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Miscellaneous

Discussion in 'Apprentice Marijuana Consumption' started by rRambler, Sep 28, 2009.

  1. I am the rambler. I have another username at this site, one which I do not know the proper information to login with. The password is a mystery, something I know in a box I cannot see.

    I am high. I too, am drunk. Tired yes, sleepy now. And so it is, as yes isn't no, this post will be a compilation of miscellaneous stops and goes.
    I went to a party tonight. In the past, I have gone to parties. However, this one was different.

    I feel maturity is hitting me now, slowly, like water seeping through a drain, not contained, let loose leaving all signs of vitality, striking me, inconsequential to the blind but I see. The world is changing, not, of course, because the world is actually changing. Thats ridiculously acceptable. Instead, because my perception is changing.

    What used to matter matters less, and some of that which didn't matters more now. Things are changing, because I'm changing. No longer do the rapid changes happen in the physical or the literal. They are static, which is the biggest change of all.

    Because, see, it makes sense now, right? When you were young, this was how people learned geography. You sat in geography class in lower school, and you memorized your maps, and you could recite the names of rivers on your quizzes, and, at the back of it all, it even vaguely, superficially made sense in that way that only the young can believe. And then when you were old, you suddenly had some obscure reason to use that knowledge. Someone asked something about the lines of longitude and latitude, and you remembered your second grade teacher, and you knew it. You knew it, cold and emotionless, but with absolute undeniable certainty.

    And the seasons? September.. The prefix sept is latin for seven, yeah? Yeah, then why is it nine? Because two months, August for Augustus and July for Julias Caesar got squeezed in there? Pushed Oct to 10? Oct is 8. Mistakes happen, some are intentional, because perfection ruins the point of life, the search.

    But this isn't about the search. This is about the reflection.
    So.

    Oh, fuck, this is life now? I remember second grade, vaguely. I also remember being 13, and not having exactly the same problems of everyone else, but absolutely having the same sense of wonder and stubborn denial and adversity in the face of something ever evolving, myself.

    I grew, and got smarter, but in essence, it wasn't intelligence. It was experience.

    And now its all gone to shit, right?

    So have the seasons past and so have old men seen them go. To return to the main tangent, this is the reason seasons are recorded, because old men have been here to see them. Now, we are old men. All those who read, and all those who understand, are my true brethen, but you accept that despite our consistencies, we are forever removed from each other, because our mind set despises all who are not ourselves.

    Because old men have seen seasons go.

    Before, we noticed how Dad drove slower in the neighborhood than he did on the highway. Now, we analyze driving patterns and calibrate algorithms to reduce congestion patterns, because we make money for it. Because we have a job. because we are expected to contribute. because we are part of the tribe.

    They would sit in a house. They would eat, talk to their wives, raise their children, and farm. They would learn about seasons, because they went through so many, that the pattern became established and familiar, and studying became innate. They knew it, and they passed that knowledge on.
    Now we have it, but we have so much more.

    The ability to express our ideas, our dreams, fuck, our depressions and ghosts. Ups, downs. Skeletons in the closet, bacteria in the faucet, fantasy to reality, dream it and so shall it be. To connect, teach, grow ....
    Now, our depressions go thousands deep. Yours to mine and mine to yours, coupled with his, theirs, and hers. Shared, too much burden, collapse. Because old men have seen the seasons go.

    And they told their grandchildren, and they told us, and now we have fucking cars with stereo systems; I go to the grocery store and listen to fucking Outkast out of god dammed speakers in my car, and lions still hunt in Africa!
    Can you believe that shit? Lions in Africa still hunt! I took a shit earlier and wiped my ass with specially designed toilet paper, AND LIONS STILL FUCKING HUNT? And birds still dance courtship dances? And when I get drunk and flirty, I act like a cocky fucking ape king complete with wordplay mixed with alpha male indifference and it still works because humans have the same innate desires? That when I toss you around in the sack, you like it because you are one hell of a smart monkey? And you still think the SATs matter??? Yeah, they change the outcome of your life, but if your mind is set in its general disregard towards existence, it only goes so far.

    I can't believe BILLIONS of farmers and men have watched the seasons go by in the history of the earth. Something that blew my mind when I was six being so easily explained through the literally countless lives of infinite numbers of men who happened to watch the seasons go by?

    God dammit have old men seen the seasons go by. God dammit.

    But to segue

    I'm not going anywhere with any of this. I have nothing better than the following cliche: I am but a drop of water in an endless sea.
    Unique in my similarity. All the rest, none of the rest, maybe yes, maybe no. Definitely, all the indifference to the general outcome of things.

    Of all of our uncertainty, there is something for which we can be sure: our existence is indifferent to anything of any reasonable value.

    But it feels so different, and that is the joy of life! Our meaninglessness is meaningful! The simple existence of our displeasure concerning our outcome is reason enough to celebrate, for to feel displeasure is to feel! And to feel is to live!

    There is more, infinite in its capacity, but limited in its transportability, for my hands grow tired as my mind slows in process, and speeds towards darkness. I will trip balls in my dreams tonight. Some say marijuana prohibits dreaming. This does not occur to me. Tonight, I will trip balls for 6 hours, remember shadows of shadows of memories, and pass it all off as normalcy. Though no one else knows it, the time I am asleep is the numbness that capitalizes the happiest moments of my existence. I live to die, in the sense that death is not so much escape as it is escalation, to live yet not, all the pleasure with none of the pain. The heart works, the lungs work, the blood works, the body works, the mind sleeps, and the whole is content.

    There may be typos. The joy is in the release, not the revision.

    Time for another bowl. Then, bliss.
     
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