Words do not exist until they are voiced.
Here is the graveyard of the uninitiated.
You'll be searching a long time for any substance. And there is no promise of payment. Makes the search seem potentially useless. I wonder, sometimes, whether I am even looking with my eyes open.
Enough of that. We could talk of a thousand things. But who are you, screen, silent receiver, judge, ghost, with your shine and your submissive quality. You teach me that I am in control, I can push the buttons and move you in so many ways. I am supposed to feel empowered, perhaps, that I can do so much or some sort of inspirational motivation should surge through me. All I feel is an emptiness. Since when was communication, connection, life, even, to be experienced through a device that acted as a technological bridge, a translator of sorts. At what point do we forget there is a person on the other end and talk directly to the device?
I am under the impression I have written a more eloquent little piece of aimlessness in the last period of productivity.
Blogs are such wastegrounds sometimes. I could write anything and put it up. I could attempt true mundanity, or things too many levels below that.
We are shaped by our environments. Our states of mind are so liquid that I know when I take the music from my ears I will feel different than I did before putting them in.
If you are reading this, I either applaud your perseverence or I apologise profusely.
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