john | Oct. 6, 2020, 12:43 a.m.
Although I guess, they aren't too random. They defiantly have a origin, other than my brain. I've been trying to think of what to write for a bit, and the more I think, the harder it becomes to actually write. Not because the actual task of writing something is difficult, but because I don't have anything to say.
There is a part of me that just feels like writing though. At times I think maybe I should write a post explaining how to do something, and I tried that once, I have no idea if anyone reads it. Doesn't matter to me either way. But at least that day I felt like I actually did something.
Not that there is any real goal in doing something. I have no desire to have a large corporation, which I guess is what you need in some aspects to do some things, like launch rockets into space, or make electric cars. I'd rather let those people do that and then just ride in their space ships or cars.
As life has started to change before my eyes and I've started to see some of the cool things people are starting to invent, it leads me to wonder if I should try and invent something. That might be cool. Not sure what I would invent though, maybe some internet of things thing. Something as simple as a curtain. Just wonder if that would excite me. Then of course I could go down the thought process of wondering why I would even go through the effort to invent something.
Maybe I could invent some jokes, that would be fun, although not funny. I once read a book on the science of jokes, that was not a funny book. Granted I don't know why I thought something as ridiculous as a book talking about the science of jokes would be funny, suppose I'm an optimist.
At least I now know what it's like to dissect a joke under a microscope. It doesn't look as cool.
See even as I write this, I start feeling the lack of things to say, I mean I know everything I'm writing here has no purpose or meaning, but just a train of thoughts going "choo choo".
They don't seem to stop though, I just keep wanting to write. I guess there is a part of me that wants to talk to some one. I just don't know who. Maybe it's just this robot blog that listens to me write.
The song in the background has changed of course, "I tried so hard, and got so far. In the end it doesn't even matter. I had to fall to lose it all, in the end it doesn't even matter"
Although this one doesn't overwhelm me like the last one. It came and went. And now I surf the music trying to find something that will stoke me. I just keep writing in hopes that the feeling will go away. I just still don't know what this feeling is. Spent some time with some old friends only to realize that life has passed, that time has continued to play it's course, making something out of nothing.
What is, is.
Just thoughts keep coming, and I keep writing them. Knowing that even I wont be satisfied with this, knowing full well that this is a waste of time, in all sense, the writing of this, the reading of this, and even the publishing of this. It's a waste, yet I still do it, why?
Is it therapeutic, is it a log of my thoughts through time, is it just a feeling that I feel now and one day I wont again. Probably.
Like love I guess, that magical thing that all humans one day hope to have or feel. And I don't mean that kind of love that you get when you talk about a fruit you like to eat, or a joy that comes from accomplishing something. No, I talk of love, that dumb drug that takes over your thoughts, the one that makes you wonder what it's all about.
It seems some people are satisfied with the simple things in life, and maybe I am, but given my life and the dumb things I've done I would venture to say that the simple things don't do it for me. Not that there is anything bad, I just don't know what the super small things are, those are the ones that do it for me. The ones that are so small not even I notice them.
There was a time I was with a girl, and I felt the fabric of her reality collapse. Or was it mine?
Time slowed down, to a crawl. As it was inching along, I was overwhelmed by her presence. Her words, he actions, her feelings. Like all great things, to get to feel that, I could only archive it by doing the one thing my brain had to do, which was end it. Funny that I didn't know that till after it ended though.
Granted it was probably over far before it ever began. Not that I ever start or finish anything, at least in the love realm. I had a friend get into a argument with me telling me I would be happier if I listened to him. Yet I was not sad. Could I have been more happy, I don't think so.
That outraged me.
It was that simple, the fun feeling of hanging out with an old friend, who you know is sort of just as fucked as you are. He was projecting what he wanted to me, yet here I was trying to come to terms with what he was saying. Maybe he was right. but I doubt it.
Getting old sucks in so many ways, and it's awesome in so many others. I spent my youth reading books, chasing dreams of other men who I admired. I heard somewhere that the easiest way to get into the meditative state is by listening.
Just close your eyes, and allow yourself to hear all the sounds that are going on around you, just listen to the general hum and buzz of the world as if you where listening to music.
I like the word cacophony, it just wants to materialize it's self into a wonderful sentence. Generally with a cacophony of life. That doesn't even make sense, but I just don't care. There is no exam to tell me what is right and what is wrong. There is only life to tell me that I'm living.
I tried to make life a plaything once. It went well for a while, and then reality stepped in. I miss you. That's it, that's what It was, just that. I miss you.
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