The Horse-Eyed Moron Strikes Again

Yeah, ignore the title. I have know clue what the hell it means. Lets just get down to business (to defeat the Huns, heheheh). I feel quite unreal. I want to get engaged in the activities set before me, and I know a way of doing it, but it's so hard. Wow, that was winny. I really need to cut the bullshit and just do the work. I really really really really do.

I mean, the only reason I made this blog was to have a way to vent my frustration but I'm not frustrated in the way that one usually pictures a frustrated person. I'm not angry and agitated through any immediately visual medium such as twichyness or shakiness, no. I'm a more subtle version of frustrated; I carry with me a mellow frustration. That's so weird that writing does that sometimes isn't it. Sorry, I know this is off topic, but when I'm frustrated I can't seem to express myself in any creative way. Isn't that strange? I mean, the best metaphor I can come up with is that I feel like a dog, and, what a surprise, that's not the least bit how I feel. It's like a clipart metaphor that lingers in my brain. All of the real creative stuff seems to have been burried somewhere deeply and is very hard to find. I hope I can find it soon, or dogs and brains is all you'll hear of me.

But you don't care, do you? What could the self-expression of my problems in the form of metaphorical text possibly mean to a reader like you, who I doubt feels the exact same way as me, but may feel inclined in the same general emotional depression depending on which of you I'm referring to. Yeah, there goes the conscious thought that everyone loves so much. There goes the fly that flew for a few days and then died for a few million years while thousands of others rose, or should I say, flew up to take its place.

Hey, you know what? Flew up sounds sort of like threw up, and that's what flies do very often. Am I right? Of course I have a way to express myself contrary to the popular opinion in my brain, but how do I then use that way to really construct something of mental meaning to you? There is no way, if I am right in assuming that you don't have a single thought that attacks at you when you sleep at night, to eat a pie with pleasing sounds filling your eye.

An eye for an eye, or a tooth for a tooth? Who could possibly talk like that nowadays, the south, the north, the east, the west? No, there must be a new philosophy rising from the ground, a new way of creating something by mixing little electronic signals in the tunnels of the brain. Yes, creativity is fun, and yes, it is a blast, and yes, I want to continue to be creative, so I will, for the rest of my long long life, be as creative as I can be, as imaginative as my mind will let me, but some ground rules must unfortunately exist in order for me to feel like a sane person, ground rules that I don't even want to talk about.

But rules don't really confine you as much as you think, do they? If a man had his legs, arms, head, eyes, mouth, nose, and any other piece that can move with the power of muscles bound, he'd still have his brain, he'd still be able to think, and that's a freedom that can never be taken away from anyone.

But, you say with your wise-ass cracking skepticism: if he were killed, he'd no longer be able to think. To which, I'd reply: fool! how can you know that thinking stops at death? how do you know that it doesn't go on and on and on! the absolute truth in this matter is that you never know the answer to this question until you actually die. Hey, this situation reminds me of that schrodinger's cat, remember that? I do.

Goodbye and good luck with your life!