Random Rants XLIII: So Much Whinging Your Head May Explode

[cardgame]

Billionaires, playboys, philanthropists, maybe, but not geniuses.

 

[madviking]

Big step from 'idiots'.

 

[JohannaK]

Is this what your internal monologue is like? It must be exhausting!

No. Odd things happen when I'm too tired to restrain my true self.

 

[Borachio]

I should go to bed. But again the questions assaults me: who am I, what am I? What am I doing and why, is this really what I want? What do I really want, what do I really love? Can I know love, why can't I, why haven't I? Who do I love, if I do at all?

I don't know nothing. I only know that as life passes by and time flies, the answers will be waiting there for me, some may be found and others may be not, but the true question is: can I find them?

Why don't I know what I should know, how can I not know what love truly is, what it is to tear apart one's clothes in desperation for another, what is this feeling of heavy and slimy gloom, this heavy weight hooked inside my ribcage, pushing down my heart, my spirit, my feelings, me. What is this darkness that covers all that is me in this dark first night of the 14th baktun of the Long Count, and that may remain for what is still left of it? What is me, what is love, how can I discern it and see it be within me? As Shylock proved the equality of men through pain, I demand pain to prove my equality to other men. Rip my ribcage open and show me my beating heart at the light of dawn! PROVE ME THAT I AM, THAT I HAVE ONE! SHOW ME THAT I AM AND THAT I FEEL AS MEN FEEL! DO IT! I COMMAND IT, I IMPLORE IT, I BEG YOU FOR ALL OF THE GODS TRUE AND FALSE, LET ME KNOW!

This is all completely normal, I'd say.

(Coming up to the boil nicely, doctor.)

Hello 50+ years of miserable, life-sucking existence; the worst prison of them all.

Yup. Normal. *yawn*

 

[JohannaK]

You know, typing that post, I felt like an innuendo of an indescribable feeling of insanity, an incoherent and retorted force that pulled the strings leading my fingers all over the keyboard. You can see the result there, like some kind of obscure and insane poetry.

 

[Borachio]

Better out than in, imo.

(Is this the creative urge?)

 

[JohannaK]

It's something. It's the "heavy and slimy gloom, this heavy weight hooked inside my ribcage, pushing down my heart, my spirit, my feelings, me"

 

[Borachio]

Yup. You're an artist.

Cash in!

 

[JohannaK]

Hahaha. An artist you say. Well I have this bit of a gift with words, but an artist you say! I wouldn't dare say so much, and I'm not one of much humility.

 

[Borachio]

As for humility, I didn't say you were a good artist, did I?

(You may be good. Who knows?)

 

[JohannaK]

I presuppose the goodness as a condition to be an actual artist.

 

[Borachio]

I don't think this is correct. I think the true artist is someone who can't help but put out there whatever his creative urge tells him to.

Whether it's "good", or not, is up to others to decide. If they can. That is to say, whether it resonates with them or not.

 

[JohannaK]

Fair point.

 

[Borachio]

Hey! That's not fair. You're not supposed to agree with me!

(I may have to change my mind. Just to show.)

 

[bhsup]

Why the heck did my body wake up all on its own at 6am on a Satuday?

 

[Borachio]

Mine does that from time to time. The best thing is just get up, I find.

(If I set the alarm, I very frequently wake up 5 mins before hand. How does my body know how to do this? It amazes me.)

 

[bhsup]

Yeah, unfortunately. It wasn't even a damned bladder thing. I'm just up and awake

(and I do the alarm thing all the time. mildly irritating.)

 

[JohannaK]

Hah. Yeah, waking up before the alarm, it happens to everybody, doesn't it?

 

[Borachio]

Yes. I think so. But how do we know it's just about to go off?

 

[JohannaK]

It's oniric precognition.