I do write not to edify others, but to sort out my thoughts, to know with depth what I did think, and what I do think. I used to write stories for my brothers but only because I liked too. I liked to make them happy and then to laugh, both me and them. I liked the humor from random actions. But that's not the way life is. Rare is there a thoughtful human with face enough to cleave a sufficient amount of humor as perceived as those rounded, deep charactors in novels. Why do we believe the fantasies of others printed in story form, (so easily conveyed so that we can imagine like they do)? Every thought benifits to some sort of reaction, most possibly, action. Yet than we laugh at those who seem to be acting in thier random impulses. We laugh because it is not true. We laugh at its oddity. Imagine that! That he would say that to the older man- how random. And that is how we find ourselves humored by those kinds in the story. The romantic and unthinking novelist placed it there, and now he reaps benifits at the oddity of his statement. Yes, it's funny to see people run around in circles for no particular reason. But it isn't the way humans are made. The laws of natural liberty forbid it in every way. People seem to run around in circles for no particular reason, but it is so? Amazingly, every being on this earth has been born with remnants of glory. It's funny how they remember to make themselves gods, even with a missing hold on required power. And so they perceive themselves to be the greatest in thier eyes, consistently drawing comparisons to others around them. They will pride themselves over those they override, and advantageously look at those with more- of anything to be coveted. Over anything they can, but firstly themselves they will reign with that selfish ambition to achieve their own percieved good. "Go and make dominian over the earth", and so it is.
In the ultimate rerun of life, gods and goddesses, too many to count, fumble around in their quickly crumbling kingdoms. The one key to success, the one way to make themselves as so desired- to be gods, is the very object that they thrust away from themselves. And for eternity, they are the shining stain of history.
I wish it was summer again. Then I could be lazy and deserve to be so.
I would get up and lay in the sun and feel its warmth, praying to god for a good tan. I'd sit with Abby, and I'd read a classic and write mostly for the fun of it, making marks with my highlighter, to anything that caught my sight. And I'd drink water in a moist glass, water with floating ice cubes melted together. I can still feel the warm sun, and every moment, i am aware of the bright yellowness, like a blanket. And it's steamy. The trees are all ugly, with buzzing insects flitting from the rotting buds. They are dark green. One thing I'd wish for in the summer is for leaves to craft in summer, not in spring. And shades of bright green and yellow float around me.
That thing up there- it sucks.
