Reality

The rooster that eternally crows in a pathetic attempt to somehow awake me from this drunken state of intellect. Sometimes I associate reality with depression. An effort to convince myself that these notes I scribble are my paradise, among others, that I will never get tired of confiding in. Reality and job practically mean the same thing. Until you make your paradise become your reality. To me, this ruins the whole idea of paradise though. I easily become annoyed or get tired of things too quickly. Ever changing! I cannot stay intrigued by the same thing for a long period of time. It’ll ruin how I view it in the side mirrors, meaning I will be less motivated to turnaround the life mobile and revisit it in a later reference. Example: I began talking to this girl who lived four hours and thirty seven minutes away. Her and I talked for four days straight, non stop (and I mean non stop), sort of hooked on the acknowledgement of the others embrace. It was weird. I’ve never felt so complete, as a person, then when I was talking to her. The sixth day, we decide that we should FaceTime each other. Seemingly too good to be true, we had to find out if the other person did actually exist. An immensely regretted decision now that I know what I do about myself. The FaceTime video destroyed this whimsical character my mind had begun to assemble based off of the blueprints acquired through analysis of her picture and her as a compilation of words. As a sentence she was this well thought, calm tempered, concise girl. A picture, she was a portrait of beauty; gaining confidence that she noticeably lacked through speech. Reality (which the FaceTime revealed) she was just as terrible a person as the next, an occurrence with which I am too familiar. My paradise was instantly played out. Despairing were the next few days of conversation between us. Ended by here proclamation of my “weirdness” based off her misunderstanding of my beautiful mind. But this is why I don’t think I could ever be 100% percent committed towards writing. One hundred percent committed to writing is he who needs to write for money, One hundred percent invested is he who longs to write. I need writing too much to oversaturate myself with your prompts, business offers or money. I write because it’s something that saved my life, something that helps me understand my actions, something that plans my future, something that just really saves me from myself and the extreme depth of my psyche, something I need ubiquitously in terms of aspect. My needs will never extend past that of purpose, desire, or fate. Motivated by problems fate places in front of me for literary dissection. So, I guess no matter how pathetic the crow of reality, it is quintessential to the creative energy lying deeply embedded throughout my literature.