i wear them all the time until the last moment possible which is probably the moment after its possible. because i think the beginning of every winter i always catch a cold.
and it seems strange to me that the things that always change
end trapped in the things that never do.
sometimes i imagine that the concept of me is fluid. that i can be whatever i want from one moment to the next. there's always just something holding me down, or back, or out, or whichever metaphysical direction it really is. my characteristics could take chameleon-like agility barely recognizable as the person from just before. in similar fashion to a master actor, a creator of the reality in his mind, i could simulate a reality to the point that it is unrecognizable from true reality.
but something always tugs against me. something always feels strange and rigid and foreign. i can't tell if it's my skin or my hair or my habits or teeth, but something stops me and that bugs me beyond belief. because sometimes it's almost as if my fingertips are on it, but i can't for the life of me, get my hands around, so i understand i simply don't grasp and i can't pull it down from where i stand.
what good would changing who i am do me anyway?
that question is answered easily enough, i suppose. i could be somebody else rather than me. and i would convince me and you. and if we're both fooled, who is left? God? ok, good answer.
it seems strange to me that the things that never change
end trapped in the things that always do.
we're helpless to stray too far from who we are. we are not a pile of compiled habits, but we're sure darn close. it's almost boring how predictable some of us are, myself included. there are times i write these words and i feel nothing but vain because i'm sure no one else finds the value in them that i do. each word is different, and infinitely so but i am sure, i am sure, that i am somewhere in these lines and if i just read and re-read them long enough i'll be able to see the outline of myself in them eventually. and my vanity and my self-seeking are terribly predictable. to the point of boredom.
but yet somehow, what we are is not the sum of our habits.
it's easy to say that i am more than a pattern. more than a series of dots and dashes, zeros and ones, reds, greens, and blues, or even or even a one-of-a-kind 9 digit number.
suddenly i feel very foolish for writing all this.
i am more than the sum of my habits.
but i have yet to find my name
it seems my words always find the seasons.
is it strange that things that change somehow
end up trapped within the things that never do?
seasons inspire me
they do
it's fall
we can feel it
creep along the land
like a cold chill up the midwest's spine
and she shivers cold evening dew
shaken from the grass by my sandals
and my toes go numb and i kick myself
why must i always wear sandals? it's a very tree-hugger thing of me to do.
but i love them, my feet exposed to the air. it's almost so that if i feel trapped everyplace else than my feet are free. and that makes me happy.
i never used to wear sandals. but now i wear them all the time until the last moment possible which is probably the moment after its possible. because i think the beginning of every winter i always catch a cold.
and it seems strange to me that the things that always change
end trapped in the things that never do.
sometimes i imagine that the concept of me is fluid. that i can be whatever i want from one moment to the next. there's always just something holding me down, or back, or out, or whichever metaphysical direction it really is. my characteristics could take chameleon-like agility barely recognizable as the person from just before. in similar fashion to a master actor, a creator of the reality in his mind, i could simulate a reality to the point that it is unrecognizable from true reality.
but something always tugs against me. something always feels strange and rigid and foreign. i can't tell if it's my skin or my hair or my habits or teeth, but something stops me and that bugs me beyond belief. because sometimes it's almost as if my fingertips are on it, but i can't for the life of me, get my hands around, so i understand i simply don't grasp and i can't pull it down from where i stand.
what good would changing who i am do me anyway?
that question is answered easily enough, i suppose. i could be somebody else rather than me. and i would convince me and you. and if we're both fooled, who is left? God? ok, good answer.
it seems strange to me that the things that never change
end trapped in the things that always do.
we're helpless to stray too far from who we are. we are not a pile of compiled habits, but we're sure darn close. it's almost boring how predictable some of us are, myself included. there are times i write these words and i feel nothing but vain because i'm sure no one else finds the value in them that i do. each word is different, and infinitely so but i am sure, i am sure, that i am somewhere in these lines and if i just read and re-read them long enough i'll be able to see the outline of myself in them eventually. and my vanity and my self-seeking are terribly predictable. to the point of boredom.
but yet somehow, what we are is not the sum of our habits.
it's easy to say that i am more than a pattern. more than a series of dots and dashes, zeros and ones, reds, greens, and blues, or even or even a one-of-a-kind 9 digit number.
suddenly i feel very foolish for writing all this.
i am more than the sum of my habits.
but i have yet to find my name