Journal of Gibberish II

**A Nerd** · 09-22-2014, 12:53

I have started to write things, in gibberish form of course, just for something to do and perhaps even clear my mind. I would like to share its ongoing sage.

Here is the first entry:

Is it possible to see beyond the limitations of your mind? If a man is to wonder whether what he sees is real or not, shall the two become confused or clarified? Echoes of spite that flutter on the wind like yellowed leaves from an oak tree long since felled or strange visions of pasts never known or even existing but only to the raving mad man who has had more spirits then he needs to consume. Shall it be a forever, this heavily medicated reality that only seems to deepen into a strange cognizant senility or perhaps even a fugue, whereas the life that which is far more livable, yes, even tangible is the one most visited but never remembered due to the intoxication of pleasantries available in a visible memory, perhaps, remembered in a safe, dark place whence the refuse of the forgotten is collected and never removed. Slowly piling up in a heap of stench and decay, to smother he, but then again, unfortunate or not, not to smother he, for he lives forever. In the past, in that forgotten fugue, in what some might call any plethora of words to show that there is a way out, that there is peace and solitude to be had with a life that passes more quickly than the one day visit of a memory due to a sip of something unsavory. I say nay to that sip, good sir, I say nay to that pure virtue I see at story time before I slip off into a restless night, where the nightmares of what awaits when I awake spin the mind into an intricate web of the unprovable, unattainable and so wanted capture of something other than a dream. With dawn, gone are the days of former enlightened days, filled with virility and beautiful faces that spoke in truths and with affection. Gone are the days when freedom was nothing more than a trip to the red maple down the street, or to a sanctuary of fondness that but spoke with an ambient quiet that all pains could be soothed but for the time where it embraced me and put me to its breast. Ah, do I dare proceed? …

It wasn't meant to be particularly publish worthy. Just to pass some time. :)

**A Nerd** · 09-22-2014, 15:02

I felt inspired today. Last one for now...

I used to go out there in the rain, in the winter, it didn’t really matter as long as I could go out there I was happy. It was like time travel in a way. A long walk through those wooded trails, remembering people who were no longer there to accompany me, just apparitions I suppose now. They reside in the spots where I remember them interacting with the environment and for varied periods of time with myself. The happy, the young, the melancholy, the lonely, the content, the high, all sorts. Where they have gone I know not, but there, when able, I still dwell. This is much the reason it is like my own personal time machine. All it takes is a few brief steps beyond the vision of the present into the sometimes dark undergrowth is a peace and tranquility that still occupies the vacuum left by those I used to see and or wander there with. Memories abound. I sometimes stop to note the apparition of myself in areas that have been photographed by my conscious memory. I stop, greet him, and enjoy whatever pleasures he might have been physically enjoying or interacting with at the time. As vivid as his dress, youth, appearance, etc. it is all there repeating what he or they had done once upon a time, now just over and over and over. Even when I am not there to note him or the others I once might have been out there. In the dark and still of night, all these memories repeat. Pieces of the living, an essence of sorts, still wandering this beautiful green sanctuary I was introduced to so long ago. Not the dead, just memories of the living, as they once were, in the spots to which they were noted by myself. I am sure a vast collection of memories belonging to other folks do the same, but to this I am not sure. I only feel a wonderful sensation of familiarity. I know not what another who has frequented the place might feel. For I have for years now, wandered alone. Please don’t lament, I don’t drop to my knees and weep when a former love might appear, unnoticing me. The solemn, or even sad events of a trip outside feel just as pleasant as something with a bit more cheer interlaced with what I see. Thus, time marches on…

**Vuk** · 09-23-2014, 06:15

Who is that girl in your avatar?

**A Nerd** · 09-23-2014, 12:43

Judy Garland. She was Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.

**A Nerd** · 09-23-2014, 14:08

Another entry. Just a note, I seldom proof read. I think it kills the moods and whatever type of inspiration you are trying to draw from. These are just thoughts and thoughts can often be cluttered.

Is it a possibility that a man may waste away the hours contemplating time and all its complexities? Are we sure the past truly happened when there is not a soul alive who was alive when the circumstance in a rigid year took place? Sure, there are films and photographs, but they all seem so fixed and unmoving. Films even stuck to the script, no way to interact. I find it odd that moving, breathing flesh that you can see the glint of life in in ethereal eyes, often staring right back at you possess nothing more than a memory. An image on aged, fuzzy film or even on glass. Can they hear a cheer from the audience after a performance has been brilliantly enacted even though that audience is untold years in the future? So fair, and young. Those black and white women who sing, dance, act, pose all apparently dead but to my eyes they still live and breathe. What history of these people are we to entertain? Shall we limit it to the script? Shall we ponder the history books and look beyond the songstress we awe at the chords of in our present moment? Or rather, fix our self in that time, adhere our self to a photograph that adorns places that are often passed by and visited for casual reasons, but visible to that question that will pop up when that noted light glimmers in the eyes of the history books deceased. I have seen many such images, men and women alike, in a number of situations, poses and degrees of decency. All beautiful at the time, well, they must have been for the photograph wasn’t taken for no apparent reason. If I look long enough, perhaps dare an inquiry, forsaking my level of competency of course, I might see movement in those eyes, those digits, those limbs! Life I tell you, it is timeless! Now, I utter some words. Ah, there it is again. Could it be that image, that moving celluloid? Or is it my life, my essence, my aura interacting with those people? It does make me wonder, indeed it does. As I slump over in dismay for I have nothing else to ask or impart on my focus, I breathe, slow the rapid beats of my heart and look away. ‘So is life’ I heard on man once say. So it is indeed. Beauty gone, life bloods run dry, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I ponder my own situation very little for I have seen a photograph of what it will become and I am contented. Here is to life’s pleasures. I raise my glass, take a sip, and focus on the present once more. So is life, yes my friend, so is life indeed.