Fear

  The idle finger trailing in the dust of a sun-touched blind, glowing white or pink orange thrumming, a pulsing gash of brightness in the shadows, reminds me of inspiration. It is an epiphany of hope.
  Who's outside? Why hide behind the drawn shades? Why sit back and long for change?
  You could cry. The sweet hum of the golden afternoon, the smell of air and road and dust and leaves and exhaust and peace, is completely absent in your air-conditioned prison. Still, you know that these walls are barriers of thought; they would be so easily broken. Just a step, an action, a movement, a decision: you'd be free. All the chaos you shun is, in truth, simplicity, while the bare dark room you've locked yourself into becomes a mirror for the turbulence in your mind. --No, a kaleidoscope, magnifying, warping, laughing false jewels.
  Open the window. Breathe in the air, breathe in the movement of myriad others; forget about yourself, forget about the darkness.
  Don't open the window. Don't move until the sun has set. Then lay yourself down, lay yourself into the cloying dank pool of knowledge that tomorrow will be just the same.

Xerox

His nostrils dilated; the acrid smell of burning plastic filled his senses as terror threatened to destroy all his conscious thought. The overwhelming urge to flee could only be stifled by tensing his leg muscles to the point of pain, but he welcomed the sensation with almost an animal glee. To be suffering so immensely for such a insignificant incident... His mind cleared,-- solidified itself into rational thought, suddenly,--and he blinked. The haze of smoke and tears which had been clouding his vision was broken by a high, clear, cold, sun. He knew that only his eyes possessed its unearthly light--he knew, and now, was glad.

At the Halfway Point, there's no real difference between 'empty' and 'full'

After watching Donnie Darko I felt this rebellious urge to prove that 'cellar door' isn't the most beautiful phrase of the English language. Arguments exist to be attacked.

Forever after this realization my brain will be adjusted to a phrase-beauty scale based upon 'cellar door': regardless of my opinion of the combination's inherent beauty, I am forced to imagine it.

It is not out of fear or close-mindedness that I don't surrender my being to Experience like some drugged-out hippy or the joyful religious; rather, I've become aware that my mind is so limited to its little pegged centers that I can only choose to consider so much. I must select only the most important battles--no more candy literature pop music teen movies social alcohol pot lip gloss culture can enter my imagination or it will soon fill up.

Once I've reached that capacity I'm not going to be able to start fresh. My brain isn't a glass, and neither is my personality, soul, worldview, or life.

On Independence

Hesitate to act for desire, for while temporary alleviation from this burning passion is possible, the same choice will come to present itself time and time again. We're creatures of habit: choosing wrongly once means doing it again. It's a pity habit doesn't extend itself to righteousness.

People like to be led; hence, standardization. The outliers of society, though mirrors of our own rebellious and angelic freedom, are destroyed as often as uplifted by collective whimsy.

Laziness

     Yesterday I noticed that the bus smelled musty. Like urine, perhaps,-- but of course that's such an arrogant way of portraying public transportation. It's amazing how bleak the world is, I notice as it passes me by. When I'm high in my cushioned plastic seat, zooming through the Bronx, I have the luxury to condemn others. I note their weariness, their unsightly bodies, their quick eyes darting to be noticed, and scorn them all. The whole environment seems dirty, and the black wrought iron fences are jarring against the thin sky. I am looking through unclean glass, so perhaps my perceptions are distorted in the glare.
     When I get to my stop, I trudge off the bus, and sigh as the doors open. I'm slapped in the face. A gust of wind, a wonderful way of clearing my vision, and the world is crisp and clean and busy again.

Repetition, or Primitive Marketing

     Anything can be profound if you mull over it long enough. Of course, when considering language, shorter phrases have greater impact, because each word is given so much value. Successful advertisements definitely tap into this (note the obscure logo above).
     I think there's something in the brain that causes people to repeat things, some compulsion to latch onto simple and easily-digested (ha) bits of speech and text. Have you ever found yourself repeating a word to yourself, under your breath, until it sounds weird? Of course, you don't even have to answer that. We all do.
     This is probably biological. I mean, look at birds--they sing the same phrases over and over. (Actually, male mice do too, according to modern research!) I wonder if poetry and song is just a more advanced expression of the same compulsive repetition. It certainly has a similar function: don't birds sing for mates? Well, don't people?
     I'm not going to be drastic and reason away the human condition in all its glory, so for counter-examples I think I should mention William Carlos Williams and Ernest Hemingway. To take a few simple words and create a work of such emotional power as "The Red Wheelbarrow" (WCW) is a perfect expression of human craftiness and that constant upward thrust of progress.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

     And then Hemingway. "For sale: Baby shoes, never worn."
     Read that again. And again. I don't care if that's amounts to the literary equivalent of succumbing to successful advertising and buying a Big Mac, just do it. But have it your way, because when it rains, it pours. (I couldn't help myself.)

Babybel

     Did you ever eat those cheeses when you were younger? You know, the creamy round ones wrapped in red wax?
     Rather, did you long to acquire a taste for them so as to seem 'grown-up' and 'mature' in the presence of your grandparents and other adult relatives? I couldn't stand the actual taste of the cheese, and though the entire wheel was about two bites' worth of food, I never actually ate more than half of one. Slowly, at that. I'd seem to savor the delicate tang...then I'd rush off to my grandma's kitchen and throw the rest away. I always kept the wax, though. It seemed special and important because it was such an old-fashioned thing: the only wax I encountered was in crayons or my ears. So I saved it and made these huge grotesque candles that I would stuff into beer bottles and then throw into the ocean, always with a note attached that read "let's be pen pals! I hope you're rescued soon"--I guess I figured that any shipwrecked person would need a candle made of Babybel wax and kitchen string.
     Well, I never got an answering letter, anyway.