Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

i have

I‘ve been thinking lately, as I so often do, and what one always does when they’ve found themselves to be social recluses. There’s been a regression on my part, the marauder-like meandering throughout days and moments that I tried so hard to abstain from has returned. To wander aimlessly without ever losing my sense of direction is something that I try to achieve, and yet, engrossing myself in the quest to achieve it only leads to me focusing on one, or the other.

I’ve spilt my innermost thoughts again, to someone that might not have cared, as I so often do. I’ve realized that all I really want is an honest opinion of myself, something that can be gained through prayer or meditation, they say. Instead, I make the mistake of asking others. If there’s any reason for my current sort of lethargy, I’m most likely thinking of myself, not in an intentionally egotistical way, but rather, in an investigative manner. I’ve somehow created a persona of who I am, and it is now the time for this mind to examine it. A trip to a Whole Foods Market just about a week ago showed me a quote on a magnet attached to a refrigeration unit for frozen fish, which read,

“Life is not about finding yourself. It’s about creating yourself.”

“Can’t it be both?” I ask. We spend so much time creating ourselves through action, driven by the primal instincts of both our psyches as homo sapiens and the personality that we are granted, that we fail to realize what’s actually there. I’ll draw a bad metaphor; some artists that I know, myself included or excluded (you can decide), spend their time on creating something driven by some random stroke of whimsy that started to drive their hands, only to come out at the end bewildered and searching for a meaning within the paint/pencil/pen/key strokes. They can grow sleepless, filled with sheer curiosity.

All that’s planned can be doomed to fail, if not, that Murphy guy was way off. I’ve found that my most productive time for writing is in the dark hours of night, when I’m struck with a strange combination of tiredness, hunger, boredom, and lack of a desire to sleep. It seems my writing flourishes when driven by necessity; in that case it is necessary to stave off sleep and a trip to the refrigerator. I talked to a friend who reads week when I ask him to, and when I did ask him to read, he deemed that it was only fit to read past the arbitrary hour of eleven. I suppose there is some merit to my presumption.

It’ll only be a matter of time before I realize something else, before I decide to stop my currently incessant wandering of both life and thought in order to acquire some other sort of something that will then change my entire philosophy, the inner clockwork of my mind that’s already in dire need of improvements.

Can someone be inherently a dreamer, yet desire to remain on the ground for a while?

Does this even make any sense?

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