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Out of context: Reply #8340
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- rasko40
Occasionally, last night for instance, I have tremendous streams of conciousness. Torrential multi-persona conversations I have with myself, multi-faceted they are and they bound with wonder, wit and wry observation. I amaze myself as my mind stands back from itself, watching as if from afar as I myself hop like a spring lamb from one subject to the next and back, linked seamlessly with the golden thread clearly purchased from the very same haberdasher as Jack Kerouac, John Fanté and the greats. As you can see, I weave great lies with this thread. Last night I wondered as I stood aside from myself, I wondered how I may capture this winding river of humanity, I toyed with the idea of pen and ink, microphone and tape, I pondered what modern methods may be available and I cast them all aside, as I always do. I have trashed sketchbooks, burnt bridges, tossed canvasses, I have ignored dreams and premonitions, I have cast away the scribblings of a madman because I am forever sure they shall come again. Why keep what is inside me I ask myself, clearly I can reproduce these fragments at a moments notice, I can sketch these sketches, remember these memoirs, laugh again at these happenings, conjure these dreams whenever I desire, as they are the very product of my own creation. That is what I think. That is my belief as I lie in my slumber, as I toss away my past and incinerate my albums.
In fact this is not the case. My memory is weak. I rarely remember my dreams let alone real events I have been party to. My creativity is often stifled, ideas are forgotten, plans are as if mirages, one moment in my sight, the next faded and vanished. I wonder how many people are the same, perhaps many, perhaps all. how many lie in their dreamboat alone on a Tuesday for two hours at a time, their mind alone in a discussion with themselves, sitting sideways listening intently to the waves of thought crashing to the shore. Bubbles of time, a foam of a mans inspiration. How many watch the tide ebb and flow, how many watch their thoughts drift away down the river never to return? How many capture them in plastic bottles and cast them out to drift, to float along the ocean into some others life perhaps, to be reborn, reinterpreted, renewed, relived.
I wonder how much I have wasted, whether I am sinning to the cosmos or whether I am liberating these fantastic bubbles I am sometimes permitted to catch, I wonder if this typing is for better or for worse, I wonder if it matters, or who cares. I wonder.
And then, no doubt, I am an old man, I am old, I am dust, I am gone. Perhaps it never mattered, perhaps nobody ever cared, no doubt this is mans turmoil, for does it ever really matter? Indeed, it is my opinion it does not matter, because I hope we are all the same, I hope we all have these very same thoughts, and I wish, I beg that we do ponder, and we go outside of ourselves to listen, to hear the cries of others for we are the same.
I am a naive man. But, I believe there is hope in my 2 am thoughts, and I look forward to wasting another batch this very eve.
I wonder.