Let's get formal.
"Believe you me, my friend this is neutral writing."- A string of consciousness.
Any fool can, I only wish I could fall in.
I'm tired. And this broken swiveling chair isn't helping. "Everyday it
comes to this, catch the things you might have missed." Milk confuses me. Maybe it's the reaction of it or maybe
it's the fact I keep drinking it in spite of its effects. What I mean is it gives me gas. Disclosing a lot.
That's unattractive, disclosure I mean. I'm sure after a while gas becomes okay. I would think so. If things
were cool. But disclosure, that can get monotonous. I think that's a form of transcendence. Allowing someone
to fart in front of you that is. I had a whole joke thing. Fart, ha-ha. Man... take me back to a time when
I felt something because right now. It's all so, dry. "How's it goin' my man?" Oh, I'm good. Indifferent,
What's depressing is all things change, whether you like it or not. Sorry if my tone
is a bit sardonic. Don't want to rain on anyone's parade. But they change. And from what I gather going
with the flow is the key. Interesting. Man, I'll tell you I got some barried shit. A lot of it. I
got to look up what suppressed memories do. I mean, I know they sub-conciously dictate behavior but to
what degree? I don't know. That should be the theme of this whole little paragraph "I Don't Know."
But man "it" is a powerful thing. I'd drink sweat.
I'm running out of memories. I keep trying to hold on. But time is a
killer. And they go to the suppresed file. I have to keep making sure which ones need to be dealt with.
Everyone does. I'm know different. Just making a statement. But really, our memories are selective.
So, I can manifest any attitude I want. Just pick the memory and react. It's like painting or something.
Am I losing you? Okay, so I saw this guy speak. He was talking about the myth of memories. What means what to
whom etc. I'm like so? He steps out into the audience asking all these questions. "What happened in this room in the
last five minutes? If I told you to tell me could you? If you told me that the fly buzzing in the room (he points) is what's
happening and you (women smiles) yes, you then told me that you were watching a speaker and that is what's happening... who
is right?" I'm like what the fuck does that mean? I'm going on a brief tangent, but yeah buddy tell me something I don't
know. Memories are selective, care to elaborate?
There goes that stomach again. I feel like vomiting. Is there a way to
write in comatose? Put your hand out. Right now, and grab the air. Hold it for one second. Don't fall away
from this. Just smile and do something. So, the air is there. How does that feel? The air in your hand?
Can you feel it? Is it hollow? I'm not probing you, it's just interesting. So... did you feel something? Did you grab twice? I know you didn't grab. That's okay, but if you did, remember what that
feels like. Are you as tired as me? It's late. And that empty hand of yours (if you grabbed) is what days have
been like. Grabbing at the thought. Grabbing at the comprehension. Coming up with air. You see, my
hand is not empty. That's clear. Air is present. I'm not empty. I just want more butterflies
sometimes. In my hand. I do grab. At night, in the day, I grab. I open my hand and there
it is. Sitting there, wonderful. A butterfly. I want that more. There isn't much for me to say
now. I'm being greedy. These are my 3 a.m. thoughts. So, a buttefly perhaps? Or at least
give me some perfume, that possibility of grabbing air, not seeing anything. But smelling perfume. That'd make
my day nice. I get that sometimes. But what about today? What about the air in my fucking hand?
If this is getting to blargh, I understand. I feel blargh a lot when I read stuff. Blargh.
Stop and think about the ethics of this page. I'm over it. I give back. So, it's 3 a.m.
and as a friend so eloquently put it "I can't sleep without hearing the melodic sounds of BUCK BUCK, it's like a remote control
to the real world. You just point and click, click, BOOM."
Future is as future does. So, back to the loathing. Woe is me? Wow, that
pisses me off. Woe is me, right? This isn't woe is me. So, the evening I've always longed for. The silver
ship sailing into the ocean. "How do I muster the perfect day? 6 glasses of water." -Bjork. It's not up to me.
That's cool, I dig that. That's sage advice. That's all this is about. Mustering that perfect day.
Capturing it for a moment. I was on the BART. I looked out of the window. There was leaves. One in
particular. Small weed maybe, and I looked at it. Focused on it for a minute. We eventually go by it.
But that weed got a minute of my attention. And other things that don't usually get that attention will. Believe
Believe you me, my friend this is neutral writing. A string of consciousness. This
is how I end up sucked in.