I cannot be exactly sure where in my head I was when I wrote the following piece, but it was yet another late-night writing exercise. It probably was created somewhere in the deeper thoughts of what I am currently thinking about, but still the following is a quick piece I wrote. And after writing it, and maybe because I was just a bit bored, I decided to upload it to my blog. Who knows, maybe someone will read it and think it is brilliant, though abstract and random as it is. So here it is, another abstract I wrote.
The Void of the Same Old Dream
Ever get that feeling like you are just wasting away your time, like your current presence on this planet is about as meaningful as a rock. You get this idea that you are matter, floating through the infinite space and consuming and changing other matter that you bump into, but in the end nothing has really changed. Instead, you have become just a different set of matter that has moved on. In this scenario, time becomes nothing, a separate thought completely since there is no reason to measure it lest you want to know what part of the day you are in. And even that stop mattering, because you stay awake late and night and ponder the many mysteries that man has pondered since the beginning of time.
The Void of the Same Old Dream
Ever get that feeling like you are just wasting away your time, like your current presence on this planet is about as meaningful as a rock. You get this idea that you are matter, floating through the infinite space and consuming and changing other matter that you bump into, but in the end nothing has really changed. Instead, you have become just a different set of matter that has moved on. In this scenario, time becomes nothing, a separate thought completely since there is no reason to measure it lest you want to know what part of the day you are in. And even that stop mattering, because you stay awake late and night and ponder the many mysteries that man has pondered since the beginning of time.
It is in this state that I am now moving into the third month of my blog's existence and the third month of my unemployment reign. And for what I've got to offer, which is not a whole lot to the world right now since they do not see my piece of mind as more than entertaining (which I should maybe take as a compliment), is just more space for words to fill the void. More space taken up by the thoughts and impressions that I can leave, an implant.
It is that same implant on your bed, the one where you clutch at night as if there is someone there to fill the space that air occupies. It is a strange feeling, to be that amount of nothingness that floats around and exaggerates everything because there is nothing that cannot be exaggerated. And the sense of senselessness becomes the property of the proposition, a dedication to the delegation and a prison of prions. And yet it is still void.
Void. I stare at the paper as blank as the day that it was purchased and I see nothing but the white. There are blue lines running across it, it is notebook paper filled into the spiral notebook I bought from the store. Still, there is nothing on it and it just fills in the space between to slightly thicker cover and the cardboard back. So why does it matter as such, that the paper be empty of a scratch of ink or a dash of the pencil. because of the possibilities that lie beneath every thought that crosses over the page. To press the pen and to give a meaning fills the book, gives it purpose in translating though from one person to the next and from one minute to another. Yet before any of that happens there is an infinity in the void. Because in having an absence of absolution there is actually an infinite amount of possibilities. And that is why I stare at the paper and watch as my mind bubbles up the images off the pages and into my head. Because there is no limit to the thoughts that can fill it until the pen touches.
But it does not matter, because I am not looking at the paper. Instead, I am staring at the void of space next to me in my bed, the thing that could be filled with a person, could be permitted to be something more than just empty space. It is nothing, there is no one there, but it means more than that. Until there is someone lying next to me, filling the void and warming the grasp it is an infinite amount of possibilities. Possibilities and possessions they mean the exact opposite, but only when talking about the bit of air.
And since there is no time, no space, nothing else to stare at because you are matter floating through space, it turns out that there never was a bed there to begin with. Instead, it was just your imagination as you float on to become something more than just the rock. You float on to become more than that, to be a thing that someone else wants to hear about the thoughts and impressions.
And since there is no time, no space, nothing else to stare at because you are matter floating through space, it turns out that there never was a bed there to begin with. Instead, it was just your imagination as you float on to become something more than just the rock. You float on to become more than that, to be a thing that someone else wants to hear about the thoughts and impressions.
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