Journal of Gibberish II

[Krasturak]

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

*opens coffin*

*creeps out of coffin*

Gah! Nuggets! Gah!

*grabs nuggets*

>>>GORFFLE<<<

*creeps back into coffin*

*closes coffin*

[A Nerd]

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.

[A Nerd]

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.

[A Nerd]

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.

[A Nerd]

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.

[A Nerd]

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.

[A Nerd]

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?