maybe i've been relying too much on what i've developed as my own personal science, which i've set out for myself under a really small range of possible conditions. i forget sometimes that nature is so prone to dismissing its individual entities in the interest of survival of the whole, and have somehow equated myself with a whole that i never can be... i find myself rooting for the protagonist so often pulled along only by the heart strings developed of a selfishly embodied defense system native to my instinctual survival skills, and somehow set the beauty of nature analogous to my own unaware tendencies toward self-survival.

right now i'm sitting in a room, with access to a computer where i can type away, and so obviously spouting my own pity toward myself, and in the somewhat creepy knowledge that what i'm writing will someday beg some other curious soul's own sympathies toward whichever protagonist comes along, i have yet to just quit the writing and let this stuff remain in my head while i devise methods beyond what i've known and where i've been. i just keep returning to some page and spouting some words and then picking up a guitar and begging its assistance at deriving some sort of empathy from the parts of this planet that contact my flailing wrists. and thinking about how warm and cozy and wrapped-up-in-a-blanket it makes me feel to be surrounded by beautiful gardens and architecture and art and music and kindness, i wonder how much i am merely laying out an occasional rhinestone in a nearly completed scene?

it's not like it doesn't occur to me constantly that my brain is still only rehashing lots of amazing parts of this planet's history, as i discuss others' rehashings, absent the knowledge of the overabundant volumes of text that comprise the complete history of this confused chunk of matter, obviously nothing more than a broken record at this point, and i, a few insignificant notes in the repetition. i feel like the ones who amaze me most are the ones most evidently exhausted by this repetition, longing for something new, somewhere else, some other way, which this dull refrain has merely assigned a few fables, plays, and fairy tales. but since i can define myself no more beyond the means of this jittering vinyl frustration than these wizards can beyond their assurance of some sort of liberty and world beyond, there seems no legitimate plea for my worth or recognition.

it's like i'm trying to make something profound out of any being that has chased some fireflies around in the backyard. we all wish we were such magical creatures and, understand how trapping one in a jar is perhaps cruel, we still never cease to marvel.