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07/27/2014 ~ Random thoughts of me ~ Journal Entry

A fish out of water? Understatement, absolute!

I feel more like a fish in a tank of acid, hovering in space, in another solar system altogether.

You ever have that feeling? Like your family is not your own? Like your body is not your own? Like, the only thing that truly belongs to you is your mind, but you can scarcely exercise it?

That’s my every day life. I have to continually stupefy myself just to survive in my world. Constantly, I have to simplify my mentality just to fit in with the people and places surrounding me. It’s frustrating. Utterly, immensely disappointing.

My kids? Well, two of them ignore me completely. One is still yet a young teen that seems to have been born blonde at the roots, and the youngest was born–without any fault of his own, or mine for that matter–with a mental disability. Yet, all of this puts a huge damper on my intellect.

My parents? That’s a whole other ballgame. One is a complete imbecile and the other simply cannot understand. Let’s just say it’s too much to talk about.

A spouse/mate/partner? I have none. Yet, when I do meet someone, typically they’re thorough morons. Some, formed by their surroundings, others because they’re just that dumb, but any way you put it, it’s exhausting.

Why must I constantly lower my IQ just because no one understands me? Is that fair to me?

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I’ve always been the sort to ponder the complexities of life; to look at the average and search for the extraordinary therein, to search for answers unknown. The sort of person to marvel over the “what if’s” and the “what can/will be’s”.

My vision transcends what my eyes are limited to see.

Within my mind is a vast horizon of “what if’s” and “how come’s”. I love discussing the things that surpass limited understanding.

If you were to take a glimpse into my psyche, what you’d find is an expanse, and ethereal field. A wonderful yet desolate void, longing to be filled which expands for miles around. This splendid meadow eventually leads an enormous, clear blue sky, resplendent with clouds that will leave the average man filled with awe at the beauty therein.

That sky will open the way to an aurora of colors–an infinite universe of planets never discovered, lights and remarkable serendipity.

It will, I have no doubt, take your breath away.

In my mind, I travel alone, and traverse the exaltation of the supernatural, and connect with it in a way that pierces my soul.

However, no one sees it. No one understands. I have no one to share it with. So, there it remains, locked up in the depths of my being. In there lies a woman crying to be set free.

Yet she cannot.

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I wonder; did Shakespeare “market” himself? Did Poe?

Did all the greats of literature “sell” themselves to the general public? Did they too, like me, feel unappreciated and unacknowledged?

And, if they didn’t “peddle” themselves, did that make them any less credible?

I doubt it.

Words have power. The power of words has diminished because of today’s society. In this society that we live in “being cool” and “being in style” has become the important thing. It doesn’t matter if you’re as dumb as a lump of coal. Apparently being true to oneself, and/or educated and articulate are now frowned upon.

(Insert sarcastic tone here) Thanks Paris Hilton.

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I’ve come to a decision. And truly, I do not care what it will “cost me”, if you will.
No longer shall I push or market my writing. There is a higher purpose, THIS MUCH I know, and one day, some day, someone will see the art and substance of my written words and appreciate them.
Until, I will continue to write and not worry about trying to “sell” my talent to others. I know what I have to give. The world will find out soon enough.
And if I drown in an ocean of “sellers” and “beggars”, I’ll at least have known that while I did not sell myself, I put my heart and soul into my written word.
Lucky will be the ones who discover it.

I mean, honestly, what’s the point? I don’t have it in me to compete against the vast amount of authors out there that while they are less talented, are more tenacious or are better connected. What fault of my own is it that I lack the connections, or that I do not know the “correct people”? None, of course, yet I find myself time and time again, drowning in the race to become known.

My art means too much to me. My words, I value them greatly. If people were to know me… to really know me, they’d know that my written words are the keys to my soul.

I’ve always been much more of a visual person–my mind’s eye literally sees–therefore my written words are imagery fed to me by my imagination. Very valuable, deep and impacting words, which form an image. An image that allows the reader to see, to really see, the beauty in the story that I am trying to portray.

I suppose my visual nature has something to do with my Dyslexia. As the matter of fact, I’m certain of it.

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Sometimes I awake with phrases in my mind. Things nonexistent. Things that my mind has conjured up all on its own. A series of words strung together float in my head, for no particular reason, many a time. Words that at that moment don’t necessarily make any sense to me. Still, they are there, present and refusing to be ignored. Most of the time, these words are accompanied by images. Images, yet unclear, but there.

At times I have a singular word, randomly drifting in my head. Why? I do not know. Today that word is “asunder”. Possibly it’s there because this is how I feel today. I feel disconnected from the world. Asunder and disjointed from humanity.

I surmise that the mind of a true writer, a true artist is a peculiar thing.

Is nothing in this world made to make sense?

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