Free writing.

Yeah yeah yeah let's do this. Words and shit. Worthless words with their intended meaning that has absolutely nothing to do with the thing to which they refer. It's a funny. world. Will my mind stop, I wonder? Will the words spill out of their own accord? Can I escape the box that is me? Can my words be daring and different or am I doomed to imitate those I perceive to be better than me? I wonder. I certainly don't seem to be writing any different to usual. Maybe this is my thing. My niche. Being a ponderous bastard stuck in the clouds with the seagulls and sun. Wonder boy. Yeah.

Maybe it is worth branching out and trying to imitate some of the other writers. Stylistics certainly seemed to think so. Even if I do end up back at the same unchanging location of my soul, perhaps I will bring something back with me. I was thinking the other day about writing something in the style of Emerson - "with words as hard as cannonballs," to see what comes out. It would probably be all convincing and shit. I would have to cut words like "probably," and "perhaps," p's with which my writing is inundated. There's only one place to do it. Right here, right now.

Life is not this complicated mess that we have made it out to be. Look at the sun, or the stars, and you will see the simplicity of life splayed out across the endless sky. We act as if we are the centre of all things, around which the rest of the universe naturally gravitates. We are not. We are insignificant. In fact, the only "we," or "I," that truly exists is in the ether. The soul, which is boundless and beyond definition, like the edges of space.

Phew, tough work! I need some water. And practice. I can do this. You can do it!! Cut his fucking head off!