Random free colors of thought

The way the world flies at me sometimes, it's quite a terror, but I still linger here, a lonely, outletless poet waiting for the reason to reveal itself to me. I see nature in beautiful colors, but they are only colors, right. If I try to describe the beauty, I may loose myself in it and become crazy. The insane asylum certainly doesn't reject poets. In fact, it probably attracts them somewhat, for poets are they who see the world as it truly is, like all other artists, but what makes poets special? Words are simply chains linked together weakly, so they are different from images, which are more full and whole and less broken. Bad art is perhaps art that, when attempting to look full, is broken, or rather, "broken down" into parts to simplify what can't be simplified. Starting from the details never works quite well enough, now does it? I don't know what you're trying to pull, but there is a balm in gilead that will heal your soul, however sin-sick it is.

Listen to me when I'm talking to you. Don't you want to live life to its fullest? I know I want you too and I know there's a part of you somewhere deep inside that wants to as well. Why does it make you so sad that part of you wants what you want? Is that part just you? You know that not to be true, so don't go lingering on it until you force it to be. Be you, and you will feel good. Trust me. I know that there will be a time, far from now or maybe close to now that you'll think you can't be you, that you must be a slave to the demonic forces that you say haunt you. When that happens, all you have to do is start typing on this blog, and you'll become healed and inspired again. It's really your own inspiration fountain that you are free to drink from whenever and wherever you want. Don't you understand. You are the person you want to be. You don't have to react to life the way you don't want to. I feel your pain, but your heart feels it too, and it may even want you to heal more than you do. Have you ever thought of that? I don't know what else to say.

Anime is a form of art that is, like every other, not well respected among some tribes. Some moralists hate it because it breaks all the rules of good children's programming. Some homeists hate it because it is not in their blood to like it, and they want to cling to such a stupid form of home as old and as weak as time has made such.

I really really want to write something good, but I want to do it in an automatic way like I'm doing now. I know that if I keep writing like this, I'll eventually get inspired, on the spot, to write something magical, but I can never know when that inspiration will come, which makes me feel so sad sometimes. That's kind of the way it is for all inspiration, though, isn't it, even the most inspired people don't know when they're gonna get inspired. Oh, they have a feeling that they'll get inspired by something, sure, and most of the time that feeling can be right, but at some point, something that they thought would inspire them will not. They, however, know how to react when they're not inspired. They know that something else will come along that will inspire them, and they will most likely improve their precision every time they fail to become inspired. I want to be a member of they, too. I want to improve every time I fail. I want to know ahead what may or may not inspire me, and I'm not really sure, now that I think about it, what is ceasing my ability to do this. Perhaps its something purely psychological, something within the pool of thoughts and not necessarily the pool of chemicals. Something that I can fix by doing stuff like this, stuff that inspires me every time I fell uninspired.

I wonder why I don't do this every time I feel uninspired. It's always managed to inspire me in some way,  and it definitely helps me to think. I don't know. I really don't know why I don't do this every time I feel like life isn't worth living. I know that I'll never kill myself, but I don't know that I'll never feel that nothing is exciting. I'm afraid of being some piece of grey matter that can't be moved or wondered. I know that my fear is really stupid, but maybe I'm just not telling you my real fear because I'm scared to do so. I don't want to. I just want to follow this stupid road of escapism as long as I can, perhaps until I fell as a person, something I don't have a stake in, but would prefer not to do.

Right now, I'm probably supposed to be working, but whenever I try to work, just before I get into it, I get this feeling in my stomach that someone is going to stab me in the back or in the heart or somewhere if I start working. It's terrible and unethical (lilo and stitch, if you don't know where I got that word from; it's kind of strange that I'm using it here where it doesn't seem to make much sense; isn't it?). I need to start working again and my brain is telling me right now that I need to work right now. I know that I need to, man, I do. But why can't I feel this need to work when I actually try to do work? Why can't I feel as inspired as I am right now to continue typing out letters in this useless but useful blog of mine? It must be something psychological, or perhaps this time it's chemical. That's sometimes the case of bad habit, eh? You sort of keep doing something and experienceing the exact same feeling enough and your body starts to adjust.

It's getting out of a bad habit that's the tricky thing. I want to get out of this bad habit of procrastination, but it will probably mean the end of this blog. Maybe it won't, for I don't even write much in this blog, but once again, I'm stating something that is perhaps true on a smaller level, but is generally not the problem. I am avoiding the problem by typing away at this keyboard because I feel like this keyboard helps me avoid the problem. Man, I need to add a metaphor or two to this post. It's so boring right now.

America is a pie, some of it is really really airy and empty, and another some of it is kind of medium in solidity, and the final some of it is extremely solid. Get it? It's kind of like saying that perhaps we need the super rich to be a good pie, otherwise, we'll just end up crumpling into a flat ugly mess of sauce. Maybe I'm just blowing ice here, for that's not how I feel, that's just how I feel about that metaphor.

Lets see, more metaphors, I'll start with the basics again and work my way up. I know, I'll start with something that I know worked because my teacher used it. Washington was a big bowl of soup. Get it? Cause it was hot on that day and people were sweating all around each other due to body heat so much that steam was visible, and it was as if they were the liquid and they formed some kind of bowl? I get it, and it makes sense to me, and it's really cool, so take that.

I am a racecar ready to sail across the freeway of progress, but I've got to remember that every once in a while I have take an exit and get gas. So even if I'm on a roll, I have to stop at some point and relax, otherwise I'll end up slowing into a painful stop. Something like that. This is fun; it's almost as if I really like doing this. Wait, I do really like doing this. Metaphors are freaking awesome!

Stop being such a snowboard, man! Stop being designed solely to go downhill and start climbing for yourself every once and a while. I mean, you don't have to be a freaking ski-lift or anything, but at least have the decency, for your own sake, to be a tree. Huh, kind of interesting and fun and entertaining all at the same time is this.

Why don't I feel inspired now. I wonder if my mind is telling me that I don't like metaphors anymore because I have neglected making them. Is that what it's doing right now? I can have a feeling of that all I want, but I'll never believe it. I know that I love metaphors and that exploring them is extremely fun. I know that at some point, maybe not during this blog, but at some point, I will make a metaphor that inspires me and makes my brain go "woahhhholllyshitthat'sawesome!" I know what I love, and I know my brain knows what I love.

You know what I think? I think my brain is testing me to see if I really love metaphors. "If you really love metaphors, than you'll make them even if they don't give you that feeling of inspiration." Yeah, that's what my brain is saying right now, so I'm ready to fly. I'll keep making metaphors until I find one that inspires me. And when I finally do find one that inspires me, my brain will be happy and will give me my inspiration back. I think my brain is trying to train me to become a stronger person in everything that it's been doing recently, so rather than fall back like a coward and lie in bed like nothing matters at all, I'll face this challenge and prove to my brain that I am a person and I do have thoughts and opinions about things, that I'm no sheep and I'm no slave to my own sufferings. I know I can do this, and I feel really inspired, or, to tell you the truth, really semi-inspired, but that's good enough. I need to do some more typing.

What I fear is that when I'm not safe typing my little inspirational work, I may not feel this way. I want to feel this inspiration all the time, or at least know that I can grab it from within my mind all the time. I want to be able to become inspired even when I think I can't. I want to be able to force myself into true inspiration. That's what I'm kind of doing now. That's what I have to do until my brain recognizes that I really like feeling this way, that I want to feel inspired all the time. I know I've neglected to feel inspired so many times in the past few months, but I need to keep trying. I need to try until I win. The more times I try to win, the better I become at it, the more I loose, the more I get used to not feeling bad when I loose. Oh yeah. Lets do this.

I feel like the minute I stop typing this stuff, I'll stop being inspired. Isn't that terrible. I feel like some devil is afraid of me when I'm on the keyboard, and is just waiting until I'm all alone and without such an inspirational thing as this. Damn, I've said inspiration so many times, that even I'm getting bored of saying it. I know the solution to this small bump I've run into. I'll say something else. I'll make the english language my own language and fully embrace it for all it's worth.

I call it jolt fluid, that gives you the jolt of worth and makes you want to sing your troubles away. My brain is like a broken down car that looks like it can't be fixed, but is really only a few screws loose and can be fixed in no time. I can feel the gears turning. I can see the factories hands, beginning their work on the morning roll of time.

I see no suffering faces on the robots, for they have no capacity for emotion. I see no expression of depression in their metalic arms and saws and pushers and pullers. I see that they may even be happy doing what they are doing because what they do gives birth to smiles in some way. It's like a smile fruit that people eat, not with their mouths, but with their hearts. And I'm not talking about that ol' happiness that people always talk about and moan about not having. No, that shit's fake. I'm talking about something deeper. Beneath the bottom of the ocean. Below the metal of the car part. Inside of the wall of the house. It's a feeling that will never be seen by the naked eye until great stress forces it out. I know not what I say, but I know it be freedom's words.

Freedom is whatever you want it to be, not what you don't want it to be. What does that even mean, you may ask? Whatever you want it to mean. You are free to decide what it means. You and only you can decide what you do and don't like and know amount of forceful thoughtetism, indulgent horseshit, or reading of mindedness can change that. You know who you are truly. I'm speaking to you personally now because I'm tired of typing the same things over and over again. I don't want to gray, I want to color. I want to flow better than a river, up, down, right, left, all directions like the air, be like water in the sky, perhaps a pretty cloud ready to drop itself on someone else's property. I fly up hear like a dove with food in its mouth, and not in its belly.

Yikes, now things are starting to get eerie. Now the mud is starting to become shiny, and the people are confusing it for gold, for true treasure. Now the water is turning different colors and expecting me to accept that it is what it is. Now the sky is fighting against it's reflection by constantly changing itself in form and shade. Now the artist doesn't know what to do with his or pencil, for it is acting on its own and forcing the hand to move with it. Now the free are caught up in a web of freedom.

Don't you sometimes wish that you could get caught up in the net of joy? Isn't that more valuable than the freedom you so desire? Who is more free, the freeman who is constantly frowning, or the slave who can't stop smiling. You tell me which, but remember this: there is a such thing as both in nearly every case. One can be both evil and good. One can be both black and white. One can be both tasty and disgusting. Complicate your world a bit. Add a few of those shades that make life more detailed and you may just enjoy it a little more. Then again, maybe your complication may backfire and cause you to throw up your freedom burger you just ate. Don't eat freedom too quickly when you've been a slave for so long, you may throw up.