Thursday, November 12, 2009


There is a time and a season for all is the time for quiet introspection. To speak would only weaken my focus and introduce unnecessary distraction. My roommate may feel snubbed, or hurt by my coldness, but I can't care right now. Perhaps later I will explain. Perhaps not.
After all, it is not my responsibility to apologize and rationalize or even edify others to the motivation for my antics.
But I digress...
Introspection...there is nothing like a shower, taken in the warm darkness of a steamy bathroom. The lack of optic stimulation leaves much of the brain free for lofty and otherwise interesting thoughts.

It is a sad thing when the opportunity for thinking fades. Fatigue mixed with the noise of a Hunter S. Thompson biography being played too loud makes it difficult to think. Initially, I had planned to write about the meaning of things, childhood, purpose, and all kinds of wonderful things. Perhaps I am being to trite.

When the season for solemn thought is not yet upon me, it is very difficult to produce sincere creations. Because the only good writing is writing that does not have oneself in mind; one must be completely separated from self-interest and thoughts of achievement to produce anything of real worth. Writing with the aforementioned qualities is good for a cheap laugh or a quick thought, but the real works of genius are produced by those who thought, thought, and thought some more without any intention for personal gain of wealth or recognition. Henry David Thoreau, Mark Twain, Soren Kierkegaard, Emily Dickinson, William Wordsworth...all men and women of genius who wrote for the novelty of thought and internal discovery, not personal gain.

And while I would in no way equate myself to them, I would hope to employ some of those tactics to my own writing. While it naturally happens in the appropriate season, it is scarce when my soul is not in winter. Spring and Summer produce the lighter, less dense writings. Fall and Winter bring heavier and darker productions.

Ack. The time gets to me. Sleep.


  1. You are a very old soul, my friend, not to mention a lovely writer. I am eager to witness your winter.

  2. I agree with bruce