Sailing

Lets soar away on a magic cloud that takes use across the sea to new islands of adventure and wonder. Nevermind, I think my cloud has died, and, as far as I know, it's the only cloud in existance that can do what it can to. Lets just walk instead.

Yeah, time for another nonsense post again, and to make things even more better, I'm doing this one on the verge of falling asleep, so I'll probably forget all about this by the time morning comes around, like a bad memory. I've never ever really liked doing things the wrong way, but then again, no one's ever liked that. Don't you ever sometimes wish that you could do things the right way without ever making mistakes. I suppose, on second thought after non-carefully examining the previous sentence, that it shouldn't matter whether or not I do things the right time first, just that I do them the right way at some point before I die. That's pretty much the only timer for most of them if I really stretch my abilities.

Time has a funny way of arranging itself based upon the mood I'm in when I experience it, or perhaps time does absolutely nothing, and rather it's my head that's interpereting the events that pass by as pieces of time when they're really not and really don't matter nearly as much as they seem to "in the moment." The writing in this sentence is an adequet non-example, and I'm not going to erase it because I don't care if it relates to the topic, this is my thought process in the raw, the way it's currently been rigged. I can't yet decide if I like this way of using the buzz of electric lamplights in my brain is good or bad for me because I cannot yet tell if I'm in a transfer of methods. See, I feel pretty good right now, as if I really am transfering my way of thinking into something more coherent and understandable even in my brain. This paragraph is getting long and boring, so I'll end it right now with this sentence instead of closing it smoothly like the teachers in my head and in my school yell at me to do every time I see this text before me.

Don't get me wrong, though I know not how you could possibly do so given the perfectly non-decidedness of the paragraph above, I love the fact that I know that my writing isn't the best that it can be right now. I love it, and I hope I have that voice within my head forever and ever that tells me how bad my paragraph is without telling me why. It's like a tool that can be used purely on the feel of something based upon the upper-learned lessons reaching towards a lower level (ya, try and put that one through your head if you can, heheheheh). It's like a nice little notifier that I'm improving, for, as my art teacher once told me, "If you're frustrated [about something], that's a good thing because that means you're learning." Geeze, I haven't thought of that phrase in a while, but I'm so glad I remembered it just now, for my life is in need of the kind of inspiration it gives as a free gift to anyone who makes it his or her motto. Yeah, I think I'll remember this phrase when I feel like shit is going down or when I feel like there's no hope. This is the proof that there is hope. Ya know? This phrase is kind of similar to the one by some famous body-builder (most likely) that is just as inspiring, "Pain is weakness leaving your body." Woah, what an inspirational saying that is.

Ya, I realize that I ended the above paragraph unsmoothly and that I'm lampshading the fucking thing like a mother fucking, idunno, big lamp shade? But that doesn't matter in the slightest right now, for I like repeating something in my head until I understand it. That is sometimes my way of learning; I say sometimes because life is never that simple. Yes, I learn this way, and yes, it's great, and yes, I'm saying yes to random things that don't add up to any kind of climax. Oh, were you expecting a BUT, or something? I'm sooooo sorry to dissappoint you, oh humble reader, BUT I don't give a damn what you were expecting; in fact, I most likely don't give a damn about you at all, so don't go expecting things to happen that may or may not actually happen. That's how really awesome movies like "Kick-Ass" are ruined, by people like you assuming that thing are supposed to happen this way, becoming uncomfortable when they don't, then blamming the movie for making you feel uncomfortable when it's really just you who refuses to except anything that's even the slightest bit orginal.

I don't even know who the hell I'm talking to right now, but it sure is fun writing like I'm mad at something. I mean, where's the fun in carefully typing out a well-written, sub-standard, beurocratic essay that won't get a damn slice of attention in the real world and will probably end up on the cutting room floor of someone's batheroom as the toilet paper that was never used and got soaked in the piss that never left the floor when a thousand and one stupid people decided that they didn't know how to fucking aim with their dicks. This is going absolutely nowhere and I absofuckinglutely love it.
How fun is it? I can't describe it, it's like when you're doing a rant. Have you ever done a random rant? I'm sure you have at least once, if not in front of people then some time when you're alone. Perhaps when you were in your car stuck in traffic and hours late to work, or when your stuck somewhere waiting for someone who decides that your ass is not worthy of said persons time and abandons you like a cowardly dog with a broken head.

See, I'm getting into it, and when I get into it the metaphors and similies start comming out of my head like never before. It's only a matter of time before I actually construct one that makes some sort of logical sense. Grasping blindly at straws is fine with me because the world is so big, and I am so small, and, to bring this sentence to a point, the ideas that haven't been explored ever in our meager history are so much bigger than the world that the world cannot even be seen by the tiniest microscopic ideas within the idea spectrum. Ideas and solutions are infinite in their variety and in their numbers, so I don't have to worry about making some random shit that doesn't make sense. In some world, some existance somewhere, perhaps someone will read this message, as messages are seperate from the mediums in which they ride like cars on the freeway or trains on the track (see, it's getting slightly less blurry).

Yeah, mediums and messages, the messages are like little spirits, no matter how insignificant, repetetive, or badly grammarized they are. They all exist in their own little bubbles somewhere around the whole of human thought, they have all been communicated toward eachother and have bounced off of one another and have died from the causes and been ressurected by the recauses. Effects have affected the cause, causing alter-effects to arise from the deep chasm that is said cause, and now they have lain and given birth to a brand new child, a child that no one even knows will appear right before them at the moment of death. That child is the idea that runs through your head right now as you read this; the funny thing is it can never die, it can never lie, it can never float anywhere else on its own. If you try to kill it, it will simply move away from you and occupy the empty space that is the bookshelf of all ideas that have been netted by the brainspan of the human race, or mankind as the sexists like to call it.

Now is the time when this message ends, and another message begins, the one that tells you whether or not it was really worth your time to cross these words with your eyes and play them audibly in your head to visualize the beauty or ugliness they possess. You decide now whether or not you know that the choice is yours. I feel like the end of this blog post is nearing, and I'm probably right, but before I go, listen to a bunch of random words that may or may not make sense together and try to glue them cohesively together; act like a photomonager or a person who does those things, the name of which I cannot think of. Here begin the random words, so listen to them carefully:

The car got out of the forest and took a walk toward the see with fervor in its eyes and blood in its soul. It soon reached the soft sands of time and fainted from the long journey, forgetting all the while that its journey was, in fact, not over, but only beginning. When it awoke, it found itself burried half way into the rising tide, and slowly, it sighed. If only it had the strength to continue on, for the sun was so hot, and the wind was so cold, and the water so deep. Suddenly a single ray of sound shot through the air and hit it in the soul, the sound of freedom. Immediately, it stood up jumped out of the water and screamed, "Now I understand why this journey was mine alone." It walked backwards until dry sand was all it could touch and sat down, staring at the horizon. Night came quickly and it slowly drifted off to sleep. When it awoke, is this the second time? it saw that  a boat had hit the shores and  quickly got to its feet. The captain of the ship walked up to it and asked it a very cliche question, to which it answered yes, and they both drove aboard the ship. The crew, being ready for such a decision, flew the sails high, and the boat began to sail towards the rising sun. Smooth sailing, my friend, smooth sailing.

Good night, folks. Ciao!