Tag: nonsense

I need to get a bit more positive. A renewed feeling in my bones, in my breath, in my step. Something that springs me back instead of weighing me down. No significant revelations as of late. Procrastination seems to be at an all time high. Self esteem, conversely so. I’m battling between these oscillating feelings of meaning, worth, and value. I can’t seem to find anything that sticks.

I thought for sure I had it figured out, that I could will myself hard enough to believe anything that served my ends. Actually, I think I know what happened. I have slowly grown comfortable, too comfortable, with the demands, pressures, purposes that I set for myself. Instead of embracing them with an exuberant determination, I have bastardized them, leaving them to atrophy and wither and rot until I look at them as if never knew them. Then I wake up and find myself in a place totally foreign to me and ask myself “what is this life?”, “have I chosen this life?”, “is this life worth living?”. Perhaps. I’m not sure.

Back to the positivity. I noticed that my mental attitude has been crummy lately. I need a sense of wonder and awe that inspires an optimistic foresight that breeds hope for better times. This is the positivity I am lacking. My mind is entirely too neurotic. Too paranoid. Too sheltered by sensitive judication to protect itself from who knows what.

It’s too damn cold.

People only want to hear themselves.

When evidence for doubt is presented to people, they almost always entrench themselves deeper in their beliefs rather than pulling themselves into question. Funny huh? You think that evidence would open people’s minds but the fact is no, people are not interested in hearing anyones conclusions but their own, and they will fight for those conclusions until they convince themselves, and anyone that will listen, that their beliefs are justifiably real.

A passive populous needs a proactive leader. A proactive populous needs a passive leader.

Human contact facilitates trust and a greater level of understanding and agreement.

Laundry has become a chore. My dryer is located in the basement garage. This requires a roundabout walk outside and into the basement each time I need to load the washer, transfer clothes to the dryer, and retrieve clothes for folding. bah. It’s cold now, so no fun.

I want to draw more. Do art. Get more creative.

I suffer from activation failure. I fail to activate on time, and fail to deactivate too late.

Uncertainty.

Serpentine coils. Fuzzy incandescent rays. Never go back. Always forward. Collections of accessories; troves of personals; gatherings of signs; identity of me, me, me.

Plastic puke.

Sometimes I like being skeptical. Mad. Angry. Resentful. Being disposed in these states feels more anchored than not being disposed. I suppose I should practice wearing more positive states. Anyway. Being skeptical. I like objectifying the world around me, fellow subjects, their ideas and opinions. It throws uncertainty in the face of their flimsy, unchecked conclusions. Eh. I’m not the one who needs to pass that around. I’m about as uncertain as they get. And even thats debatable. There are certainties, I just struggle at arriving at what they are. Are they universals? Particulars? Pah. Whatever.

I need to finish this essay. Instead I regurgitate meaningless impressions onto these keys, solemn fingers stroking away, like mindless doldrums.

If someone asked me what my biggest weakness was, I would answer with ‘inconsistency’. I struggle with applied consistency, routine repeatability. Heterolaterally, inconsistency can be said true as my biggest strength. I am forever anew.

I awake every day with little or no clue of the person I was yesterday. I never cease to surprise myself with new revelations I later find to be old discoveries of a prior me. I. Me. Myself. Subjective. Objective. Possessive. Funny how I can refer and perform utterances as if I contain multiple personalities. I am fungible.

I wish I had something to say. I have nothing. I hope I can look back on this and glean some meaning from it all. Or do I? I suppose that’s how I sell myself on writing, but the truth is it’s a therapy mechanism for exhausting an aimless overactive mind.

I really need to get to bed. Colors. Hues. Shades. The rictus of the horizon swallows the setting sun. My mind is an eye. Colorblind. Obscured by the scudding haze of doubt.

What does it all mean? Labor. Until you close your eyes, and sleep, soundly, forever, into the abyss of eternity.

I need to get a bit more positive. A renewed feeling in my bones, in my breath, in my step. Something that springs me back instead of weighing me down. No significant revelations as of late. Procrastination seems to be at an all time high. Self esteem, conversely so. I’m battling between these oscillating feelings of meaning, worth, and value. I can’t seem to find anything that sticks.

I thought for sure I had it figured out, that I could will myself hard enough to believe anything that served my ends. Actually, I think I know what happened. I have slowly grown comfortable, too comfortable, with the demands, pressures, purposes that I set for myself. Instead of embracing them with an exuberant determination, I have bastardized them, leaving them to atrophy and wither and rot until I look at them as if never knew them. Then I wake up and find myself in a place totally foreign to me and ask myself “what is this life?”, “have I chosen this life?”, “is this life worth living?”. Perhaps. I’m not sure.

Back to the positivity. I noticed that my mental attitude has been crummy lately. I need a sense of wonder and awe that inspires an optimistic foresight that breeds hope for better times. This is the positivity I am lacking. My mind is entirely too neurotic. Too paranoid. Too sheltered by sensitive judication to protect itself from who knows what.

It’s too damn cold.

People only want to hear themselves.

When evidence for doubt is presented to people, they almost always entrench themselves deeper in their beliefs rather than pulling themselves into question. Funny huh? You think that evidence would open people’s minds but the fact is no, people are not interested in hearing anyones conclusions but their own, and they will fight for those conclusions until they convince themselves, and anyone that will listen, that their beliefs are justifiably real.

A passive populous needs a proactive leader. A proactive populous needs a passive leader.

Human contact facilitates trust and a greater level of understanding and agreement.

Laundry has become a chore. My dryer is located in the basement garage. This requires a roundabout walk outside and into the basement each time I need to load the washer, transfer clothes to the dryer, and retrieve clothes for folding. bah. It’s cold now, so no fun.

I want to draw more. Do art. Get more creative.

I suffer from activation failure. I fail to activate on time, and fail to deactivate too late.

Uncertainty.

Serpentine coils. Fuzzy incandescent rays. Never go back. Always forward. Collections of accessories; troves of personals; gatherings of signs; identity of me, me, me.

Plastic puke.

Sometimes I like being skeptical. Mad. Angry. Resentful. Being disposed in these states feels more anchored than not being disposed. I suppose I should practice wearing more positive states. Anyway. Being skeptical. I like objectifying the world around me, fellow subjects, their ideas and opinions. It throws uncertainty in the face of their flimsy, unchecked conclusions. Eh. I’m not the one who needs to pass that around. I’m about as uncertain as they get. And even thats debatable. There are certainties, I just struggle at arriving at what they are. Are they universals? Particulars? Pah. Whatever.

I need to finish this essay. Instead I regurgitate meaningless impressions onto these keys, solemn fingers stroking away, like mindless doldrums.

If someone asked me what my biggest weakness was, I would answer with ‘inconsistency’. I struggle with applied consistency, routine repeatability. Heterolaterally, inconsistency can be said true as my biggest strength. I am forever anew.

I awake every day with little or no clue of the person I was yesterday. I never cease to surprise myself with new revelations I later find to be old discoveries of a prior me. I. Me. Myself. Subjective. Objective. Possessive. Funny how I can refer and perform utterances as if I contain multiple personalities. I am fungible.

I wish I had something to say. I have nothing. I hope I can look back on this and glean some meaning from it all. Or do I? I suppose that’s how I sell myself on writing, but the truth is it’s a therapy mechanism for exhausting an aimless overactive mind.

I really need to get to bed. Colors. Hues. Shades. The rictus of the horizon swallows the setting sun. My mind is an eye. Colorblind. Obscured by the scudding haze of doubt.

What does it all mean? Labor. Until you close your eyes, and sleep, soundly, forever, into the abyss of eternity.