Mindful Ramblings at 3am

Perhaps I desire fame of a different kind, a fame in which my inner man excites at the day to day activities of others. Perhaps that makes no sense, and in a way, i mean something completely differnt. What I mean is that there is a time for observation, and a coextisting time to take pleasure in the observed. A day is an odd thing, a construct, given to us by the Creator for some reason or another, and we fail to make use of it. Our failure is limited not to a day or night, but to the activities of our wanton minds, gracefully eloping on fields of dead bodies, words elegant and mild with teeth sharp as a hundred daggers. Wasteful movements. Unwasted energy in the furthering of self and the destruction of others. Pride and gluttony, a farce through which we consume the world. Am I projecting? I doubt that a projection exists in the framework of such a generalization. I'm not so different. I traipze around, forgetting on what fragile ice I stand. Yet I do remember, but do I? Or more probably my Father lifts me with his index figers, grasped tightly by my small, chubby hands.

My talk is not aimless, for what happens in the man's mind is always of importance. And it makes most sense unedited, uncensored. Then it is naked, shameful, easily clothed. She trembles in the cold, wanting. The streets let go their breath, and the evening rain drains slowly through the gutters. the great institution looms behind her, yet she fears the return, and wants it. But for that moment, her need is exposed, painfully clear. "Don't judge me," she says, and rightfully so. We are all a product of that awful place, our minds are all holes in the ground, where the "great men of society" find it proper to neatly dispose of the unwanted burdens of this world. We take it too, with open arms, not knowing why.

I have already forgotten what I have said. But I know it was for the most part mindless, and mindful.