Some free writing. Make of it what you will 
I like free-writing… though I haven’t actually done it in a little while. It lets me explore my personality from an outside perspective, in a sense. I get to puke out my thoughts, undigested and see where they go. Then I get to perform a wildly critical dissection of my being. I think this one shows off my generally positive, colourful, creative personality, but shows that I sometimes have these [maybe] incredibly stupid, or maybe somewhat interesting pseudo-philosophical thoughts that feign intelligence for fear of not knowing what the hell they’re about. It makes me laugh a bit. But it also makes me wonder. How much of what I say on a regular basis is a lie? An attempt at knowing something I don’t, or hiding something I do? It’s all so very confusing, but wonderfully inspiring at the same time.
So… here it is:
The cotton candy stood up like a giant bear. Its feathers fluttered in the wind as the pen drew across the sky. Ink started to fall. Blue. Black. Green. Yellow. A page slowly fell to the ground, where the man lay. It landed over his eyes, blinding him momentarily. It all seemed so real. It all felt so warm. It wasn’t. It was all in the flickering light of my foresight. The mountain air, the soft grass. All of it. The shades didn’t do much to help either. They stood their, still as rock, waiting for my hair to grey. It all feels so fake. So wrong. So beautiful though. I love it when the ink flows from the eyes, to the table, to the ground, to the river. It all feels so alive with the limited palette of overly-bright colours stream across the sky, rushing like painted horses to some dark place that I care not to go back to. We all have our dark places. Even on the sunniest days, some part of us lingers in the shadows, daring not to show itself, for fear of the taller ones. The ones that stretch deep into the layers of clouds. The ones that look down at me, from the blue holes in the sky. A pen lies in front of me, daring me to uncap it. To let it find it’s way across my fingers. It begs to have it’s writhing (motionless) self dragged across the paper landscape it resides in. The screen calls, though. It begs to be watched. I beg to watch it. It’s this strange interaction between object and mind. A slow dance between subjects, entangling into this strange and unique sense of being. Neither “is”, though. We both know, the screen and I, that we aren’t. We just think we are, both in our own special kind of way. It’s somewhat terrifying, to think, to know that the screen is on the same plane of existence as I, the mighty human, destroying all in my path, believing I am the ultimate creator, because I have a pen. It’s all because of this stupid pen. But I still love the pen. And the juice for that matter. Which came first though? The juice or the pen? I like to think the juice. But some may beg to differ. Is the juice the same juice that comes from an orange? Or is it different because it’s in a box? It calls to me. (like the screen, in a sense) but our interactions are much deeper. The juice is not just calling to me. It knows me. It’s been a part of me for as long as I can remember. The juice and I go waaay back. Back to the time when the drawing was but a dream, when the horses didn’t course through the sky on their desperate quest for colourful enlightenment, to the time where the screen was but a thought in the mind of an ant, about to be stepped on. Ants have had all the best ideas. They are just never given the opportunity to voice them. I bet if one were to decipher the language of a colony, we would find the secrets to the universe. The ants may even be smarter than the mice. I like the mice. Even the rats. Sometimes. I don’t like it when they come in contact with a broom. It’s just one of those things. They hold the ultimate control over some of us, as long as there is no broom. No broom, means power. Broom, means a broken neck. A tile is the home of such neckless rats. Sometimes the tile is cracked. Sometimes not. Sometimes the puppy finds the tile, ratless, and remedies the situation. Sometimes the tile grows bright orange. Sometimes I don’t think. I do think usually though. Words tend to flow, and when words flow it’s because something’s going on. What’s going on? I don’t know. Things. Things go on a lot. I like things. Things are awesome. Especially when they taste good. Things, things things. Not necessarily material things. Emotions are things. We are things. I am a thing. My screen is a thing. And we all know that a screen is not material. The screen is part of my system. Almost like the juice. They all slide into position when they’re all thought of as things. And when everything and everybody (we shouldn’t need to make the distinction) is thought of strictly as a thing, that is when we will have reached the ultimate state of being. The ultimate cotton candy, if you will. Maybe the glo-in-the-dark fairy of beingness. Something like that. Something. I see that. Something, in that case isn’t even physical. Things are meta physical too. Like metadata. It’s a thing, but it’s a thing about a thing. Like the colour of a colour. The colour is not a colour unless it’s defined by the colour that it is. Metathings. Like the fire. The fire is hot. It’s hot because it’s a fire, but it’s a fire because it’s hot. Or is it? Probably not. It’s nothing like the egg and the chicken. I just wish it was. The chicken’s name is George. Or maybe it’s Mary? Probably Mary. I think George is her rooster. He’s always been a bit of an asshole though. I don’t like him. Sometimes, I think I should run after him. Or offer him some KFC. But then it would ruin our ski trips. (George is good friends with Tom and Jimmy). Not the Jimmy from that movie, though. Just Jimmy from the canteen. He’s a good guy. Jimmy should have been an entertainer. But instead he got into the catering business. Not that it was a bad choice.
