Upon Random Thoughts

Indulge me if you will.


Staring as the clock inexorably moves forward, each second not lived to the fullest, is wasted. Words are pregnant with meaning, entendre, ego. I type as a conduit to soul, emotion, expression, ennui. I use big words because I like how they sound, like how they make me feel, like that language does not have to be mundane. Does anyone listen? Is anyone impressed? Would it matter either way? Consciousness is divided between the impression of industriousness, though bored, and the surreptitious prose massage. My blog is a diary, a journal, a resume and portfolio, a writing sample and a pastime, a diversion and an open letter to my friends and family. Are you out there? Can you believe where we are? We work jobs, we attend graduate school, we foster relationships, we grow older by the minute. I survived entire semesters at college with less money than I just put in the bank for a paycheck. I lasted a whole year on less than my tax return check. I see very few people my own age on a daily basis, and the memory of what it was like to daily see a thousand such folks is fading. Phone calls don’t do the trick, but they do assuage the great gulf that somehow formed. I hope all are doing well, hope thy hope the same for me. I marvel at how much time was spent with people I may and probably will never see again. ( I sit back in my mind and watch myself type this out, relishing the feeling I will get when I post it.) I wonder if I’ve gone on long enough (writing that is, never fear). I see it’s a quarter after four, laugh briefly at typing out that colloquialism, and enjoy the 15 minutes I have passed.

Thanks