I'm a philosopher. I'm unable to just see things no matter what they are, for what they seem to be. I am unable to simply look at the surface and judge it like that. At least not anymore. It's probably a product of being mature. Now, I'm crazy. Not in the I'm gonna get ya sense but I'm eccentric. Extremely eccentric. Crazy like Kramer. There's no other way to say it. I suppose I'm just bored now but I like to write fanfiction. Seinfeld and Married With Children. When I write, I feel like the character. It isn't just some form of superficial get the words out stuff. I become the character. I become Al Bundy, Bud, the crew from Seinfeld. I merge with them. I think I have a cosmic consciousness. At any given time my mind is sorting through not only one thought, but 10 or more at a time. In the course of a split second, I'll look at something, imagine who made it, where it came from, who is using it, where they would put it, what kind of person would have it. It isn't one form of straight thinking. It's fluidic. It's viscous. Call me a dreamer, an eccentric offbeat, someone who is currently bored and feels like putting down his thoughts. But I think of it as Joe Friday or Bill Gannon from Dragnet 67. "I'm keeping the faith baby."
i regret almost all the philosophy I did. I suppose some fun drunken conversations or moments, but mostly a lot of over-thinking, over-cumbersome burdening of the soul, and a lot of running away from the immediate challenges in front of me. :bulb: + . real talk.
Maybe you should become an author and put your thoughts on paper. After enough pages of all these thoughts you might have a pretty trippy story.
How about this? "He says one more. Nothing but one. More. I suppose if you aren't sitting here you wouldn't understand it. The light is gentle, pleasant. Like a warm bath of nectar. The hamburger is greasy, juicy and full of texture and taste. The cheese that rests atop it melts but refrains from becoming a runny, mucousy mix. It stays pliable but solid. Just one more he says. A calm, soft voice. Like a librarian. I will, I'll take it, I reply. It seems even quieter when I take the bottle of ketchup. The diner is currently occupied only by the cook, the soft spoken gentleman. A middle aged man placed in the booth beside the windows almost slumbering in complacency. His hat is well worn but suitable, he is a man of utmost respect. Coffee, a cigarette, Swiss cheese omelet, two slices of toast, sugar, ketchup, piss and vinegar. There's a woman all alone at the counter, she's a typical woman of the era. I can find nothing of significance in her vapid eyes and sausage curls that seem too perfect and sanitary. Taken in, all in the course of three seconds. I squeeze the ketchup onto the burger and give it back to the man with the cotton hat. Thankyou. I'm a private eye. Observance in a second is my hallmark. I finish the hunk of meat and put my money on the counter. He's a good man, the cook. I'll give him a tip. The streets call me, the shadows, the vapors hissing up from the cracks. It beckons to me. The night seduces me. I melt before the eyes of the seductress and fall into her arms."
You have a sharp writing style. I like it, it reminds me of a novel i once read by Huxley. Follow your path of writing it's really very good.
