Sifting through memories and plans.

I sit here at this computer desk I put together IKEA style, listening to LoFi hip hop playlists, typing on this iMac that I bought to feel more sophisticated and artistic. I’ve been sick with some sort of stomach virus the past few days. Got to skip out on a day of work, only to feel behind on work and out of sorts when I returned tonight. A little more irritable than usual, and a lot more emotional volatile than usual, but as I tend to do, I warmed up to my chosen time clock enclosed prison right around the time my friends and I returned from lunch break.

I’m sitting here trying to get all of these thoughts out before l attempt to lie down and get some sleep before another day at work. It’s 8:13am, the time when most normal people are pulling into the parking lot of their own jobs of choice (or luck around these parts), or maybe sitting down in their first college or high school class of the day. In some ways I sometimes find this contrast of my life and the lives of what I feel like the majority of the world hold to be some sort of metaphor for how I feel in relation to this world itself.

I seem to feel the most awake when those around me are most asleep. I mean this in the most spiritual, #woke way possible. It pushes me to pose questions such as “Are the feelings I get when surrounded by an abundance of negative triggers what keeps me feeling so conscious of my own actions?” or “Is it even possible to be completely conscious of my actions if I weren’t surrounded by blatant examples of what I don’t want to be like?” Sometimes I even drift into the realm of asking presumptuous of questions as “Is it better to be consciously aware in a see of sleeping minds, or asleep in a see of equally conscious minds?”

Then I get to this point where I decide that if I want to really spend my time asking these never-ending questions that basically only shuck and jive around the same answer, I might as well just shave my head and become a monk. To fully commit. Because honestly, sometimes I feel like every question really does have only one real answer. One that leads to a solution. All else leads to other questions. Which sounds kinda simple, and obscenely obvious, but if you take a step back, and look from where birds feign ignorance of the ugliness of the world, you’ll see that every answer is really a complicated version of the same answer. We know what to do. From a biological, evolutionary, religious, or spiritual perspective, there’s gotta be only one way to reach “homeostasis” or “inner peace.” It’s more or less up to us to train ourselves to become faster and faster at reacting with the right answer at the right time.

But there are times it truly feels like humming a melody in key while nothing is playing in tune around you. Or maybe catching a fly ball with the sun in your eyes. Holding your arm outstretched; one eye closed, with fingers reaching like winter branches towards the space where you last saw what you were looking for, only to hear a thud. To look down to see it rolling towards the fence. Would we really go blind if we used both eyes, you think?

Anyway, these bumpin ass beats and the growing tightness in my neck are beckoning me to find a pillow to rest my head on. This writing really does relieve some stress. More people should write to no one. To an imaginary audience. I’m entertained. My ego is fulfilled. No harm done.

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