I Think, Therefore I am.. Just Bored

It becomes a fine morning when I'm actually looking forward to something. Alex Hitchins (The Hitch) says to the.. ahem.. Eva Mendes character," Start each day as if it were on purpose." (I think?) My mind seems strangely oblivious to the underlying principle involved here and my thought (which I now refer to as the Wandering Eye of Mordor), at a single moment in time seems to drive itself to 'understand' stuff than actually experience them. 

The questions of 'why' and 'how' which were instrumental in the survival and accomplishments of  our species, while elevates your attitude towards life, might not fare as well as efficient instruments in the actual living of it. In fact, the more you understand something, the more it seems to squeeze out every bit of wonder and excitement which might have given you a laugh or a passing smile. I'm now looking at the things I thought I knew in different ways to see if the theory is sound. For eg., the saying 'Ignorance is bliss' seems to have taken a more endearing shade of inviting blue now. 

As I'm writing this I realize that I'm trying to dissect and understand this state of sublime discontent as well, and I see it fit to stop now and let the feeling wash over me and make me feel like a 'real boy'.

To Prove an Identity

Thoughts move in random jumps of linear paradigms, tirelessly exhibiting the futility in their magnificent attempts to produce even surface ripples in the calm, colorless waters of the seas that fill the depths of my being. Deep currents of anguish and revulsion that run beneath them, bringing transient life to my sensory plains and uncharted islands born of untapped colors and unfinished sentiment.

What is it that I seek? I do not know. Perhaps I do not even seek the hope filled answers that may quell my fears and infectious concerns of continued purposes and potentialities of actions. The possibility of floods of relational emotions do seem to wantonly water the scorched earth of these forsaken lands in elusively desirous fashion though. And that in turn keeps the salty, intoxicating breezes blowing through the tangling vines of knowing that adorn the subtle spheres of my formless existence.

"What am I" seems to be getting a rather loud question these days and so I content myself by nagging the fickle mental facility with the contagious clusters of exclusionary arguments that provide short bursts of relief to the disease that spreads though my false soul.

And after having gone on for so long, it seems I have circled back to that first of realizations one finds enveloping the newborn self after the first waves of light and sound birth it in lucidity.

I  AM  NOT  YOU.