Conventionality is born of stagnation and a reluctance to relinquish our grip on antiquated social observances. While it’s understandable that people want to revel in the bastion of the familiar and shun all things foreign, it should be etched into our very soul how important it is to learn and evolve beyond the mundane, for to grow stagnant is to stop moving forward, to allow convention the right of way is to disavow our own humanity and free will, and squelch the fire of imagination, and crush all possibility of really feeling as though we’re alive.
“What a man does for pay is of little significance. What he is, as a sensitive instrument responsive to the world’s beauty, is everything!”
~ H. P. Lovecraft; american author of weird, science, fantasy and horror fiction.
out of Context;
‘topics through the mind meat, somewhere deep that can never be touched by human hands, but torn apart with a simple command…we might have the impossible journey stillborn in our hands, but, goddamn-it!!!, we are good people…yet, where is this fascinating syndrome i have come to feel?…’
“Belief is the death of intelligence. As soon as one believes a doctrine of any sort, or assumes certitude, one stops thinking about that aspect of existence.”
~ Robert Anton Wilson; american author, philosopher and sit-down comedian.
indecision abounds, and I can’t clear the ol’ noggin, friends… gaps in time lead me to be less than fruitful, and I can’t help but classify myself in these retarded constraints, even when I know I am not that terrible… Just uncomfortably lazy…
“Science fiction writers, I am sorry to say, really do not know anything. We can’t talk about science, because our knowledge of it is limited and unofficial, and usually our fiction is dreadful.”
~ Philip K. Dick; american science fiction author and philosopher.
so Here we are yet again, my tramps and dears alike, the day of days. friday the 13th and no Voorhees in sight. taking my place in the human race without being shy about it, and without the definite affinity with melting objects. the brain drains the pan dry, stepping out into the light, and the flickering display that consciousness has made me imperatively aware of first hand. what is luck, eh?… unlucky in life, unlucky in nearly every other aspect of living, but why the urge to move anyway? sometimes the motion kills remains of aches and seething hatreds that bury themselves under the skin, to stay active makes the blood flow into those warm places. a crutch for the unwary perhaps, but always with the sophisticated tone in ambivalence for reality working towards a progressive end, consistent …
I grow wistful, but it really appears as nostalgia incognito, the hidden sentiment…
