Well happy sunday everybody. Or should I say, Happy Sunday nobody, because nobody really reads this blog and it almost feels as though I am just sending these miscellaneous words into a vacuous void space where they will fade into nothing, neglected and ignored for all of time. *gasp* God forbid a blog and or blogger becomes self aware of the mediocrity of the object in which it and or they are creating. That would truly be devastating to the blog and or blogger, now wouldn’t it be?
Well, to answer your question, yes. Yes it is devastating to know that this “object”,or better phrased “project”, that I have been working on for months, has really amounted to nothing of feasible value. I have come to the conclusion that the material I produce now is of significantly lesser value than that of what I produced in the beginning of my project. Why is it that my work appears to me to be worse than before? Has my control of personal literature diminished? Have I lost touch with myself and thus lost touch with my writing?
I believe not. I believe that I have not lost touch with myself, but instead I have grown closer to my inner conscious, and that is why my writing is so different from that of the beginning. The thoughts that I post are coming from closer to my heart. With ease could I write again another “of shelves”; weaving metaphor upon metaphor into my piece until the purest of meaning is resting soundly under the large buffer of confusion that I have laid upon it. But I no longer wish to write such literature. The things I write on this blog do not need to be hidden. Nobody reads this, thus allowing my thoughts to flow freely without fear of the social consequences that it may bring me.
I pity all of the pathetic classmates of mine still consumed by the idea that the words they write bear any uniqueness or weight. Each and every one of those fools remains trapped by the idea that the words they produce are in some way different than the words of another. That their words are solely their own. They are wrong. They produce sentence after sentence, structured just the same as some one else who may be thousands of miles away. Their words are not unique. The things they write could be written by anybody. The illusion of uniqueness they believe in is diluting their vision of reality. Their words mean nothing. They speak as just another number in the system, and their words, like mine, are swallowed by the void of society to be ignored for eternity.
But I am not like them. I am not like you. My words are my own and only that. No one can recreate this text. Nobody, in the history or past can recreate what I have written here today; because these thoughts, with all there grammatical and punctuational errors, are entirely mine. The system that has created you has failed me. While society has created all of these identical clones, I have remained an individual. I have not changed for the system. I have been neglected by the system, left to forge my own path. A path that I cannot look to others to find. For you it is simple. Get an education. Get a job. Fall in line like another soldier, waging a war that cannot be won, fore the enemy is oneself. The petty life you live. The pathetic path you follow. What of your dreams? What of your aspirations? Have they become nothing more than the shelf that you rest your texts books on? The staples that held you together on your journey through life now merely becoming forgotten memories of the past?
We all aspire to be things. To achieve greatness by our own means, and each of us must take our own path to get there; but we live in a society where it is more accepted to become that number in the system than it is to follow your heart and pursue that dream. Why is that how we live? Why is that what the human race is degraded to? A mass of brainwashed zombies endlessly chasing the dollar.
As a whole, our species lives life for one purpose and one purpose only. Money. We abandon happiness and ambition for the all powerful green piece of paper. But if that is the case, which it is, then riddle me this; When you are lying on your death bed at the end of your days, why does money no longer matter? Why are memories of bliss and serenity the only truly meaningful sentiments?
I will be awaiting an answer for all of my days, but no answer will ever come, fore no one will read this post. And thus as this post fades into nothingness, so shall I.