So many times now I've come strolling by here nonchalantly, checking out the space, looking at the fact I haven't updated in probably about a year or something, I'm not really sure - the days all blur together into a timeless mess of good times and boredom for me nowadays, nothing really accents or punctuates the days for me. But I like it this way. I like living timelessly. It's a swell way to spent your days.
But I ramble - as I was saying, I've been coming here looking at the fact I haven't updated for a while and such, and deep inside me something moves. The hidden writer inside me, the one who wishes to slop and splice words together into some legible and easily understood paragraph of times and spaces and people and such, and I yearn to get this started again. But then, the part of me that doesn't give a shit to keep something like a "journal" usually wins out, because I find it very pretentious to assume that keeping a daily record of what I do and think about things is worth anyones damn, fuck, shit, or any other swear word that equates itself with some sort of understood value. In the end it seems though, that the writer in me - or at least the part of me that wishes to grow and wise up as a writer - has won out, and here I am yet again, with my thoughts slowly moving from my mind down to my fingers and becoming upon the screen in a fashion of visual symbols, cues, signals, and such as to render into your thoughts exactly what I am thinking in this beautiful thing we call language - especially written language, something amazing that separates us from our monkey cousins - to tell you what I do from day to day and how I think and what not.
So, let's get to it, eh?
First of I should say I have been having some fucked up dreams lately. Some of them include people being held in basements, some involve Pope-a-cide by accident, but for the most part they include rat killing. A rat killing of the classic nature, in where one takes a baseball bat and just bludgeons the ever-living-fuck out of them until they are a bloody and disgusting pile of pulp and things less-pleasant upon the ground of my dreams, which seems to have this whimsical way of changing shape as it deems necessary to the occasion - in which case it is mildly hilly, as to accommodate the blood pools of said rats. This is some vicious rat killing we're talking of here, damn near on the side of the coin that would refer to it as rather rat-slaying. And the strange thing about these dreams - of cloistered not-good-enough-children-in-basements and accidentally killed Popes and the genocide of rats upon the doorstep of my ancient friends abode - and that is the thing that in my mind takes them from normal to fucked up is that I have little to do with any of the actually accidents, imprisonment, rat maiming at all. I spend most of my time as a spectator, watches these things happen, but after they happen everyone turns to me with this look of "Dear God upon the Kingdom of Heaven whatever do we do now?" as if I was the one promised in prophecies to fix these problems, be it in the scapegoat fashion, in wisdom fashion, and so on and so forth, and yet I do nothing. I do not help. Even though the people who commit these acts in my dreams are for the most part former or current good and close friends of mine, I do nothing. I offer no aid. I simply smile, and allow them to stew. Because in my mind I am not the Chosen One of their prophecies, in fact the only prophecy I probably do fulfill is The-One-Who-Uses-Far-Too-Many-Run-On-Sentences and Abuses-the Fuck-Out-of-Commas -Like-They-Are-Easily-Lead-and-Manipulated-Drunk-Girls-at-a-Frat-Party-Just-By-Pretending-I'm-So-Deep-And-Out-There-With-My-Thinking-Just-So-I-Can-Get-Some-Ass-But-It-Works-Everytime-So-Why-Stop-Now.
And so I do nothing.
Now the last thing I want now is for anyone to think that I believe I carry the weight of the world upon my shoulders, or that I think I have answers for everything. Because I don't. In fact I couldn't think in more opposite terms for either of those statements of assumed accusations from my readers. I don't think the weight of the world affects me anymore, now that it has fallen upon in me in such a degree I had a breakdown. Nor do I think I have the answers for everyone, because anyone who thinks they have answers for the entire world might as well just stand from the roof-tops of their domiciles and scream upon the green-Earth "O mighty star of people and places, I am so very incredibly awesomely smart, but not in the way you think smart is, I mean more in that Good Will Hunting terms of smart, a movie of which I deny liking, because I am so smart that I was lazy in high school and didn't do my work, and sat in the back of the class being too damn smart to learn anything, and I have the world all figured out, because I watched Donnie Darko once and read some Chuck Paulinak (or however you spell his name) and I know now that true knowledge isn't in creating and nurturing new thought, but instead in only ripping down everything that has once been thought and kicking it into the ground". And quite honestly, these people can go ahead and put some cockroaches on the back of their head and light a ring of fire around them so they are forced to eat their way through said persons face.
I think what I take from these dreams is nothing. Because these are dreams. They are the workings of my mind long after I have stopped thinking consciously being meshed together in weird way and displaying images to my non-waking mind. I see no futures, no greater meanings, no answers in this wild loop of thoughts and images coming together like an old drink we in the early 90's referred to as a "suicide drink" of all the fountain sodas mixed together in one cup.
However I will admit that there is a running theme to this dreams, if anything, which alerts me to believe that I have been thinking somewhere deep in my mind - past the part that looovvvvessss those Cheesy Double Beef Burrito fucks from Taco Bell, past the part of me that thinks a good sit on a moonless night at the windmills does wonders for the soul, and even beyond the pieces of me that is filled with hate at people who say they are "itching themselves" when they are in fact scratching a fucking itch you fucking retarded mindless monkeys who have no business talking... ahem, and even tucked perhaps somewhere int he part of me that finds a good walk in the woods at anytime of the day is well worth the effort to get there, is a part of me that thinks I have shit figured out for me, and as for now, that's good enough. Because that's what I need. And I could not give a shit about what anyone thinks of me now. Wondering such thinks is only going to drive any individual to craze and misery. No other fruits come from the tree of constantly wondering what other think of you. Oh, but the fruit of knowing you keep true to yourself and falling in love with your own person - that is a fruit much sweeter than sex, double cheesy beef burritos, and even that feeling you get when you plop into bed tired as shit knowing you don't have to get up at any given times the next day.
I'm not really sure I stumbled into here with a purpose, and at this rate I could type forever. So I should probably call it a text-box at this point, and wrap this shit up. Because I have some real writing to do now.