Eyes parted three ways

It be strange to see the world from an entirely different perspective. Your entire life you've been seeing everything through the same eyes, speaking with the same voice, observing with the same intuition. To think that it'd be possible to truly live through some one else, in every way is astonishing. You wouldn't have to wonder anymore what people truly thought of you, or at least not one person. Is your character ambiguous and confusing, or is there a constant thought that embodies your person? Who would know, because our minds are threaded with constantly changing thoughts and emotions. One moment you could be one thing to some one, and through traumatic thought or event you could become something completely different. Beauty to beast, enigma to incredibly real.

If there is a stigma attached to you, you'd be able to plot it out. The words that are subconsciously connected with just having your name spoken.

did you ever really know before, my mind, scared to think?

It's not really something you niggle upon to the endless hours of the night, not if you're perfectly sane. It's merely a passing thought for a lot of us. Though even the narcissist ponders for hours on outward appearance, he thinks not for a second upon the painted thoughts of others. There's no reason in thinking constantly what your words mean to others, if they are spoken they cannot be completely unsaid. Freudian slips are there for a reason, and apology for such a phrase would be lying against your own character.

To put it simply, if you go back on words you've once said, you're damaging the beliefs you held strongly enough to berth to their emotion.

There's probably a world out there, somewhere buried in the echelons of our dreams, where we can all see in the colors of everyone's psyche, creating a canvas from the morals they truly carry, however this is reality, this is today. Realistically speaking, there's no way of knowing anyone's true intentions, and there's no real way of knowing if your own intentions are true.

Intuition is a lie because we don't have the capacity to see all the information upon speaking. Our tools are not adequate and our voices not nearly just. Immanuel Kant spoke of the Ding an Sich (which translates to thing-in-itself) which is the absolute entity of an object, observed to it's full capacity. A capacity that we do not have. Until we may actually be able to see a thought, realize a dream, as it's ding an sich, intuition will simply be a lie.

Not in a cruel sense, we're not all unfaithful liars, or pathological cheats. Don't blame yourself, it's not your fault.

It truly will never be your fault, because not even you are you-in-yourself.

Moleskine

Today I decided that I was going to carry a moleskine around with me everywhere I go. For a lot of reasons, one because they make you look sophisticated, two because they're the coolest notebooks to write in on account of them absorbing fountain pen ink like immediately after it's written (seriously, test it, I get distracted sometimes when I'm writing because of the constantly changing shade of ink) and last of all because I always have strange and sometimes profound thoughts that I lose in a matter of moments.

When I look through the blank pages I immediately wish I could draw a little bit better, just to better portray the image in my head. Sometimes the words aren't enough and you truly need that image there, so maybe instead I'll start taking my dinky little digital camera around and sticking significant images in. Quite frankly I'll look like some sort of stalker with the photos I'll be taking, but with consensus from the person whom will be presented, I might actually give of a better impression. In the end though, it would give me more satisfaction if I could jot down a quick sketch of exactly what it is I'm seeing, distorted by my mind's eye. Sometimes what we see exactly through our eyes isn't exactly what is being portrayed through our head.

What I'll be writing will generally be a play on semantics. Taking the things I say and playing word games with them. Simple situations, taken and made deities to me. Put on a pedestal to be inspected and commented upon. I feel like it might actually make life less interesting sometimes, if I take every possible situation and pick it apart in my little moleskine, but at the same time, I'll enjoy ever dot of ink I spill onto those pages. It'll be my own small philosophy on the pages of a book. Something some one some day might actually read and enjoy, and if not enjoy, dissect themselves, the way I once dissected things.

I suppose this whole writing thing will build on my hamartia of trying to see things for so much more than they are, and having unnecessary compassion, however, something inside me still churns and aches for me to do it anyway. It's like a primal instinct that has been instilled in me the way that lust is instilled in most, I just don't want to forget all the things I'm seeing thinking dissecting anyway.

Someday I'll never remember any of this, and I hope that I can gain back at least an ounce of it through my scrawled writing in a little moleskine.

Outside the funeral home

It's strange, the way one can take a seemingly mundane thing and twist it in their minds to create an elaborate life story. They make their own characters and plot at such an alarming speed, that the reality and plausibility of the story becomes malleable. It usually becomes something that is not truthfully, true. It's almost as if we're using objects, or people, that we see and find peculiar, and take advantage of their disposition, if objects could have disposition.

I feel guilty, or nearly so, as I've been doing this quite frequently lately. It's as though, when something normal, strikes me as incredibly odd, it suddenly becomes rounded. I feel obliged to let my mind wander into the realm of endless possibilities that the situation I have just witnessed, may exist within. The situation doesn't have to be extremely out of the ordinary, just a passing interest. It's happened to me on many occasions, and I feel as though I should've written more examples down, however I do have one to provide.

Not a week ago, I saw funeral procession about to leave the parlors, a melancholy sight to even the hardest of hearts. It was not the black and mourning procession itself that intrigued me though, it was a man crossing the drive up to the parlor. He had dropped his book bag and spilled it's contents onto the sidewalk. He had a look of utter despair on his face, as if nothing else could have gone wrong in his life that day. The weather was perfect, the place and timing seemed to be in line for me to create some story about this man and his spilled things.

I analyzed the situation for a brief moment, and realized he must not have had a particularly good day, and might not have even been aware of the funeral taking place. However, it seemed as though he felt the same loss, the same sense of distress that the people in the parlor felt. It was a relative sense of course, as a few spilled things could never compare to a life, however I knew that, given the right place, tears might have been shed by this man for yet another thing falling out of place that evening. I felt for him, as I felt for the ones who'd lost their loved one. It was as though they shared the depressing atmosphere.

This made me of course wonder on death itself, as though it emanated that desperation. Maybe that man dropped his bag outside of that funeral for a reason. Perhaps it was the dead within the home trying to push their bad karma on others, trying to purge themselves through allowing each living being to suffer just slightly. This could account for the tears shed as well. If this is the case, I would feel selfish not to have taken part in the small dropping of things. I would have felt guilty had I not seen the tearful procession and the funeral home. Yes, I've concluded that that was my purpose. I was to view the situation as an aid to the dead, trying to help them overcome the terrible things that they'd see in the afterlife be imparting just a small part of their burden on myself.

I realize this is all mostly nonsense, that the man probably just dropped his bag, and that processions cry, because it's a sad thing to lose a life. But because the two groups present at that time and event, both felt such despair (even though they were only relative to situations), perhaps there is more to emotion than we truly know. Perhaps