I always tried to justify the reason for not creating a blog, believing that the time spent would be a penny lost on any other worthy doings of my [insert adjective that means “philosophical/disorganized/crazy/beloved” here] brain. What those worthy other doings would be, I have not a clue. However, I never bothered to pinpoint the positives that could possibly emanate into any given sort of “pay it forward” type causes. Perhaps, I pondered, I would punch into my keyboard some thought on a cold and wholesome night that another human being out there would come across and, in a heavy British accent, exclaim: “My God, I thought I was the only one who excogitated such thoughts!” whilst raising a pair of quivering hands in the air in disbelief and sheer amazement. Why the British accent would be necessary—I don’t know, but it seems my mind likes to pretend that each and every thought is well-deserving of its own character; almost like the life I live and every thought that occurs within it is really just a cameo appearance in the spectrum of human intelligence: “You say you wonder why plural moose aren’t called meese? Well delivered, random thought! You may exit the stage now.”
The thoughts that come trickling through the cracks of my (believed-to-be very squiggly brain) around nighttime tend to be quite boisterous, in that they believe they are the most original, most amazing thoughts to ever inquire anything about everything and that they own every right to bathe in the limelight. The thing is—where is the limelight? What audience is there to find joy in the performance? Hell, is there even a panel of judges to tell those thoughts, “You’re fucking stupid. Goose plural is geese, but not moose. Get over it.” But like a passionate, young, unemployed actor wandering the streets of Los Angeles, it is these fame-thirsty thoughts that will stop at nothing to have their way, in what I have observed to be in an admirable fashion. It is these thoughts that have urged me to audition them in the catacombs of *drumroll please*… The Internet. Being that the idea of displaying my thoughts on “the internets” for all to read now has a more fervent mission, it is to be followed with a dramatic monologue. After all, this is my mind’s audition to be welcomed by your open eyeballs and hopefully equal open heart. (I say heart instead of mind, because mind is for attempting the rational and sensical. But I hope your mind can relate to mine and love me all the same.) So here goes:
Job Applying For: Friend / Person to relate to / Therapist / Someone you tell others about and say, “Hey, check out this blog… It really spoke to me.”
About Me / What I Ask of You / Dramatic Monologue: My head is filled with an amoeba of an imagination that has the skin of a selfless, hungry sponge... I ask for you to get to know me so I can see if insanity is really just the relinquishment of a human’s normality. To see that we are not dumbing ourselves down with thoughts that live inside a box structured by the ubiquitous walls of society. I also want to learn everything about you in hopes that in return, you will feel like your story was broadcasted to one one-billionth of the world, and that this fraction (with a minimum promise of being me) actually adopted your story into the portion of the body that actually cares, on the same level that the being cares for its own self in an almost selfish manner. Because who must we care for more than ourselves? Our survival depends on that duty of caring, whether we like it or not.
Your story could be a rollercoaster life story or a witty tale that lasted three seconds of your existence. We all are our own solo radio station after all, hoping that even one person will stumble along our wavelengths in the midst of whatever endeavors currently consume their life, and donate just one sliver of a small second of their precious needy mind to just... listen. To not just hear the melody, but actually listen to the notes that rectify the meaning that stands behind this symphony and its musician who projects it. Every musician wants to be heard. Every musician offers beautiful music, because no ear is the same.
So say that in fact your projected wavelengths, your story, are stumbled upon, and this creates a moment of bliss in God’s eyes; If this stumbling traveler would then cradle that experience, that memory, for a moment and nurture it with wonder; the same way you ponder a movie during the credits and you realize your dubious fascination for what you just witnessed is multiplying into a plethora of both similar and completely unrelated, opposite, juxtaposing thoughts—because all free thought is the infant of curiosity after all—hitting you like a freight train, going back in reverse and coming at you repeatedly because it knows there’s some golden pent up Aha!’s worth spurting out of you and killing any oblivious ignorant happiness in the process. *Takes breath* …To cradle the memory this same way—that would be much appreciated. (If you haven’t watched a movie that has done this to you, quit watching rom-com’s and watch something of substance. Two movies that come to mind that did this for me were Seven Pounds and Crash.)
However, there is no name for this murder. No word for the freight train. No classification. The word for this cruel and silent mind-blowing reaction is the spawn of your nourishing for it, and what’s frustrating is that no one can hear the explosions in your brain, what you’ve created. Or perhaps, was this murderous epiphany not created but rather thrust upon you by destiny? The catechisms of stuff we can’t see but read about in folklore and philosophy? So instead of witnessing the explosions along with you (creation or destiny), all your mother sees sitting on the couch across from you in the TV room is you staring with a gaped mouth and pair of icicle eyes. If she couldn’t see the screen, she’d think you were staring at a pair of perky breasts for the first time—but no, this cinematic blessing is so much more life changing than a young lad’s sexual coming-of-age via a peek at women’s private parts all pixelated. No sir, it is a coming-of-age realization that there is more to life than trivial thoughts, trite archetypes, and sure, nice boobs. And to think, to think that this absolutely epic, mind-shattering experience is merely reflected by the action of staring blankly at the screen. Or rather, into space—the screen in front of you might as well be non-existent, as well as everything around you, because you feel like you’ve just entered the matrix of where the deepest of thoughts, almost incomprehensible thoughts, originate.
Now, if only the stumbling traveler would react to your symphonic, block-buster movie blow-out of a story (simply because it is yours) the same way you leave the theater of a rare movie that makes your doubts each have an individual orgasm and secrete a stream of thoughts. If the stranger could do that and have these thoughts, that would be the relinquishment of normality; the translation of insanity. Thoughts that will be the gasoline to your little engine heart, because no thought makes you shit yourself more than one that tugs at your heartstrings. Tug 'em enough and like any instrument, you'll play your own song on your own wavelengths that will catch the ear of your own random stumbling stranger human being.
...Or is that too much to ask?
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