I find it funny when people think that my humor is weird, since people are people no matter who they think they are trying to be...
wait, that sounds like depeche mode.
I find it kind of funny when those around me think that my humor is weird, since those people are not that dissimilar to faceless mobs that fill the spaces between the actual people I do know and the ones i feel looking on in the judgement that I know they must be giving me in the imagined haughtiness that I assign to those people.
Can you really not see that the irony here is that my own judgement and point of view colors my world conception with stereotypical templates for how all these human beings behave as they crawl around in their troughs of selfishness and greed? Am I the only one out there to notice that I am not part of this river of humanity and idiocracy?
Can it be possible that I am the fool here and it is only by my own need to stand apart that separates me from the teeming masses of morons that flow around me and as I seek to write out some sense that breaks away from the sense that I am me, an individual and not just some preconceived plot device in the book of life?
Did I really just write all that, did I just ask for light in the darkness and insist that we divide it from the night?
Did I not just say seven days and not six? Did I realize that talking to myself is not as funny as it sounds when I read this back to myself and then realize that it's lonely being the only one around that ever reads and rereads the footnotes that I have written
here in the margins surrounding my own sense of living?
Are the words that I write true or false or is the falseness of them really just and expression of some truth that I have not found yet?
Is there going to be someone out there eventually who will take notice that I stopped to ask why and not getting answer ask who was I to be the one to realize that I am- in fact, alone as the scribblings I have made here in the margins of this book?
I will now fade and forget until some other fool and wanderer finds this rag of literature out there amongst the stardust and motes of forgotten stars and picking it up assume that I created anything but the facsimile of living.
wait, that sounds like depeche mode.
I find it kind of funny when those around me think that my humor is weird, since those people are not that dissimilar to faceless mobs that fill the spaces between the actual people I do know and the ones i feel looking on in the judgement that I know they must be giving me in the imagined haughtiness that I assign to those people.
Can you really not see that the irony here is that my own judgement and point of view colors my world conception with stereotypical templates for how all these human beings behave as they crawl around in their troughs of selfishness and greed? Am I the only one out there to notice that I am not part of this river of humanity and idiocracy?
Can it be possible that I am the fool here and it is only by my own need to stand apart that separates me from the teeming masses of morons that flow around me and as I seek to write out some sense that breaks away from the sense that I am me, an individual and not just some preconceived plot device in the book of life?
Did I really just write all that, did I just ask for light in the darkness and insist that we divide it from the night?
Did I not just say seven days and not six? Did I realize that talking to myself is not as funny as it sounds when I read this back to myself and then realize that it's lonely being the only one around that ever reads and rereads the footnotes that I have written
here in the margins surrounding my own sense of living?
Are the words that I write true or false or is the falseness of them really just and expression of some truth that I have not found yet?
Is there going to be someone out there eventually who will take notice that I stopped to ask why and not getting answer ask who was I to be the one to realize that I am- in fact, alone as the scribblings I have made here in the margins of this book?
I will now fade and forget until some other fool and wanderer finds this rag of literature out there amongst the stardust and motes of forgotten stars and picking it up assume that I created anything but the facsimile of living.
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