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.