Good afternoon my good friend. Summer is dialing up, but the balmy blanket waiting outside isn’t necessarily a downside, is it?
Well, writing each day doesn’t necessarily seem to have any downsides either, other then pressing into you the things you can’t dance around much longer. In a strange way writing these entries is the last pseudo-productive entertainment I have left.
Instead of opening a tab, so I open this editor. Maybe I’m hoping to reach a point where I won’t open either. Who knows.
When was the last time you’ve visited an aquarium? The deep blues throughout the cavern-like layout are awfully soothing. It’s been many cycle since.
I guess we aren’t that much different from the fish hanging out at the aquarium. These are the scratchings on my tank. Which fish would you want to be?
It’s an unfair question, since I would answer penguin. You’re welcome to choose any animal within the confines after all. Otters are cute too.
Ah, I wouldn’t really mind a beach day. A day where I didn’t have anything else to think about and watch some seagulls. Drowning out their cries with waves, wind. Pelicans are my favourite. They’re so goofy looking waddling around. The seagulls remind me of foot soldiers, and the pelicans are the weird stand-offish generals. Trotting along so the seagulls disperse walking past, but pelicans keep their ground, mostly. One of the few birds which perch upon the signs hanging out in deep water.
There’s a channel where the waves swirl together merging into its undertow, and it glistens a bluish emerald. Something to get trapped in, like writing these posts. But I don’t mind this confinement necessarily.
Well, what’s to be done? There are a few things to be done, but I won’t rush. After all of these things are done, maybe I will have my eternal beach evening.
Though it’s preferable to rarely if ever interact with others, I wouldn’t mind witnessing some passion. Though I suppose passion is something cultivated, it’s unwieldy and prone to mood swings. Still, it’s best to hold to the cardinal rule: rely only on yourself, bother only with yourself – all the while forgetting you exist.
What sort of trinkets should I litter this site with? I don’t have any links to give you, you’ve probably picked up on this theme now: almost all of the Internet is a conspiracy you’re unknowingly a part of. There are no cute websites I can give you. How about one day I open a merch store? Maybe. Big if, seeing as I’m breaking all the rules for building a brand, making cents.
No, there are no trinkets, they seem more like poisons. I guess the only things left are things I would make. What would you like to see? Perhaps I create a website and link it here. Though I doubt anyone would use it. Who knows!
I feel fortunate thinking about these things rather than thinking about how to sell my body. Guess I’m in the market of selling my mind, my keystrokes – wondering when that market will collapse. Though it’s unlikely to collapse as long as we have our mind-homeostasis churning.
Isn’t it a cruel twist of fate that those who know Virtue’s value the most are often those in Vice’s chains? Then there’s the other section that supposes they’re free when they’re oppressively burdened by their vice demand. Perhaps I’m burdened by vices I yet can’t see: I mean, as long as you’re floating along the cynical plane you’re not necessarily anything else other than the gnat. The admirable are the ones singing their love for each day; they’re the wise ones. Cynicism isn’t wisdom, it’s insignificance. Does Cynicism accompany Truth? Sometimes, but making it your tagline leaves you little wiggle room for some trumpets.
I wouldn’t mind holding some wilted flowers. Maybe as an act of rebellion. Sometimes the degraded withered version of something is a better messenger than its pristine condition. The creases along its vine leave some lines to write in its story. Maybe a valley on the lower half tells a tale of some heels crushing them. In its withering so a bloom of stories to tell, lessons to learn.
When I unlocked my magical powers, nothing gave me more pleasure than to rewrite everything. From an angel’s view maybe they witness such things each day – entering through the gates so the troubled soul flinches before a flash of mist holding everything they’ve lost. Directed to the floating amber pool and walking through floods a joy unknown.