The moon is shining through my window onto my arm and it makes me feel so at home. I've downed a couple glasses of Cocacola, I am on episode seven of Deep Space Nine, and there is no sign of sleep in the next few hours.
What the fetch is exo-archaeology?
Moving on. Moonlight is so beautiful, isn't it? It does the same thing that rain and snow does, it almost exposes the nature of the true spirit of each person. When it shines on someone's face, truth becomes the only language that anyone can speak. Walking through heavy rain causes people to reveal their essential, transient beings. They make a conscious decision to become one of two people. One person would run through the rain, having raindrops fall into their eyes and sting and cause them to run faster and become annoyed with each and every drop that hits them. They are thinking ahead, to the party that night, the time they'll see someone that they think cares about the way they look, or how they have to change clothes because all they are wearing has become slightly damp.
The second person is the one who walks through the rain, every cell of their being rejoicing in the feeling of living that the falling droplets give. Exhilaration rushes through their veins as they take the time to simply live. They take that moment, those few minutes that will never occur again in all the history of the earth, and they make it count. They make it memorable. They could have let it go past and it would just become another rain, nothing remarkable about it at all. But they don't, they ask "why" in response to society's imposition of image and they tell society that it is wrong.
Okay, that may have been a little exaggerated, but bear with me as I learn to love language again. I've been reading too much Jack Kerouac. He tends to do the same thing. I want it to be known, I read On the Road before it was cool. Hipster for life.
There are so many different images of what I want to be. That is how I think, a lot of the time, in images. One of them is the writer sitting around a loft in New York writing a novel of some sort or another. Each stroke her fingers lends brilliance and eloquence to her plot. Nothing is silly and everything is just perfect. She is comfortable and all she needs is a cup of tea to keep her going.
Here is a very brief summary of things that I want/want to be like/etc. Just some thoughts. Enjoy. I'm going back to my Final Frontier.