Wanted

I'm having ridiculous mindthings going on this evening, and I put it down to more than the weird stuff that didn't happen today, and which left me with an urge to make weird things happen myself. I have to get this out of my system here, rather than by putting it in an email to somebody else, because if I did that, then I'd be left wondering what happened after I pressed the 'send' button: as it goes, I know exactly what happens to this when I press the 'publish post' button, because I can see it.

The question that struck me the other day as I lay in bed, and which still lingered with me yesterday was this: why is it that, when faced with death, we fear for our lives? I know of nobody who's able to give it all up for the sake of doing nothing. When lying paralysed with pain, death should be more desirable, but it actually becomes less desirable. That's where a lot of the pain comes from.

And with that highly unoriginal piece of poorly-worded wondering, I'll move on. I want to move on: I want to keep moving, and never stop moving. I sometimes tire of moving, but one of the great pleasures in life is to move around, and then to pay all of the old things a visit. When I play records I don't remember, I realise that a moment I've lived before was lost to oblivion, and now is my chance to live another moment, but capture it this time with my primed senses.

Now, with that fleeting moment of pop nonsense, I'll move on again. Or backwards. I chose to write this instead of an email because the personal nature of communication has started to worry me too much and I'm retreating into a different world where my communication is barely noticed, but stands more honestly, as if to say: "I only exist because I happen to be a way to pass the time". While some people have certain projects in mind, others just meander.

Scribbling words that I'll never read again is almost like listening to a record that I'll quickly forget, although the opportunity created is still the same. What passes through me now, and what passes me by today... I may someday cross paths with it at some point down the line and find some sort of interest. But for now, it's just boredom.

Have you ever needed to iron seven shirts?

It took me right back to another time, and I started composing an advertisement in my head. I want to advertise myself again, but this time I want somebody to respond to the advert. It's no fun when the publicity's so poor that you're left on the shelf. Imagine that...