Silence In The Crowd

I do this for many reasons. I am sat in a flat for many reasons. I am in this country and not another for many reasons. I write, I write in a blog, I write with a pen in a cafe, I write on a typewriter, each of these for many reasons.
I am a vegetarian. I am an avid reader of fiction and non-fiction and all the shades in between. I steer clear of cakes, biscuits, fizzy drinks without a problem. I am unhappy. I hope the future offers something else. I feel like an outsider in the company of most people. A friendly stranger is better than a mediocre friend. I prefer to have a few friends if they are willing to try than a mountain of passive acquantances. I fear that I am treading all too familiar ground. I state the obvious. I state the abstract in the hopes that you will play along. I am starved.
Verbal jousting. Verbal foreplay. Written masturbation. They are all words, they can all be the same, but it's the context that defines them. There is nothing better than a connection, through body or mind, the interlocking is filling. Blogging is a lonely game of touching yourself for others to see. Exposing something of you in the hopes that it piques an interest for another in some peculiar way.

And all of this, what does it mean?
It's not hard to figure out.
I'll let you choose.

Hitting Your Hands On The Keyboard With Your Mouth

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.

Nights For Naught

If there is a heaviness to mornings, then the night has a sense of lightness.
As everything is, the perceptions we place change everything. It can be argued that the lightness is not a relaxing one but an empty one. It's the lightness of a lack of something. Of life being dragged onwards even when it should have been clocking in for the day. It has outlasted its prime. The helium has picked everything up except your own consciousness and now you are left to study it, to ask questions, to answer unenthusiastically.
Oh mysterious human being, just grow up. Change the tone of who you are. Or change who you are. Or stop thinking that anything you write accurately represents you.
If it is written is it true? Asked the sexual Einstein. Or the irresistable Buddha.
I'm really just looking at you. I don't understsand you. I never will, of course, but I can't help but try.
Who are you? Well, that's not for me to say. It's for you to know, but not to be told. It is the ambiguous you, the specific you, the you that is reading each word and looking for yourself in them. I cannot promise that. And if I could, looking back, I would not want you to be the cause of a lot of it.
I'm writing here because I'm not writing fiction. Unless this is fiction. Everything is a story, a creation. I'm not writing fiction because I'm not. Who needs to create reasons when there is the simple fact of the non-event? Not this writer. Nossiree bob.

Now, my apologies for the mess.
It will be cleaned up.
Go ahead and ignore the spill.
Hollow bells are ringing.
To the music of the mind, I depart.

Mourning Mornings

There is a heaviness to the transition into reality. Every morning feels not like pushing a rock off one's body, but like being forcefully dragged out from under one by your foot. The difference is in motivation. And then you are left with the will to do nothing, to find that escape once more. With the knowledge that you should not enter slumber once more, you lay there holding onto the covers for a semblance of security. For now, the world does not exist absolutely.
Schroedinger's cat, if it was aware of its own existence, would understand. Yet this understanding is not wholly complete.
If I may be so arrogant as to change the perspective to my own (the arrogance of third person only goes so far), I struggle to come to an acceptance of reality with the comfort of the dreamscape that I want to be smothered in. There is a balance of the two that hiding between the covers we are forced to be aware of. Both exist in one form or other, we throw ourselves completely into both, we have the ability to thrive in both. The problem stems in choice, in absolutism, in the terror of decision-making.
From undercover we must make an effort to exist. In limbo, as the bed is a symbol of, we must leave one state behind. This works both ways. Getting into bed is the travel into our fantastical surrealities. Getting out is the dragging into of the potential possiblities of past and future into the present. Real life in the present is only the balance between what happened and what may happen.
It is easier, I find, to sleep than to wake. What I mean to say is that it is more pleasurable to fall into a slumber than to step into the world.
This could be a simple case of my problematic feelings of the 'now', or it could be that sleep always offers something that reality cannot - a lightness of touch.
Oh what are you trying to say?
The author wants to acknowledge that he thinks. He wants to admit to having wakelessness, that sleep pulls him in and morning pummels him with the truth of himself. He wants to explore the heaviness of life and the lightness of sleep (through absoluteness of wake and the seeming quantum mechanics of dreamstate). He also wants to show that he doesn't know everything about all the terms and words he uses, he is grasping for straws, hoping to find one with the word 'sense' written down it, hoping to read it the right way and not throw it out because it says esnes.
He wants to complain about a lot of things but cannot truly allow himself to fall into that way, fearing the judge of ungratefulness will whack him with a stick or something, as he knows that everything is teaching everyone. Every moment is one of learning. Every pain, every smile, every moment in a while, it becomes something. Something to have had or to have not.
And where does this leave us? It leaves us talking, hopefully. Because the one thing that dreams will never win on is the other. You have yourself, sure, but your dream will never truly bring the stability of other people. They will dip in and out but never in the same way as reality can provide.
Oh there were too many things I wanted to fit into this.
But this is what came out, and I shall leave it at that.

Life In Motion

I cannot pretend to be immune to the sufferings of time's apathy. It's an endless fascination and frustration. I know it passes, and I know there is nothing I can do about that, yet I cannot help but want to have a modicum of control over it. I want to be a time traveller, not just a passenger of time.
We look back at the inevitability of events. They are only determined because we cannot change them. The past is always inevitable because we remember them ending in a specific way. I embarrass myself, or I say the wrong thing, create the wrong tone, all in an often flowing way - as if it was meant to be - and I cannot go back on any of it. We are a victim of our memories. And a victim of the want to break free from it, not by transcending this issue but by trying to make changes. Not even by trying, just by wanting to try.
And there lies the biggest problem that can befall man. The dream of living a life. Or at least, as I see it, the dream of dreaming about the life. A fear of reality so great that we find ourselves more comfortable in life's non-events than in the true nakedness of existence. There is comfort in emptiness that feels very much like settling. But within that emptiness it is easy to dream of what life would be like if we embraced chaos. I cannot tell you whether it's a real want or whether it's just an enjoyed want for wanting's sake.
There are so many things you might want, yet when the offer is placed in front of you, you hesitate. Why? Maybe it was just a shock that it came. Or, just maybe, you didn't want it in the first place. Can it be that we just like to aspire and hope?
I do not want to be unhappy - that's a natural aim - but it is in the deepest of pits that we realise some of our most ingrained truths. It is within the blackness of the cave that we realise that there may also be a light out there worth hoping for.

I suppose this is another way to say hello. There has been a silence and I am feeling sadly motivated to talk once more to the screen, to the abyss that acts as a substitute for the fulfilling existence I may one day manage.