I don't need a pager or a cell phone or a message machine or a digital camera, those are for other people. I am simple and have even more simpler needs.
If I need a friend, I turn on the television. The boob tube is my drug, my demigod here on Earth. I am a ball of potential energy dying to become kinetic yet I remain still, moving only when obligated to do so. Idle hands are the devil's plaything, I WISH! Imagine all the many things I might be good at if my hands were possessed. I could finger tap an electric guitar into combustion, tie a bow tie in 2 seconds flat, crack walnuts in my palms, subdue would be assailants by pressing certain points in their bodies disrupting the natural flow of chi. So many things I could master with my enhanced dexterity and in exchange I would only have to give up my soul.
What exactly is a soul? You can't see it or touch it. Where is it, your anima, your life force? Is it in the heart that pumps the blood which carries oxygen through your body, the lungs that first capture the oxygen and start the process, or the brain, the queen bee of the hive? Or is it some spiritual thing we are never meant to fully understand, but trust in just the same? I won't bring God into this because I feel if anything, he or she, whatever, doesn't matter, is a man made concept out of control, an idea never trully proven beyond a doubt made real through repetition.
We humans, until we become extinct, hollow out the Earth, fly off like the dodo, succumb to our inevitable fate like the dinosaurs, are for now, the only perpetual machine so far perfected. We live, some of us procreate, and we die while the next generation pushes on until their turn to walk out the exit door comes. When I finally punch out on the big time clock will I be able to take pride in the work I have done? Maybe, but who really cares? A pager, a cell phone, a message machine, a digital camera, an ego...those are for other people. Humility as well, I guess
Jeez-a-lou! What is the fuckin' secret!? I can never write without relying too much on metaphors or coming off sounding all pompous. I try to write what feels natural, but then it gets wrapped up and turned into a burrito of vanity. See, just did again. Aw, buttcrack! I think I need that swift spiritual kick to the head, Minnie Driver's character in Grosse Pointe Blank referes to as Shaka Buku or an EASY button.
Aw, double buttcrack infinty!
If I need a friend, I turn on the television. The boob tube is my drug, my demigod here on Earth. I am a ball of potential energy dying to become kinetic yet I remain still, moving only when obligated to do so. Idle hands are the devil's plaything, I WISH! Imagine all the many things I might be good at if my hands were possessed. I could finger tap an electric guitar into combustion, tie a bow tie in 2 seconds flat, crack walnuts in my palms, subdue would be assailants by pressing certain points in their bodies disrupting the natural flow of chi. So many things I could master with my enhanced dexterity and in exchange I would only have to give up my soul.
What exactly is a soul? You can't see it or touch it. Where is it, your anima, your life force? Is it in the heart that pumps the blood which carries oxygen through your body, the lungs that first capture the oxygen and start the process, or the brain, the queen bee of the hive? Or is it some spiritual thing we are never meant to fully understand, but trust in just the same? I won't bring God into this because I feel if anything, he or she, whatever, doesn't matter, is a man made concept out of control, an idea never trully proven beyond a doubt made real through repetition.
We humans, until we become extinct, hollow out the Earth, fly off like the dodo, succumb to our inevitable fate like the dinosaurs, are for now, the only perpetual machine so far perfected. We live, some of us procreate, and we die while the next generation pushes on until their turn to walk out the exit door comes. When I finally punch out on the big time clock will I be able to take pride in the work I have done? Maybe, but who really cares? A pager, a cell phone, a message machine, a digital camera, an ego...those are for other people. Humility as well, I guess
Jeez-a-lou! What is the fuckin' secret!? I can never write without relying too much on metaphors or coming off sounding all pompous. I try to write what feels natural, but then it gets wrapped up and turned into a burrito of vanity. See, just did again. Aw, buttcrack! I think I need that swift spiritual kick to the head, Minnie Driver's character in Grosse Pointe Blank referes to as Shaka Buku or an EASY button.
Aw, double buttcrack infinty!