Journal of Gibberish II

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. :)

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…

Who is that girl in your avatar?

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

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.

Gibberish or not, there are some interesting nuggets in there. :bow:

Thank you very much Gregoshi. Coming from you that really does mean a lot to me. :)

Here is todays input. I hope you enjoy. :)

I seldom stray too far from the darker corners of my mind. My room is but a place where I reside waiting for the inevitable and sometimes the impossible or should I say the uninevitable. Dreams for fancy fair dance where the women and children dwell and I do partake in the gaiety that goes on there. But something about it just doesn’t seem to lighten the darker corners. What I see as beautiful faces, inviting eyes and bodies that become paintings or sculpture that seem to idealize when I turn away to become even more desirable when I look back. Yes, this does cause a stir in that heart that beats, but seems to be somewhat vexed within a confine of sorts that allows it to seldom feel other than with a familiarity to the loins it enables. I visit the women and children again and that confine does indeed give, to my disbelief (a disbelief that forgets quickly) a warm, fuzzy, dancing emotion that encircles my heart producing a most pleasurable heat that do not stimulate my loins believe it or not but rather harkens back to days gone by when the confine was nonexistent. Do others call this love? If so I would like to know it and its proper definition. I am in such a brief frenzy of emotion I seldom feel and seldom are invited to feel that I must call it that, but the objects of my affection (that which in imagined ways will become desire and that brooding sort of lust) are unknown to me. Just women of chance, women of coincidence and women of memory. Dare I approach? Dare I challenge an audible vocabulary that speaks as a child to invite someone into my life and my mind to perhaps experience for real what has only been imagined so for a vast number of years? It would seem my most dominant motivations and those of the more meek conflict, and yes, the more meek say go and I say no. Courage is a strange thing. It has its applications but in this example I seem to be the one despite with glorious stories, painted commendations and an apt experience list that spans millennia, I am the coward. So, with head down and tail between my legs I meander on down the hedgerow maze I find myself in and look ahead to find my way out. Well, rather, my eyes look forward but I only see peripherally and behind. I do believe in the fates and what they have in store, but they seem to be more patient than I. Time marches on I tell myself. Good things come to those who wait, but waiting too long will only bring an inevitability I feel will be my pursuit and my mazes conclusion.

This is a wild one. Be prepared for utter confusion. I certainly am.

There are times when I feel that my mind is of a different composition to those I might spy around me. Strange visions of beings I can’t relate to or interact with just floating around a brine of life that stings my senses when I leave the more comfortable places I occupy. This place of comfort a fabrication of lunacy that has been diagnosed and medicated yet the brine and its occupants drift deeper and deeper away as my senility pushes outward my blue colored safety zone that should only keep them at arms length but seems much further away as my sight sinks deeper and deeper into a tunnel vision that disguises truth and makes fact but a parasite to fiction. I know, or at least I think I am a fleshy being like those around me. For despite physical differences we do indeed seem the same. The same appearance wise anyway. However, they speak in strange tounges and voice utterances that seem to contradict everything that goes on in my mind and what I would say to relate it to them. This causes me to retract my words, for obviously they don’t speak my language. I am but a mute in a brine of confusion and activity that looks nothing like what I envision when I sleep and dream of my own perfection occupying a place in utopia with a sexual opposite that fulfills everything that my own sex cannot satisfy. My physical being seems to change as well. Perhaps it is the salt in the brine that softens my skin, swells me with fluid and elongates my own ego to a degree such that I no longer shall fit in the jar, the jar that continues to grow and grow, much like the universe I have been taught to believe in. Yes, this is a strange thought, but as I sit and contemplate my environment and my place in it, alone, my medication slowly puts me to sleep and my utopia and aging within it awaits. Is it like an Einstienin light speed where my body doesn’t age and others do? I don’t know. All I can ascertain is that I am different and those around me are the same as one another. As I conclude, I must confess that this rambling iteration of my day to day life is brought to you by time. The only familiar constant that I know.

Here we go again. Please enjoy if you read, if not, please enjoy that you don't. :)

There are some that seem to reflect the light just so, in the right direction that it might find the ever widening pupil of my eye. It seems so long ago that I hasten to mention the year when I last sipped of wine that was to my liking, that dry red that used to intoxicate me so. Where went all those endless bottles of sanguine liquor? Obviously, at the time it moistened my pallet, then lips and swam soft and warm in the depths of my gullet. Oh, the taste so divine. I craved it more and more the more of it I consumed. Eventually, the well (as it were) went dry and I no longer visited those dank and pungent establishments that offered me these succulent flavors. The reason being, I know not, I just wanted for something more than the intoxication could offer. After all, the wine lost its flavor after my senses were numbed beyond the point of recognition and I faded away to wake up in a familiar yet unfamiliar place where I was once again alone and depressed. I still remember it though, partaking of festive spirits with strangers, articulating such a beautiful poem that my mind thought I best not remember for it did make me weep so with its sensitivity. I seek now, other avenues that might evoke the finer points of wine, and spirits, to look toward a horizon that completely surrounds me for buildings do fall and trees must pass as well, as we, and there will be nothing to hinder my view of what awaits should I venture a few steps about and around what has taken the place of my current environments structures, vegetation and such. Now, I don’t mind what I see ahead, but to look up, well, it might be a bit premature for that. Bend my neck to look back, tempting, but seemingly unavailable for it has been swallowed up by dead decades that no one no longer visit but for their antiquity and alien nature seeming like to the modern mind. Forward says I, with an anchor deep in the past, I do indeed have the ability to move despite what some of the hidden may tell me. I know this for sure, for I have done it many times. It just seems a futile expenditure of energy I find lacking in my limbs, it is possible and painless, yet those slow and tired limbs just remind me of untruths and I stand still. For now, now being but an instant of course, and the future, from what I can see seems very traversable. Let us move now. Onward as if I were in a column of men marching off into an unknown danger. With a smirk on my lips and a whirlwind around my heart of courage mixed with fear. Dare I say, once the whirlwind has become such a common occurrence that I am able to at least ignore it I move on. Aye, says a medieval voice, move on. So, I do. Ahead of me is unseen at the moment, but I expect a warm reception should I find a place to stay. I do expect to continue ahead eventually, but a nice soft, warm place to stay for a while would be jolly dandy (says a prehistoric little girl) and I must assume, that I would stay for, perhaps, a jolly dandy time. Once there, I will partake in the finer things of life. What they are I have yet to experience. I have experienced, as said, a warm glass of dry red. Casual encounters are fun for a while, but memories fade. Something more consistent is needed. It always has been, I have just never had or perhaps taken advantage of, a substantive event that might bind me to my spot and stop for a while. Am I being paranoid? Does anxiety get the best of me? Oh yes, that is assured. It is just that one of these days the old man that speaks to my limbs ( would Est it be a grunt or a monk?) is going to have to expose his breast, close his eyes and wait for the expected pain, or shockingly true pleasure. Read eyes friend, read eyes she says (with a beautiful voice). I will, it is just that I don’t know what to expect.

I have been busy as of late which is the reason I have been neglecting this. But today, I was inspired.

Memories are like soft scented whispers you hear when you occupy your time in places where fragrant plumage accumulates in areas seldom tread, but frequently visited. I have seen many faces over time and many have become little more than blurs to what seems like a tired and aging mind. My conscious being seems to be aging as I look to my companion in the mirror, but his mind seems so fluid and lucid that I cannot believe all the years that have passed since I looked at him last, I do visit this person regularly, but he just seems so oddly different than his actions. Recollections, as they are commonly known are nothing more than intangible memories that flutter about the subconscious to be welcomed back in the conscious mind when whomever the little gremlin is that mucks up its workings decides to like the memory out. It flashes out on people, media, medium, script, periodical or not. It is all very strange to a being that doesn’t seem to age or tire over the years, though his eyes fade, his hair turns grey and his once brilliant and agile limbs slowly atrophy to shadows that merely manipulate the setting that collects dusts of times past. Now, this brings us to what I saw. It pains me to recollect, but I deem it necessary in the court room duties of my necropoliptic legislature to speak, or rather write of it. I did indeed see a face from the past. Thought time had been keeping her well, it had been keeping her none the less. What beauty faded? I know not, for as I have said mine has faded too. I know this for a fact, but at times I fail to notice. Situations change as well. Well garbed and mature, my eyes raced to my companion to compare and noticed that they were the same as this now modernized memory once was. Granted, I have aged, but at times, I just can’t see it. Tragedy is beautiful I must admit, but now I just play my vain card to get by for a while longer. Digression, once again, back to topic. Setting now, or environment for those who wish for something more specific. Picture yourself in a ball room. The champagne flows and the effervescence tickles the throat as it slowly lulls you into a soft and pleasant mood. A small piece of orchestra hums a gay song and conversations abound. Should old acquaintances be forgot? It was just seemed to complicate, or rather exacerbate the beauty I beheld, though different. I attempted to put my 20 year old blurred memory on the face and my inner feelings told me it fit, but my cold eyes said that it did not. I have always been one to not believe everything I see but in this case I will go with my gut. Or rather, with my inner feelings which have grown like a century of ivy upon a brick wall of sorts. I can clarify no further pertaining to what I saw, or what I was and have become, but it was a nice visit anyway. My heart fluttered, my face flushed with a soft warmth, and dare I say I felt (whatever it was) for the first time in 20 years. I stress whatever it was because I am unfamiliar with what it was it is just something I held on to for unknown reasons never expecting it to awake again until today. It was brilliant. But fleeting I am afraid. Until next time you might inquire? I am not sure, but I do know should it, I will be prepared for the sight, but willingly forget the sensation. Am I cold, well, if it happens again, I will have forgotten, but if ever so briefly. I leave this last sentence as a mystery if it is not understood, for I understand and I hope that she does as well. Ah, fantasy, chance, coincidence, delusion such can be just a taste of the plethora of virtues that can come with an event such as I have experienced today.

Random thinking based on my ignorance. Please enjoy. :)

Time is circular. That must be said in order to continue. It just loops and loops in unison with an elastic universe to periods and lengths that we cannot comprehend. Time ages, but the universe is born and reborn over and over. So, I raised my hand for the assignment and tucked my ribbons beneath my helm recently, or perhaps, quite some time ago. Is time doomed or preconditioned to repeat itself? I don’t really know but if that statement is indeed true, than the same decision was made at the same time and in the same place over and over again to an extent than no sentient being wearing a wrist watch has any capacity to understand. The universe in its expanding and contracting, one might think that chance and coincidence play 99.9% of the intelligent and or merely living substances in the universe. But what if the universe is like a record? Flat, black and filled with grooves and ridges that play out the sad old tired music time after time after time. Trapped in repetition with little leeway for change? Is anyone astute enough to fix a mistake at the same time and place on the universal record when they have no cognizance of having made the mistake in the first place? Can I indeed relive my youth when according to my wrist watch I will have to wait a seemingly infinite turning of the hour hand before my chance arrives? The time will come. All must end. But what is an end but a new beginning. What is our consciousness? Are fools doomed to be fools forever and the intelligent the same? It would seem as if I had a lot of questions this day but I in all honesty do not. Will mankind ever have the ability to move the needle or fix a groove in the record to better suit themselves or mankind as a whole? Is this even possible? I do believe that time is infinite and can exist in the absence of matter. I have no proof but in a lack of consciousness that some might equate to death or sleep or even head trauma, time marches on. Are we as a species so high and mighty that our consciousness is all that is needed to keep time running? Are we so arrogant that in a universe that is so vast we couldn’t traverse it before it ended, that time would stop without said universe we exist in? Time, I believe, exists in and out of our universe. It is elastic like the universe and brushes us and everything like a breeze would when one is out of doors here on our little oasis. Its caress slowly ages our being to death. As it does with everything else it comes into contact with in the universe. But it is ubiquitous, isn’t it. Like an exhaled drag off a cigarette or a perfume of some fair maiden of times of yore. Just floating on, in, and around us and all about us. Clocks were invented to track it, not master it. As I sit typing this, in a state of chemically imbalanced, yet medicated, euphoria, I have been slowly losing minutes of my life. The years will pass as I casually waste time and away, until I die. But time will not stop. I never claimed to be a deity of any sort, but needed to give myself as an example that I am not the center of the universe. I suppose this example is unnecessary but I need my thoughts to continue in this flux I have begun to enjoy. Ha ha. I do digress at the moment so I will leave this final thought here such that I may continue my sparse journal temporarily but continue with another confused topic. So here it is. Is our universe a flat record or rather a round mass of grooves, perhaps like a ball spun out of a multitude of rubber bands. Also, what should happen if our record should scratch or break? What if one of the rubber bands should snap? Is the universe hard or soft? Finally, does my upstairs neighbor have a brain? Ha ha. Sorry. Finally, do the contents of our universe get recycled at the scratch, break or snap, or are they consumed and expelled outward? I thought I heard once that objects in the universe implode and such but this journal is for gibberish. Therefore strict adherence to the laws of physics are not necessary. Carry on. Age well. And keep on living in the past.

Remember, not proof read. (Just spell checked) ha ha.

Shall I say that deep in the woods or places seldom traveled, I tend to pass my time, when applicable taking in the sights, sounds and any form of delusion and such that might enter my imbalanced mind at any given moment. Lights, sounds, blurry bodies it doesn’t really matter to much the circumstance, I can see them out of the corner of my eye and on full exposure to my pupils, if but ever so briefly. Medical cocktails I am prescribed, the walking pharmacy that I am, seem to affect them little such that I have become more accustomed to believe I actually am seeing something that may be of substance that a visual hallucination that I am told they are. Auditory hallucinations, they exist to. The substance of which I can only say I have been made aware of on a daily basis but I am not enlightened by any of the medical professionals I see such that it is put to rest as nothing more than delusion and not really some form of apparition or ‘things that go bump in the night’. The hour of day seems to make no difference, nor does the setting or place where I might see or hear something. I am sure proof would be required, and I do have some, which I will share at this moment. A surly young man exited his car at a familiar home and as he was putting mail in the mail box for the mail carrier to collect he scowled at a grown woman with two blonde children admiring some floral plants that were at the front of the house. The property was not their own, the garb seemed somewhat out of place considering what I had seen others wear on my trip over there and the woman gave me a look of shock as I gazed into her eyes. This evoked a question: Did my dirty look upset her or rather was she surprised that I could see her? I didn’t apply for an answer, I just watched them stand motionless out of the corner of my eye and returned to my car and drove up the long driveway to the house. They never moved in that time and upon looking back I could no longer note their location. Later, perhaps a week or so afterwards, I was outside smoking a cigarette in the dark save for a lantern that glowed on the side of the house. I heard children, perhaps two, giggling in a darkened woods. The house resides on conservation land and the woods are obvious and everywhere. A woman’s voice reprimanded them with a stern ‘no’, then, there was nothing but silence. I lit another cigarette and listened. Nothing. I must say I was slightly unnerved and returned inside the house but my curiosity was peaked. Another time, I was in the kitchen of that same house and I noted a blurry form of a man dressed in mid nineteenth century clothing, standing there doing nothing in particular. The sighting was brief, but I did see him. There is a cemetery in the woods behind this house in question were that apparition may have come from, in my guestimation. Zattu was his name( died circa 1840s) and I would always joke when visiting that we should go and pay his little family plot a visit for it is in a sad state of repair and I am sure is visited seldom. One of these days I plan to photograph it, but at the moment the trails leading to this burial plot are in need of cleaning. Downed limbs and such make traversing them quite impossible. Could these sightings be fictitious? I am heavily medicated and still see, hear and notice much as I have for a good portion of my life. These dreams date back to my earliest memories within my childhood. Before I conclude, I hear voices of quite a variety on a daily basis. Call it mental illness if you will, but I have heard them in childhood and still hear them such that I would think there might be more ghoul than gruel to what I see and hear. Location doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. I have had such experiences in cemeteries as well as in my bedroom where I currently write this. Whatever the reason, I am intrigued and wish to experience more. It is a shame my illness causes such social anxiety and paranoia, otherwise I might get out more and note things in other localities instead of just my apartment. Voices tend to move about, I have seen shadows where none belong moving, and they are almost able to have a conversation with me. I have and always make the attempt to conversate, and sometimes it works. Other times, I will get a comment and any further attempts will just cause repletion of the first comment made. Which does get annoying after a while. I have had objects moved or misplaced or rearranged in strange patters, but that is rare. Woah, a large white orb just passed to my right. It is indeed strange. You may think this is my poor attempt at fiction writing, rantings of a madman or perhaps even a poorly medicated mental patient. All I can answer with is that until I can trust an opinion that seems accurate or perhaps even stops what I see and hear, than I will concede. But until then, I think I will enjoy my company and see what else can come of my clairvoyance or dare I say, schizophrenia.

Sorry for this depressing snippet. Just my mood today.

I dare say that there are times when a solitary existence is pleasurable, however there are times when a solitary existence is not. Some say a strong constitution will maintain a certain, and I stress certain, degree of sanity. After all, human beings are social creatures by nature. They long to interact and entertain with others of the same making. There are other options to the isolated; animals, plants, imaginary companions, but they never seem to fill that void that is never filled. No matter how hard you try to fill it or imagine that you do, it is always empty. Constitution is not infallible. With its decay, a slow and tedious process, sanity, defined differently by many I am sure, including myself, will go with it. Or rather, does it remain impervious to the inevitable loneliness that comes with isolation to itself begin a slow decay once the constitution has been withered away by the constant barrage and beratement of loneliness? Peppered daily with the cannon of thousands of unfulfilled desires, needs, wants and premonitions. To see the world pass one by at an ever accelerating speed deepens the pit in your heart and the void grows. The worms eat away at the constitution and the sanity that it protects. I must admit, despite what I may have said before, I think both constitution and sanity decay at a fairly similar rate. The worms of lament borrow their way in and out, in various directions and in various rates of appetite. Constitution, I would arguably say, is one’s own defenses against the isolation. And isolation is aided by time. The longer you sit immersed in its pungent perfume of sadness and despair, the faster your defenses fail you. With the defenses go the will to fight, the lessening of your desires and further acceptance that you are to rot away to become a fictitious person sitting in a reality that makes no sense and was not nor will It ever be of your own making. Is this a loss of sanity? I don’t really know. But it sound somewhat similar, would you not agree unknown reader or readers? What will become of the lonely person when sanity too is gone? Sanity defined briefly as your connection to your environment I shall say for argument sake. I assume you will become an empty vessel of ignorance to the outside world. It is not dementia, but rather a cognizant vegetative state of sorts. One will function in the eyes of the absent more or less unobvious, but only with a slight, perhaps unnoticeable disconnect. Emotions entangled in one immense and unsurmountable briar patch. You are stuck right in the middle of it with no way out. Blunted, obtuse, unaware. It would just be you here, there or anywhere with people everywhere, yet alone and unaware of them or it. There is no need to act out erratically like many think the insane person would do. That I will assume is not common to every person. My lack of sanity will be simply floating through life like a specter, joining my voices in the lack of fact nothingness they are and I have become. I guess I have rambled on long enough. Don’t consider me insane just yet. Time marches on and so shall I. But I won’t forget that time in a contest with man will always win. It just depends on how long your constitution and sanity can continue.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Gregoshi

Gibberish or not, there are some interesting nuggets in there. :bow:

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*opens coffin*

*creeps out of coffin*

Gah! Nuggets! Gah!

*grabs nuggets*

>>>GORFFLE<<<

*creeps back into coffin*

*closes coffin*

After wandering the plots for a spell, it was discerned that all was asleep. So they let them lie. Life was full, time seemed endless, but all good things must come to an end.

This used to be some fun. IT'S ALIVE!

Isolation is a seemingly periodic event. The periods of which are just long, involved and cumbersome. Oh, the voices, perceived as unreal or not may pass the time and allow for some degree of company, comfort and even in rare cases, compassion, but the flee the more abundant moods of apathy, melancholy and yes, loneliness. It is still there that dreaded loneliness. Despite all my effort to interact, it remains unchanged. Granted, the learned few and even those that are not will attest to the voices being nothing more than chemical imbalances and figments of an unsettled and under medicated think tank. This doesn’t really help matters. The voices, as any industrial persons should do, can be manipulated into that ever needed companionship by responding to them, listening to their direction and heeding their calls for brave deed or creative epiphany such that the world can be saved. Well, that or just to maintain one’s sanity. They aren’t real are they? I shouldn’t listen to them should I? Their demands aren’t fruitful to follow, are they? Rather basic questions that get the same old drab and tired runaround that I blame an unseen perhaps non-existing desire by the learned few grown to many that want to heal the world, even the dead, of this mental confusion that seems to oppress more and more as time goes on compounded by the hindsight of more and more who were assumed to suffer the same as I and many other of the present day. Were it not for the banter with an experienced man or woman would I be completely devoid of any traversable reality? Would I be in a state of transition between the land of the sane and not so, rather, the insane? Ah, creative folk, they tell me, were poets, painters, musicians, etc. Savants of sorts who changed their time and the time to follow with such visions of creativity. As I take my most current medical cocktail I wonder how muted and alone those visionaries were if they had to pop some pills and listed to the textbook definitions of what is observed to be true. Freud was wrong, wasn’t he? Or rather did he make valid points of the time that are no longer? Not for me to know I guess. The man probably had demons of his own he was self-medicating with a novel new drug, or science. Minus the alcohol or other sorts of narcotics that others might resort to. Alcohol used to help. Marijuana in my youth only compounded my problems. But I have kicked the habit, or rather, habits. Caffeine and occasional physical exertion are far more enjoyable and rewarding. Have I heeded the advice of those I wished to discredit in this soliloquy? Interesting. I used to fancy dancing about the streets drinking port wine and waxing poetic for as long as my mind could manage before I passed out. But that is an old memory, it was just a delusion. Perhaps a topic for another day.

Ah, this has been so therapeutic as late. Sort of a catharsis.

To fancy anything unreal that seems real would be suffering from a delusion. Strange sometimes bizarre realities that draw you in with promise of the desires that were left behind or never fully realized over the years. They year’s wane, the subjects and artifacts move further and further into the past to the point that they are all but gone, no longer tangible, but the mind wants. It wants to entertain them, it wants to realize them, it wants to touch, interact, and be part of them. To the sound amongst us, this would be nothing more than a fallacy. A hop, skip and jump down memory lane where all that can be achieved, ascertained, reclaimed is memory. But when it is a delusion, all your wants, desires, needs, past loves, etc. can once again be called upon with simply a thought and all you ever wanted yet lost is once again valid and achievable. Now the subject matter is vague enough that tangibility seems possible. With a thought, a simple action or gesture (sometimes as bizarre as concocting a spell of the mind or such) or an imaginary phone call dreams come true. There is no loss, failure, mistake or oversight. You can have it all back again if you just think it possible. Ration would dictate that this is leading nowhere but to failure. Ration would dictate you will only be playing a fool on some unseen stage where the lead stands alone and stares off into the darkness believing that he or she is pulling back the veil of time to such a degree that the audience is what this lone orator is beckoning to be. It is understood to be false, delusions, but they intoxicate with emotions that have been lost for such a long time it cannot be thwarted. It cannot be shunned away with an empty and lonely present, devoid of all the bounty to be found in the past. Crazy as it may seem, this become life. This becomes purpose and ambition, creativity and expression, love and its fruition. Ration would stay the delusionary person stagnates in the present and loses all ability to succeed and excel in the world. He or she converses and interacts with memory such that his fugue (two lives in succession in essence) overcomes him or her and this imbuing with fantasy becomes so pleasant and satisfying that it’s permanence and longevity would seem timeless and to the end of the life span, possible. I have yet to meet a medication that can reach my memories like my mind can. I have yet to meet a medication that can alleviate the desire to reconnect. I have yet to meet a medication that wants to look ahead instead of behind for the emotional bounty that seems to glisten the eye and spirt the body to pleasure. The medications dull the moods that associate with delusion--Depression, and a rather hungry want. Also, some hypothetical chains that bind, connecting you to the real world such that you don’t fly off to never-never land of the mind and either lose your way back or choose not to seek it out. Detailed subject matter pertaining to delusion is unimportant. I am sure it varies from individual to individual. But the foundation (I would assume) is commonplace. I don’t want to mock modern medicine as a gaze off momentarily noticing something I hadn’t seen in 22 years. Perhaps this swelling in my chest will pass off and away from my conscious thinking soon. Should I contact said memory. Of course. Been reached but to what avail? I feel better, appeasing those receptors in the brain that once craved nicotine (now something better(?)). Have I really seen this 22 year absentee, no, but in my mind I felt something quite antique that is all but dead to me now (or so I assume), hence, I reach at shadows. Reality does play a role in the delusional mind, don’t get me wrong. It could be as simple as a Google search. That would hurt, but never kill the delusion. Should the memory return (most memories last a lifetime), or should I be provoked again by some undefinable happenstance, there is no doubt in my mind I would reach once more. Is there a future for someone who always looks behind? The past seems to swell. Growing larger and larger each and every year. The future gets smaller and smaller (as dictated by age and presumed life span). Does the delusional man or woman make new memories in the present? Sure. The only problem is, if said memory is not poignant, doesn’t reach the inner parts of the mind it could be forgotten (so long as the symbols remembered in the present evoke emotion in a similar fashion to the past). Love and life, it is a beautiful thing. Now, then and forever.

I am currently on wordpad. If it spell checks I don't know how to do it. Sorry for the mispells and such. No proofreading as well. I hope that at least one enjoys it.

The roving eye. Ah, the lust (albeit quite modest). There have been times when I wish for the world in a certain reception, in a certain traversable welcome. I have seen it, I know it exists. However, these days it does seem to be in quite a limited form. Curvy (or not), pleasant bosom (or not) and a certain desireablity that harkens back memories of my youthful not quites, but for tangible possibles. You see, in the gaze, in the eyes of the desired there is an abundance of things I wish to realize with my hands, my eyes, my timid and certainly undefined leachery. Dost speak the voice? Ah, Yes it does. A nice feminine drawl with a hint of bass that stirs up feelings well within a heart that was broken long ago. It fell from my chest with a poignant rejection and then fell to the stomach where it resides today. Broken, but still beating. Waiting to be put back together with delicate fingers, fragility of senses that is merely perceived by this: the opposite sex. Remedy it I ask. Too quickly perhaps (by my own vice), yet it would seem the request is going heeded. This subject has been called fair, attractive, and desireable to name just a few of those ever so delicious adjectives my mind mulls about in my cranium searching the internal thesaurus for further conjugations to please this object and perhaps please such that I can wear another degree of her desireability to where my eyes and thoughts often go the certain solace I have never known. I have known women, I being the opposite sex, but a certain void always rises with me out of bed. Saddened by this tradgedy, this constant yearning that goes unappeased despite some of my best efforts. I sit, (can it be satisfied?), rise and feel merely a lurid desire to continue. The void saps my efforts, turns away the partner and all sinks into a future lonliness and depression I can anticipate and eventually realize. It would seem at times that this before mentioned mood in predicted and realized form awakens when I am once again alone. Solitude is nice, but it requires two parties to be truly realized. That dual partnership that glows like the permanant candle lit between the two that only extinguishes with death. I look back and see in the perfection in and of hind sight that the intollerable void can indeed be filled! It is a revelation! Damn my putrid moods of loose sex that I conjure. It lingers (oh yes, it does), loose and/or subtle desire but the candle remains cold and dark. Syd would tell me, I am resigned to my fate, my life is not unkind and I don't mind. A well said truth (to some) that no longer (if ever) applied to me. Do I drown in my sorrows? Booze just doesn't taste good to me anymore. Shall I be self destructive and smoke my life away as I lay and wait for the golden haired delight? She is immortal, a deity! I sink deeply into her blue eyes and find myself a child again. Filled with a insecurity, a face I find unappealing and grooming habits that would unsatisfy the booze soaked indigent that paces through the unrelenting tangents that shoot through the skid row of my (seeming) future that I can't see nor expect. Does it even exist? A skid row where I am the only bum? I doubt it, for I can't predict the future (thank God). My meandering youth has straighted, my inhearant lusts have cooled and to light the candle like so many a cigarette would only seem worthwhile with a kind and compassionate heart. I think I have found it, but doubt seems to want something to the contrary. I pay that no mind, but the doubt does exist. Sometimes it frightenes me. Entertaining it is fun (at times), but the guilty emptiness that grows upon the plot of the beloved one when my (shameful display) is concluded does not mend my heart. Isolation and quite solitude (occupied by one) is the only way to stay true to the course. The course I truly believe in despite attempted reality slaps that only congure up more want for the goddess I wish to realize with what little god like qualities I can muster up myself. Tori would say, this is madness, but I don't care. I will wander this path, ever quickening my pace to someday realize what my broken heart wants. I feel it swim in my stomach with pure thoughts of a delightful gem eyed woman. In time (oh yes, in time it will be realized) my heart (thanks to she) will be repaired and put back into it's original place to adorn my chest in a way that would outshine any commendation I might earn in feats of valor or bravery in some drunken fairy tale where I think I possess some value. Frivolous I say, as I gaze into a deep blue that, much to my good fortune, I can still see in a time past, but a time that once lived and continues to do so every time I evoke a gaze. Time past and well spent, but time past none the less. Time is on my side and I am a patient man. It will be realized. Shall it be a brief visit when I am on my death bed? If so, I will welcome it and be completely satisfied with time wasted in wait (not really, but waxing can be fun). This transendent one is the subject of this piece. Her beauty and desireablity (of which I am still somewhat unfamiliar), shall carry me out of the ashes and that, yes that ascention from the ashes will light the candle and I could indeed be happy for the rest of my life with my sapphire eyes. Sorry Neil. Needed to alter the quote. And with this, I conclude. My cigarette will one day be a candle and the future I cannot see will one day be illuminated. The wait,(oh yes, the miserable wait) will be interred thus, and that putrid stench of my lonliness will be no more.

I proof read this time. Yay! It didn't even make sense to me prior to doing so. Oops.

The complexity (or lack thereof) of the mind, brain, thinking etc. some might think are innate instincts or completely involuntary twitches of the subconcious. Others may adhere to the notion of thoughts being in complete control of the thinker. Believe it or not, there may (and I stress may) even be some amongst us who believe that both are practiced every minute of sleeping hours and the hours we spend awake. What becomes of persons when the thinking process becomes something of an involuntary muscle flex? Even when said flexing is becoming involuntary and rather erratic? A frenzy of thinking, contemplation of epiphanyistic realizations? I like to call this the 'lucid mind'. A mass of tangents of thought so numerous such that it would rival any highway system in the most populated cities in any region one might reside or consider. Traffic is not bumper to bumper, for that would lead to (clarity?) mental constipation. Traffic moves at tremendous speed with no accidents and/or breakdowns. Just vivid, constant thought on a variety of topics that aren't always stimulated by the concious or unconcious mind. The thoughts come out of the blue (unforseen and/or unknown sources). The environment (in all it's variety) is the main stimulant of lucid mind as I define it. In it's inception or when it is conceived the vocabluary expands, the tangents pass through the mind like a barbed stinger on some angry insect and contemplation (a certain diagnosis of what one might think irrational to a more passive mood) ensue. Now, perhaps we should dwell on examples to clarify this conveluted description of a lucid mind that I am attempting to convey. A tangent stings my thought, some poision swells a (well informed? Perhaps not...) region of my mind and then the thought(s) develop. What is the thought one might wonder? Give me a minute...(ha ha). Now that our minds have left the gutter (mine anyway) let us use some historical context as an example. My mind is weak in this area, but what little I know should suffice for the sake of this piece of gibberish. A brief recollection of an event long ago (vagueness will suffice and save the ego) comes to mind. Now, within the swelling, thoughts of the reason for said event, persons involved in said event, the lives of the persons involved in said event (complete fabrications perhaps but I am just thinking, who cares?) and the result and resolution of said event. All at once and all entertained in any varience of order. Consider entertaining a certain text read in any book in this fashion. The possibilites of understanding what is read (perhaps completely untrue and unvalidatable) are limitless. The lucid mind ponders in all positions, possibilites, personal connections (via the involved somehow reaching the thinker) and attempts to resolve and understand the already resolved or perhaps unresolved event that is being contemplated. It is sheer mania, but particularly physically pleasant. I may not have given a very good example, but it is all I can muster at the moment. Now, there is one problem that arises from lucid mind. That problem is the possible descent into madness. Madness, insanity and senility are all merely lucid mind that has locked off the thinker from the environment. The thinking process in a prolonged lucid mind finds a way to continue thinking in rapid pace despite the environment being almost completly shut off. A seemingly inatentive person in a rest home who merely stares out the window with wild glassy eyes (pupils fully dialated) is experiencing lucid mind. The mind is completely inundated with a variety of thought and a sort of euphoric physical sensation that causes this seemingly demented person to feel pleasure in what they continue to think. Yes, they can be approached and spoken to briefly, but they will always somewhat quickly and perhaps abruptly return to the lucid mind. I have no proof of this of course. But I have experienced a degree of lucid mind that in the final throws of holding on to my faculties, has caused concern in the on lookers (ah, the medical cocktail). What you make of this piece is up to the reader, but it was fun to write and my mind now swims in a slight imbalance of brain chemicals. Now if you will excuse me, I wish to stare out the window.

I don't feel like changing spelling errors. Sorry.

What can be written about something that seems to entrance with viewing and the compounding of recollection and imagination?
Can beauty be beheld in gaze and thought with perceived reaction via expression of emotion?
What is to be interpreted from a split second of time in a time that has been eclipsed by the present to be consumed by the future?
Can I articulate in a fashion that would be heard and understood from an entity beyond tangibility?
What of youth and age of youth being lost and age being acquired?
Can time move in multiple directions, angles and in multiple combinations?
What is to become of neglected feelings and needs when in proximity is something that speaks otherwise?
Can a reawakening of pasts overlooked or never realized be entertained in a split second present and a future that never seems to arrive?
What can be discerned in a young, coy smile and flashes of something not yet understood by aged expression and flash of the same?
Can that beauty seen truly be that beauty expressed?
What shall happen to days of yore in moments before shall I ever bore should those pigments I ignore?
Can I ever be what she is to me will time decree her returning to me?
What is to become of the young boy captured by time as it wears away the epitaph on his heart?
Can it even be seen by the young girl who bloomed and forever seems to rewrite what seemed so permanent?
What is the reason for my soft and beautiful obsession and the pleasure in practice it evokes?
Can we ever know that delicacy and enlightenment in that time infinite?
What do I think?
Can I say yes?

There are times when thoughts stray from placidities and the myriad of daily dilemma and responsibility. These necessities of daily life (as ancient as they are and the key to life and success) occupy the majority of waking hours. Placidities being merely the pleasantries and other relations of that placidity that we tend to take for granted, overlook or do not enjoy to the fullest such that they are forgotten. Let us touch on some of these.
Placidities, pleasantries (whatever you want to call them) are the brief (or prolonged) interludes that occupy time. Some might say time well spent while others my refer to them as necessities and/or deep desires that gone without for extended periods can induce withdrawal and the (desperate?) need to pacify. Staying on vague notes of this subject, let us introduce ourselves to our others. Yes, we are social creatures by nature. Therefore, most of us opt for company when passing idle time such that it is more enjoyable. Gaiety can be entertained alone, but with another being of your obvious fleshy overtones is much better. This grows far to scientific however. Let us adjust.
Wandering around alone (generally how it begins) I do note others passing by my unplanned routes of life and I wonder their personality, inclinations for what I might share in common and the most obvious observation, physical appearance and opposite of sex. Ah yes (is she safe or should I drop back five meters?), a raven haired beauty with a certain appeal and close resemblance to affections I have seen in oh so scant another places is in my presence! Hindsight brings the coincidence deeper and closer to the flutters in a formerly broken heart. It ascends upwards to the chest and flutters like a humming bird evoking glorious physical pleasure that is such a rarity these days that dropping back five meters when glances were met seems oh so foolhardy and cowardly and amidst the fluttering wings of that delightful little bird enjoying the nectar out of places unknown in my being takes me close to tears (look at how the time goes past).
When the sun of day sets and depression rises in the ever enveloping darkness of the early spring (can't you feel it on the air?). The death throws of old man winter are all but gone, although his presence is still apparent in the cold of evening. Sleep and dreams intertwine as souls rest on perhaps a cloud of endeavors and comfort. It is, was, will be as it has always been (time is relative is it not?). Sleep comes in many forms and dreams are reflections of lives made into the abstract in deep slumber. All eyes look dark in the less of light that evening provides and staring through them to the mind they guide about the world brings about mutual consentuality and shared compassion for one another. With good strong hands, coarse palms (from what?), a smirk and the softness of finger tips this dream is taken in to the mind and entertained as reality. With said hands that raven haired beauty's soft topography and contours are memorized with solely the caress of desire and (dare I say) love. This fabrication of love in it's early stages are a delight that warms the entire body. As the blood flows to all extremities like a torrent of rain on a bone dry earth flooding the mind with profound desire. Soft whispers through pursed lips eventually follow the hands like some pleasant, floating forced march of an army in need of capturing a needed position. Upon reaching the position and finding it unguarded, whispers are seemingly all that is needed to have it for your own. Flushed with success, the day (evening my friend) has been won. A shame such pleasant, gentle and intentionally prolonged 'conflicts' and their means of success couldn't last forever. Perhaps they will (someday) one might think, as my heavy lids hasten me to sleep. In sleep, technique is fine tuned and idealized. Yes, if it isn't perfect (dreams) it wouldn't be repeated.

Have you ever wondered what persists in the mind as it ages? Surely most memories are lost except for a few snap shots of events that for some reason are remembered. This is perhaps due to remembered contextualities of said events. What is retained in the subconcious and how does what it occasionally releases effect the concious mind and it's recollection of the released memories? Dreams, I was told, are merely hallucinations much akin to what a schizophrenic entertains while awake. The validity of this, or the lack there of I cannot explain. But it is indeed delicious food for thought. What becomes of the years that pass? Increasingly growing black and distant in the innate human ability to forget, save for a few poigniant memories that remain due to a thick sense of emotions evoked. Photographs can occasionally help us to remember, but that does not erase the pain of happier times that have entered the realm of the past decades. Some may celebrate the past, but not everyone. Dead decades, decades where few of the occupants remain in the present, can be sad or celebrated as well. Visual epitaphs if you will. Moving films and audio can only do so much to breed tangibility, but these too are not adequete enough to satisfy our lusts for relations to the occupants of these brief, split seconds of time, personal or not. Before this becomes too macabre, the duel of life and death where only one can triumph, let us return to modern man (and woman). I grow dizzy.

Our conveluted topic now is the entertainment of time passage and memory. I have heard, in passing quotes of the potentially illinformed (let us entertain all theroy) that time is merely a human creation to measure a distance only traveresed by a change of scenery and/or the slow decay of the human form. If time is something other than this, a more thick and effective mass of something that weilds some sort of power over the heads of occupants of this, that or whatever whom feel it exists. Perhaps the illinformed just don't want to believe this. They may fear this invisible hand or hands that dictate their existance. This may be more than likely as well, and it does comfort some, but remains unproven. Does it need to be? Ah, the sweet bliss of antiquity.

Situational time now. Some would speak that time doesn't exist in a total and complete lack of conciousness. To counter this, it is simply stated that there is just no way to measure it because there is no one available to check his or her time piece were to they occupy this void. Let us then assume that a time piece exists alone in the void with the clock wound to infinity. Does a tree that falls in the woods when there is no one there to hear it make a noise? There are folks who would say yes. Intelligent life is as unique as the features on all living creatures. I slowly am sinking into the quicksand of intelligence debates, involving all forms of life, such that I will pull my way out and head in a new direction.

I suddenly remembered that some ways back I had another tangent to take this piece. Memories exist within a kept record of time. The desire to do so would seem timeless, heh heh, but everything that bombards the mind in the flux and frenzy of the present for some reason does not allow for every single moment to be remembered. Imagine how slowly time would pass if this were so? We all know how quickly time passes, especially when looking back at the few things we remember. If were we to remember everything could we potentially become immortal? Or are we content to look into the mirror every morning never truly noting anything that states we've aged? I still look like a meek little boy in the mirror these days, but gazing at a photo from 35 years prior, in appearance anyway, I look starkly different. My injured masculinity aside, this observation might be commonplace amongst a good sized mass of humanity or perhaps even in a majority. Time grows short however. Any idea I had of maintaining a comprehensible plot was lost long ago, so let us conclude this entry. It's the convelution revolution!