Neuronography is like a cognitive tab- or link-dump, a map of my thoughtscape, an emptying of my head at a particular moment. What comes out may or may not be connected, may or may not make real sense.
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Am I a musician? Do I make a difference as a musical artist? If not, will I ever?
Answer to all three: "Maybe."
Am I as smart as people think I am? Do people think I'm smart?
Am I addicted to love? Sure.
Am I addicted to sex? No, that's silly.
But if I was, I would make no attempt to reform; this particular and specific addiction is pretty fuckin' (no pun intended?) awesome.
^ Small type equals false modesty.
Who am I? Eh... it doesn't matter right now.
There is a certain kind of heartbreaking beauty in extremely mundane external objective human sadnesses. Examples:
-The morbidly obese lady walking (crueler observers may instead choose "waddling") alone across the Barnes and Noble parking lot in a new haircut and fancy flowing top with a slight smile on her face.
-An old man combing his hair in a bathroom mirror in the middle of campus on the windiest day in recent memory, and then following me outside, back into the follicle-mussing wind.
-A woman rambling on and on and on and on to her (at least to me) unseen male listener about some absolutely crazy shit but absolutely not notcing how absolutely crazy it is or just how long she's been talking, despite her companion's seemingly mounting displeasure.
-Etc.
Missing Jenna hurts. Physically.
I should really start standing up more for what I believe, voicing my opinions more, and becoming more informed.
Being in love feels like returning to some more-natural state that I've never been in before, but it still feels like returning anyhow. I bet there's some kind of etymological evidence to back this up.
I should write a poem or two.
