So you were standing there and we saw each other in the room full of people and maybe you heard it or maybe you didn't. I'll never know due to the fact that I will never know anything other than the things I saw, the things I said, the moments I made as well as the sound of everything all around me.
How do I write about anything that makes sense?
How do I express what it is that is so expressionless?
How do I start off from the ending and make the beginning again?
Endless burning questions of eternity.
It used to be that I had too much to express and I felt like a mess now it's the exact opposite. There's nothing that feels right. There's nothing that seems like anything. Maybe these are the true thoughts of the dead. There is life to these thoughts but how much can I take them.
Where will they go? So many questions. I am all out of answers. I was clever once. So clever. I was the most clever person I knew of. Then I met you and everything changed. Every little thing changed in an instance and I have never been the same since. I don't even know what to write anymore.
There are so many stories inside of my head. Filled to the brim with so many memories but I know that is all they will ever be. Just past instances. Declarations of how time passes. How you watch it and how it all runs away whether you are sitting here with me reading this or if you are running halfway around the world or in another galaxy.
There is no other world. There is no other place. These dreams are just vague notions. Glimpses into the frame. So there I was rambling to my dead self. Talking to that part of me like it knows what I am trying to say. Like it knows what I am doing. Like it knows where I am going. Where are we going anyways? Where do you go when you are just visiting. Does it matter if you see the sights, taste the taste, smell the smells. I already know that I inflict this same sermon to nowhere and I love it. I must. I keep repeating it to myself.
Hell, I made it this far down the line. What am I really trying to say? I'm trying too hard I can see it. I am writing this so that I can impress you. Whoever you are. You're out there or are you? Do I just make you up so that I can surprise myself every time? Every time. That is an interesting statement. You will want to read this with something that doesn't make sense. Like something useless. Something you put upside down or backward for the purposes of it serving no function. Like putting all of your furniture in your apartment upside down, mainly for the looks of it. Imagine that. Inviting everyone over. Impressing them.
There are so many stories inside of my head. Filled to the brim with so many memories but I know that is all they will ever be. Just past instances. Declarations of how time passes. How you watch it and how it all runs away whether you are sitting here with me reading this or if you are running halfway around the world or in another galaxy.
There is no other world. There is no other place. These dreams are just vague notions. Glimpses into the frame. So there I was rambling to my dead self. Talking to that part of me like it knows what I am trying to say. Like it knows what I am doing. Like it knows where I am going. Where are we going anyways? Where do you go when you are just visiting. Does it matter if you see the sights, taste the taste, smell the smells. I already know that I inflict this same sermon to nowhere and I love it. I must. I keep repeating it to myself.
Hell, I made it this far down the line. What am I really trying to say? I'm trying too hard I can see it. I am writing this so that I can impress you. Whoever you are. You're out there or are you? Do I just make you up so that I can surprise myself every time? Every time. That is an interesting statement. You will want to read this with something that doesn't make sense. Like something useless. Something you put upside down or backward for the purposes of it serving no function. Like putting all of your furniture in your apartment upside down, mainly for the looks of it. Imagine that. Inviting everyone over. Impressing them.
See I come up with clever ideas, don't I?
Too much in the self but not full of it. Just curious. Curious to know the processes going on in the background. Seems like that is how they came up with the idea for the computer. Process monitor that has now made our thoughts so precise that there is no more imagination. Is that why we turn to drugs? Hallucinogens. To hallucinate otherworldly things. There's a contradiction, didn't I just get done saying that there is no other world but here I am telling you all about it.
Don't bother reading this. It's not going to help you make any sense out of anything. You won't get any closer to knowing who I am. Maybe I like it that way. An enigma. Yes. A paradox. Perfect. Or maybe that isn't it. Maybe in the end there is really nothing to know because it's all a story anyone can make up. A story we can all tell. That sounds good. Ok, go with it. Perfect.
Here's the story. A guy in his late twenties ends up going through all of the thoughts in his brain so that there are no more thoughts anymore. Nothing happens for some time. Only the things around him. He walks like the ocean sways over the earth. He can communicate anything but doesn't know what it's like to make it up anymore. He only knows how to live it. So how does he tell you about it?
He tries to define it. He tries to explain it but you won't understand it even if he did because you will only take what you want from it. You will only hear what you want to hear. See what you want to see and then you will turn a blind eye to the things that you would never want to know. Isn't that inevitably what we are all afraid of anyway. To be misunderstood. It's going to happen. It's not like anyone understand anyways.
What do we really understand? Do we really understand each other? Do we really relate or are we just agreeing that we do? Will all of this come true or is the vacuum just cleaning up all of this electronic syntax errors?
A man was born a man, made into a machine through a machine and now slowly escapes the machine to go back to being a man. I could see those headlines somewhere but you will never see them in the newspaper or in anything you would ever want to read.
Is this what they call genius? Pure madness? Sparks coming from the machine. Light upon light getting brighter and brighter? So bright it burns up the whole thing. So bright that you can't even describe it any more. So bright that you're on the way to being a star but not the Hollywood kind.
The kind that people see but rarely speak to. The kind that knows it's there but doesn't tell you it is there. The kind you take for granted because it's easier to. You think it will always be there so you never pay attention to it. You only do when you start to feel older. When you start to feel like time's arrow has shot through you and you realize all of the things you have said, all of the things you have done have you standing still instead of spinning in circles like it used to be.
Don't mind me, I never minded you. We just have to talk about these things sometimes even if they never make it anywhere. That is the thing about rambling. Eventually, you get to where you are going but not a minute sooner.
Too much in the self but not full of it. Just curious. Curious to know the processes going on in the background. Seems like that is how they came up with the idea for the computer. Process monitor that has now made our thoughts so precise that there is no more imagination. Is that why we turn to drugs? Hallucinogens. To hallucinate otherworldly things. There's a contradiction, didn't I just get done saying that there is no other world but here I am telling you all about it.
Don't bother reading this. It's not going to help you make any sense out of anything. You won't get any closer to knowing who I am. Maybe I like it that way. An enigma. Yes. A paradox. Perfect. Or maybe that isn't it. Maybe in the end there is really nothing to know because it's all a story anyone can make up. A story we can all tell. That sounds good. Ok, go with it. Perfect.
Here's the story. A guy in his late twenties ends up going through all of the thoughts in his brain so that there are no more thoughts anymore. Nothing happens for some time. Only the things around him. He walks like the ocean sways over the earth. He can communicate anything but doesn't know what it's like to make it up anymore. He only knows how to live it. So how does he tell you about it?
He tries to define it. He tries to explain it but you won't understand it even if he did because you will only take what you want from it. You will only hear what you want to hear. See what you want to see and then you will turn a blind eye to the things that you would never want to know. Isn't that inevitably what we are all afraid of anyway. To be misunderstood. It's going to happen. It's not like anyone understand anyways.
What do we really understand? Do we really understand each other? Do we really relate or are we just agreeing that we do? Will all of this come true or is the vacuum just cleaning up all of this electronic syntax errors?
A man was born a man, made into a machine through a machine and now slowly escapes the machine to go back to being a man. I could see those headlines somewhere but you will never see them in the newspaper or in anything you would ever want to read.
Is this what they call genius? Pure madness? Sparks coming from the machine. Light upon light getting brighter and brighter? So bright it burns up the whole thing. So bright that you can't even describe it any more. So bright that you're on the way to being a star but not the Hollywood kind.
The kind that people see but rarely speak to. The kind that knows it's there but doesn't tell you it is there. The kind you take for granted because it's easier to. You think it will always be there so you never pay attention to it. You only do when you start to feel older. When you start to feel like time's arrow has shot through you and you realize all of the things you have said, all of the things you have done have you standing still instead of spinning in circles like it used to be.
Don't mind me, I never minded you. We just have to talk about these things sometimes even if they never make it anywhere. That is the thing about rambling. Eventually, you get to where you are going but not a minute sooner.
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