I finally caved.

Do you know that Taft passed the 16th amendment? I do. Its called the income tax and I have been told it is one of the major downfalls of the United States. I’m not sure if the government is a good or a bad thing and I’m definitely not sure if a big, controlling government is one of the positive aspects of life. While on the subject, I’m not sure what exactly is positive.
Now, I know the world is full of generalizations that, by nature, get us nowhere, but further entangled in some net of an almost false world; But in that is isn’t false.
I do not think that means a lot.

Sitting in my bed late at night, I always had this, what I would classify as, demonic want of creating my own world. Quaking in my thoughts, I would lose myself to the nerves inside this contradictory mind and begin to find courage.
While not sure of what I would consider broken, I have lost any definition of self, and observatory of the world around me, I find myself unable to capture a single photograph of analytical material. Though why, I am not quite sure.

The world is opening its eyes to find a constant state of mating. The world is making love to itself and reproducing slightly altered, consistent copies of self.
And somehow I am not divided.

One of the only questions I can still find is if poetic justice exists in anything but a nondirect sense.
Lying in the grass I am not so sure
Red Robbins flitter by and ripples appear without any apparent reasoning.

Yesterday I tried to save a beetle, but upon covering it with a napkin intended to aid in carrying it to safety, I failed to realize I only crushed the poor diety.
Perhaps if I had only chosen the option of hand to shell contact, its regretful juice would not cover the gym floor.
Looking back I can’t seem to place past in present without altering it.
Maybe that is whst the gypsy meant.
And the newest theories co-exist with my preconceived notions, with which I just end up dismissing.

Daisy looks at me as if she can see into the future, as if she resents it. The moment is gone and now all I find in her eyes is a glass remnant of the moment before. Knowing I should not try too hard to configure stories that may only be permitted to thrive in my own mind, there still lies the inescapable truth that often times I seem to be fated to remain incapable of letting go.
Why is it that my only moments of true self actualization lay dormant in the world of drifting clouds and faltering grass strands.
Reminder to self: try not to drift off into nightmares too unchecked.
Whenever I stop to rest this rebellious state of conscious tends to just wander around. Maybe its actually not a negative thing, but I don’t want to react too badly with these chemicals of possibility. Oh science, I hate it(which is to say, I would like it more if I could use it more flawlessly), but I seem to be bound to stumble upon it in daily life.
This is much too frequently for me, but I can not alter it, so I’m not going to try to alter it (Atleast not now).
As of recent, I have been having these crazy dreams where all my fears come true, but in some way they are more beautiful then the most abstract, brilliant wonder-world my flawed minds is able to conceive.
Its not my fault.
Or maybe it is.
One thing I have discovered it that I often try to fix things that are what would seem content in there current state. And even when something actually is flawed and I go about altering it, I only precede to futher complicate situations.
Laziness continues to flock every actions I mistakingly follow through with. Often temptation arises to believe every thought owned is faultly.
Why this obsession with being wrong?
A bark sounds, reminding me of my tendency to trail off.
I know I can be annoying with my colossal case of ADD, but who really ever know what they are talking about?
The dog seems almost as obsessed with my attention as I am with everything else. I try to feebly convery this to her, but all sense of humor I have remains for another day inexpressible.
Sometimes I am tempted to shout at the world that all is an expression of a self- scripted plan.
I wake up with thoughts that are not mine. Trailing off is not so bad, but duality is frustrating.
My mother screams at me, iterating the utmost importance of being awake. I do not know why. Always, she seems lost to the cause of dreaming. Has she not also danced in the radiant light of daring stars, thouched the sky of heaven and found strength to breathe in the suffocating depth where creatures of unsolvable questions meet? The stars and the sea are my playground. Why would I want to leave?
I suppose she finds her games in this much more concrete world, perhaps I am the unlearned one.
Why must someone be at fault?
Someone told me I ask a lot of questions, which might translate into too many, but I don’t really see a problem.
Okay maybe I see a slight problem but nothing worth abandoning the rest of me for,
Stumbling out of bed, I roll on the floor attempting to stretch cramped muscles and finally greet the day. There is nothing to wear that suits my mood, but I find some type of pleasure in a red and blue striped shirt, loosely fitting and an old pair of faded jeans. Not my best, but I don’t thinkg the fair old lady recognized as my grandmother will mind.
“Kentucky,”
She used to say, “was good to me and as a result I favor an outlook on life which serves as a reminder that judgement need only be negative if productive.”

I’m not sure I see her reasoning, but I’m not sure if she or her morale require any. While it is on my mind, I need to recognize the that that I am very repetitious in my thoughts.
Note to self: contemplate productivity of it later.
My experiment is to find use in excursion of external effort. More for the purpose of passing the time than to learn anything. That is not to say that I am exceedingly bored or unsatisfied with what is so much as a statement of the eternal state of a time requiring constant action(external and internal).
My mother calls to me as I brush my teeth, saying we must be going, and I am exhausted with not having enough time to do anything well, finish half-heartedly and find my shoes missing. Retrieving them from an almost usual resting place, rushing to the gas-guzzling red s.u.v, I worry that my mother will finally reach her limit of patience and leave without me.
(The fact that I can not be on times does not represent a lack of love or reverence for those I leave waiting for me.)
As I stumble into the car, still slightly in the fuzz of a dreaming state, I check for any signals of frustrations on her face. The only trace quickly disappears into a stoic look, almost normal for her; but her new state of calm has not existed long enough for me to trust in its reliability. My mother tends to morph into different creatures with the passing of time. It could almost be considered seasonal, but refuses to follow any connection to the mood of her habitat. People love my mother and they despise my moth, almost as haphazardly as her actions.
She pulls out of the driveway, leading to our odd dweling and , merges with the slight traffic characteristic of the area we reside in.
Temosa is not the greatest place in the world, but it comes close, if such things are measurable.
Oh impatience. I have little of any staying power and my nearly inconsistent moods are nothing off for me.
People used to say something on the subject, but I forget the content of the sentences.
Oh existence. Failable
That’s not a word.
Oh experimentation.
It leads me nowhere.
Still I arrive somewhere.
“Hello Nina.”
She has me call her that, it seems a little superfluous to me, but I don’t think I mind so much as find it unusual. Though in context it seems not so. Odd ways for an odd woman. Infact, in that light it seems completely normal: oh the double-negatives of the world.
I wonder if there is someway to see all its ways, separate and together at once. Though it has been attempted, it would seem near impossible, atleast in my field of view.
I am utterly foolish.
“Hello, my dear old lady.”
She calls me that, dear old lady, while I call her young girl. In secret, this is probably symbolic or something, but I care not enough to even begin to explain the complexities.
Some personality test I took told me I was high in openness, which is to say I am good at finding connections that aren’t usually visible. Maybe that’s because they aren’t there until someone says they are.
(the old, if a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, did it actually make a
Sound?)
The fact also means I’m at high risk for psychosis, which isn’t suprising. People who are constantly battling off dehabilitizing views in the way things work often find themselves as either crazy or on the way to becoming so. I’m not so upset about it though, it keeps things interesting.
Honesty shall forever be my downfall, which in turn may be my saving grace (but with an attitude like this it may be neither. I don’t know the future and merely speak from past experience).
Still, I am reminded of my dreams which are thought upon so vividly they tend to become reality.
Properly used, I think all might react much more smoothly.
Perhaps there is time to learn.
Our conversation moved to criminals and alligators. I don’t know why we talk about alligators so much, but I faintly recall my mother mentioning that she as a younger woman participated in very hazardous activities, and I am tempted to wonder if alligator wrestling could have been one.
Maybe I am going crazy

Someone once suggested that I take anxiety pills to soothe fears that accompany unrestricted feelings of a loss of firm holding. Sometimes I let myself destroy myself so I can arise, reborn from the ashes.
Sometimes I don’t know if things are going according to plan.
Nina looks at my concerned, her usual smile leaving her old, happy weathered face for a moment as she examines the out-skirts of my face, it seems I have betrayed myself.
She them smiles, warmly reaches out and grabs my hand, squeezes and then tells me it is time we had a talk. I look at her oddly, with a thousand questions in my eyes. She suggests a walk.
Her much over-used body stands up, bent with age and abuse (from non but her), seems to quiver a bit and proceeds to lead me out the door; my mother left contemplating in our tracks.