I think part of why I write comes down to interactions. If I’m not able to engage as often as I’d like I can instead create outlandish, far-fetched voices on the page.
Yesterday was fun. I love poetry so now I work on poetry. It’s nice to have a couple projects to work on at once. Freelance work works for me. The more exposure the better.
Even without gains in the real world I find the writing of whatever carries me through the moments. It’s a delicate, fragile, sensitive, egomaniac- social media. I knew what I was signing up for.
There must be some way to fool the algorithm. Maybe some how hypnotize those scrolling until they find someone with that X factor. Then again that’d be little to no fun. I don’t like when someone bamboozles me, so I won’t bamboozle you.
There’s not always insight in wisdom to find in these posts. Sometimes I give you interior voice. In a way it’s almost a stream of consciousness. Take it as you will I think that these types of narration or the type of voice on the page, the voice has purpose. Sometimes the purpose of the voice has nothing to do with anything. The voice just wants to speak.
I enjoy these irrelevant posts because for some reason I’m like a ugly version of James Joyce. Have you ever read Ulysses? It’s super monotonous throughout. Moments where Joyce transcends imaginative genius are there too, I’d be a jackass to not mention Joyce’s ideas from the beyond.
What beyond I speak of I can’t say. No, I mean I have no idea. I visit the beyond sometimes. Sometimes for a short amount of time. Other times I’m in the super unknown for more than a weekend. After about two to three days of taking in the indefinable I get restless. Too much eternity can really bring out the white hairs on my beard.
The eternal realm isn’t home, in my opinion. Not sure how it works, the eternal timeless hotspots. My guess is there are, hmm- pockets, or bubbles of the eternal. Find them when and where you can I guess.
The problem with timeless stuff for most thinkers comes down to the material being erratic, often observed as nonsensical, borderline whimsy. There is no definitive reason for speaking in an unknown context. Doing so baffles our logic which in turn might seem a waste of time.
To me I might be writing notes. Jotting down scatterbrained jargon I can come back to observe at a point in the future. Future me appreciates what present me does. It may seem this is a waste of time, I can comprehend why it would appear pointless to most. I can’t be mad- I’m not most, or the rest, I’m me. I gots to do what I gots to do.
“Philip you’re making sense of nothing”
Yeah, well… Ya know… That’s just like, you’re opinion.
Find me writing later today. I’ll be creating or I might sleep some more. Either way you make it the day you want to have. If things go awry don’t fret. When did crying over what we cannot change help us? Never. It just makes things worse. Grab a toothbrush off the display aisle and have a chat that stimulates.
Sometimes, I wonder if any of you are real at all. Maybe you’re all a program. Not machines, but rather some organic illusion. Things are not as the might seem. Objects are closer than they appear. I can be cliche, corny, and contrived. I act. I am not above coming across as a bumpkin who thinks he’s hip. The moment I get an inflated ego building up power I make fun of my ego. I make fun of myself, because ego never dies. I can defeat my ego on the daily. Yeah, it is repetitive. It is kinda a job I grow tired of. My ego doesn’t take it easy on me. I can’t allow myself to give up. Then I feel nothing at all. I don’t like being empty all the time. I can only empty myself through meditation sessions. I meditate for anywhere from five to fifteen minutes. Works for me.
Ok, well- I did it. I wrote some stuff. Yay me, the selfless me, screw the selfish inside of myself.