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by MCW Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E · Prose · Experience · #1302824
Writing after my skin was no longer comfortable.
The Necessity of Change

A benadryl induced fuzz compartmentalizes my thoughts.  How do I illustrate the precision of honed wit, while cerebrally nuzzling faded flannel? 

The circle is generically used to characterize any number of phenomena, with a nasal pseudo-intelligence portrayed in pigeon writing: Love, Perpetual Genetic Patterns of Behavior, Infinity.  Any number of paragraphs wasted with puerile grasps at originality.  I know that creation is impossible for any but The Creator.  I know this with a certainty that has settled within the foundation of my viscera.  And yet, I thought myself particularly intelligent while fishing for words and catching an overly exaggerated fish of a phrase:  The Pursuit of Profundity. 

Google is only as good as the data provided- by humans.  I am, Eve, all too often in the span of a single moment- let alone my life.  I seek proof of a superlative intellect and soul residing within- I salmon my way amongst the generalization that is human discourse seeking my unique and precise mantra.  I guess it’s a game of catch and release. 

An epiphany cannot be possessed by the individual that expresses it.  And in my pride I refuse to accept what I believe I accept on a regular basis- my breath is not my own.  Even in this journal I attempt clear expression of the truth regarding thought, and lie to myself.  I do this for myself, while I sit center stage applauded by my mental entourage.

I am not Solomon, but I pretend.  I am not ugly, but I run from it.  I am not obese, not even slightly- but I flounder to divorce myself from caloric intake.  I proudly define myself as self-educated, yet internally loathe my lack of formal education.  I disdain those who quit, and yet pursue everything almost to completion. 

Original Thought:  I am in the midst of an overly drawn out break-up with myself.  I pretended the Revolutionary and ignored my repugnant use of righteous indignation at my life’s responsibilities seat-belting me into the confines of mundane.  It is time, for change- and even in this proclamation I am redundant. 

This petty disdain for self and surroundings is as common as the refuse along the side of the highway rationalized into being by the proclamation of “Being in the State of Biodegradable”.  I am biodegradable.

Find a new thought.  There are none.  And I am now in the paradox of the simulated intelligence.

MCW
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