the obvious lack of sleep over the referenced states of mind and dull roar that shines through our overheads while i rest these last few days comes from lack of response, and i do not know what is next. soon to come is the devil and his friends, i suppose people made to keep weights left for the shining reading of these tomes, a silent marker that takes its own world and walks forward like a reasonable mighty sword, to mark these gibberish works so that i can belong to the impulsive cats: these are thoughts that make me sad - and somehow also those that make me smile. beyond the rest i exclaim a proven worth, a distinct average bought by the others. there is a careless motive within me. i am not sure what it is worth. i don’t know if i sleep or not, now. i have perhaps been worse for wear, of course.
these details are not made for the people to read, but it will be read for the betterment of my life, i am certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that i am worthwhile - as it seems that the disasters of my life (beyond the last 25 years) have left me drained still and reading the great classics of literature, lying in bed tired and unable to sleep. these types of red, wide-eyed dreaming keep me whole and hoping that only some are the typed, others love to take on the issues of stubborn elves that must keep their place in the world. i am unsure whether or not my fantasies are even close to reality, but i must add that they have made my life ever so much better and that i am thankful for my overactive imagination in ways that the sane people could most likely never understand. this person is mad, in such a way that this person is able to become someone just crazy enough to do the impossible. and i feel like the whole trouble is my fault, even though the doctors tell me it is not. the counsellors tell me that it is worth a whole light - a finders fee of brothels and sent messages, a sign that somewhere i have been writing a map for a fantasy world, something imperfect and created for souls to desert. there is no hope within the walls of my worlds, as i forget pretty well everything.
do not come to any world created by someone as imperfect as me. if you want to look, you should feel free to know that mostly, they lack food and physics. these worlds lack and need the divine grace to be even slightly most inhabitable, and they take their hope towards that little red wagon and dive down the hill in the night hoping these dreams take their lights and run forward hoping that the driver knows that he can belong with the kinds of folks nicer than the little ways that walk towards me, and i know that deep down inside there is an answer for the legitimate portion that walks my mind inward and needs it’s old wonder to keep me from falling in - some place that we walk along the river, the driver he walks and smokes and thinks about the day. i am a gladly occupied person who writes and smokes and walks along the river and thinks about the day, so therefore if i remain occupied i don’t think that the curses that i am afflicted with are not discounted by the blessings that make my life so beautiful that i am cursed at for claiming that my life is anything less than the boldness and grandeur that most like to think i am afflicted with daily. something inside keeps me alone in the world, nobody can see what i see.
i say the crazed elves license to drive blind is made by the foreign little red dots that take me home and when they cause havoc to those other ones they can read their lights and bring hopeful dragons down to the little world, they are the betterment of all the human lights and need the shining white light towards the shining red stars that leave me here and when the kind eyes follow me i know they are praying that my mind settles and harps fend their little righteous pens to belong to me. i must also ask to belong to the club, some sort of shining wet blanket that keeps me alone, they speak to me and i know they must take their old wars and keep walking about hoping the little leavings keep me here, they are what they must be and all things are gracious, i know that my life is quite like i have made it - therefore there is a light somewhere beyond me and i cannot perceive the world like the others do, and that is both a blessing and a curse. this is silly, but i get mocked when i say i am cursed, i am not, i am blessed and realize the balance of the universe keeps me thus far still around with troubles and happiness that are balanced and made for me to keep like the shining lights of raw spatulas and of other nonsense and yammering gibberish that leaves me inside. i cannot keep believing in nothingness, as when someone tells me something i seem to hear the other thing and this is my trouble, as i have a hard time believing that there is any reaction to my work as i know that the people that watch me are my friends. i suppose if you work in art it is difficult to feel that you are accomplishing what you would like to, and that is my point. i am certain that as long as you are making the items and doing what you love then that is all you need, deep down inside.
it is the balance that we must react properly to. there is no grand purity of only blessings, as every time we work to get internally better there is a block party somewhere that is turning into a angry race riot. if you choose to care about the news, than the slight preference to your kind of information alters your perception and you choose one side or the other. i try to keep with the magic, somewhere in the middle. i try to keep moving everyone forward, but only the willing will come. every positive action you take seems to be marred by a negative action elsewhere, which is strange, but a personable elf that i am, i might have a notion: if you keep the negative results close then you will do less harm far away, and these attempted personable actions follow the letters closely - that is to say, these happy thoughts also cause distress.
maybe that is the curse of art, that causing someone joy can result in such pain, and the strange idea that many have of the opposite. these are things i just do not understand. perhaps by outwardly participating in the hilarious and tragic simultaneously than we can cure the ills of the world, as that has been my goal for a long time. people work with much valor trying to destroy the world, this is obvious, but for every one of those there is someone working to fix everything. this is more depressing if listed in the opposite way, but nonetheless still true.