i would prefer to not fall into a black hole

too often now i find myself writing the essay of evil. it gathers strength slowly; each word that place builds momentum. sadly, the movement of my essay is no longer a pondering glacier. it falls quickly and suddenly into a deep hole. that is where i am. i cannot exist this way for much longer. i do not know how deep this abyss is, but that is simply because it is not one which anyone has any desire to explore. A black hole welcomes visitors readily.

it's about time i built myself a spaceship.

dream for yourself a robin's egg blue. a clean-colored dream might make your day lighter. seek that not known; aim to erase something to make it plain. have some hope in a easy-going fellow. each man might in a pinch relieve you from a jam. do not be hobbled by what would fetter someone who wants better. take leave in ease to know that every pedal will be pressed by another.

but would you keep thinking the thought that trouble treks thither to that location whither the keep of things kept for their importance then the notion will clap you up in shackles of pangs of panic wherefore the sensation will become of the trembling of tectonics that deliver quivers of your stomach for tightness is the condition displayed up and over and through and whenever you tread with your right foot you will catch a bit of the ground with your right foot because you deigned to place security in the thought locked material instead and thus you suffer wretchedness in all particulars of you not just your right foot

so then dream a dream of an easy shade. slowly sink down knowing that you can put your hand back and land safely even if you fall through thorns. live a life that is just a life.

a few more crummy words

when i try to write something, i can only think over and over to myself that i can think of nothing to write. each topic that i encounter i reject as it leads closer and closer to the obvious conclusion that there is no longer anything where previously flowed a fount of freedom that gushed down through me until i could satisfied with a few crummy words put down on a page. and even now, to look back upon those crummy words, i am hit with the conclusion that they are in fact just a bunch of crummy words and that perhaps my fount is still flowing as before while i have simply puckered up my lips to a previously unnoticed sour scent or bitter taste. this is like how i have once again decided that i do not enjoy drinking tap water. maybe that's why.

maybe i no longer have hope. when i read crummy words now, i can catch a faint feeling of hope in things to come; i believe that i had once ambition and desire, and those things drove my hands to a keyboard to put down nonsense steeped in fickle feelings. when did i ever have a want so strong so as to not feel ashamed in broadcasting it? there must have been some great goal worth achieving that i put a great deal of stock into; a goal that could move mountains, or at least organize my thoughts. if this is the case, then i think to myself, 'alas, i am finished for i no longer dream; i am lost to the drudgery of routine without change.' i must then find something to seek.

it could also be that i am too busy. there is a great list of tasks that i must accomplish, and on the column right from this list is a list of dates or times for each task at which time the respective task must be completed. this list is the bane of my existence. though i believe that i work more efficiently and effectively under pressure, i prefer to have time to think and mull over my options when taking any course of action. this dislike is worsened greatly when the task is to me of trivial importance. such tasks include any and all actions related to academics; perhaps a better way to phrase the situation would be to say that all the tasks that have any sort of serious impact on my well-being or on my future are the tasks that i abhor. this is most likely related to my lack of hope. hope comes to me when i do not have any reason to hope; when i have tried hard and put forth an appreciable amount of effort, my hope turns to complacency and from there one can only fall down.

instead of saying that i am too busy, i should say that i am too distracted. my words come to me when i have had time to ruminate over events and ideas in my life that spark emotional reaction. if i must always worry about schoolwork or dread the thought of having more to do, then i will never have the presence of mind to relax and think. my mind will ever be moving from the present to the coming future which soon becomes the present. i think it a cruel mistake to make two meanings of the word 'present' to be what has already come and is going and a gift. there is no great gift in the present because there can be no hope in what has already come.

having taken the time now to force myself to think, i am beginning to regret the time spent here. the more i ponder why i have no ability to write creatively, the more i delve into what i find most depressing about my life. i do not enjoy dwelling on saddening things, as this gets me sad (logically so... but i believe that there are those who enjoy dwelling on saddening things and enjoy being unhappy. a most masochistic paradox.) this would mean that my plan to provoke creative writing through thought has backfired, leaving me with less hope and more depression, and no creative writing. i can only conclude that there is not enough hope to be had in my life. a sort of self-perpetuating hopelessness. peachy.

what a terrible way to end this post.

i know why the caged blogger blogs

i think that i understand why the blogger blogs; a catharsis unmatched in anonymity. a blog is a series of screams into the dark, but the screamer does not perceive the dark as such. rather, the dark is an abstract giver of value. the abstract listener is an automatic promise of agreement given by nameless viewers. the spell is cast when the page ticker increases, and the spell broken when real feedback is given. thus there is the option to disallow feedback. in a world that does not allow a single squeal, we turn to a seemingly vast and unknown comforter: internet users. when the scream is merely a cry for attention, we burn crimson embarrassment when the attention is manifested in a location other than the subconscious. when the cry is in rage, we later either deny such rage or explain the cathartic effect. actually, we have drawn true comfort from the ever listening computer screen.

the conclusion is thus: the blogging is a poor solution for the disconnection between peoples. we blog what we cannot say elsewhere; blogs become a repository for the mental states that are tacitly unacceptable. when we ought to come closer to our brother and sister, we instead "deal" by coming closer to a virtual entity. aside from the obvious problems that occur from interacting with strangers, we damage our ability to be open with fellow humans. it is as if a person chose to speak to himself or herself for an entire year whenever he or she wanted to engage in humor. afterward, he or she would no longer be versed in humor understandable to another.

perhaps this is not the case for all of us. we might blog intelligently, hoping to raise opinions and questions to stimulate discussion that would otherwise not occur. we might truly seek feedback. but if we seek much more than opinions by giving blogs more than opinions, then we wrongly use the blog to gain a phantom comfort, a phantom confidence, a phantom worth.

suddenly it feels as if everything is going wrong. time is a-wasting. it is impossible to tell which way to go. as if the whole world was ready to just run by. breath catches in the throat. can't find a reason or rhyme. take it a bit at a time. this is not a practice round; win now or lose forever. put the right foot forward, please.

but i can't. not now. i'm busy. i'm undertaking. i have things to do. i have work to finish. i have work to begin. there are people to begin, but none to continue. i just don't have a pace. i run by falling. i sleep by seeing. i turn my ears down to the ground to hear the coming of a great silence. i consume so that i can excrete. there is no rhyme or reason.