So, the mind is like space. Thoughts are the matter of our perception, following certain inherent properties, nyet, rules that govern; like gravity and such as such. What other perception would explain that while brushing my teeth I thought of Christmas shopping one particularly happy year? Explanation?! What?! I thought not.
Opening, ebbing tide,
Eagle and it's wings awide,
Truth follows a misty dream,
A pleasure found in panes unseen.
"Into the night," cried the great.
And so they churned unto certained fate.
Bring pass the barley meal,"
And we fell well into our stack of veal.
A misused chain, obviously. There was no explanation for a matter unto matter. Believe the fresh chef when he spoke unto the massive fishbearer: "Open is the holy, holy, untrue, yet fluidish, train of thought." And so he passed the flock with an eager grin. They, in turn, fell to their knees, belts a-whippin'.
And he walked to the sea, where the fishermen were doomed, and stepped onto the water and immediately danced a jig. His sandals fell to the bottom.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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