Is this a drill?
No. This is change. This is real change. This is something so groundbreaking and devastating, an anomaly that will forever be recorded in the history of undiscovered nations. When will they be discovered? This is tentative; of course, subject to change.
It’s quite hard when you are not the type to adapt to change firsthand, especially if routine was necessary for keeping the mind sane. Honestly, sanity is an illusion. People never consider this or teach this in modern-day society because the human instinct is to follow societal norms. Each and every individual desires to be the divine and ideal image of ‘normalcy.’ Normalcy, as with sanity, is a myth. Perhaps one will pursue this wild goose chase in the hopes that they will feel their life somehow had a purpose of some sort. The sad truth: silly goosies do not sit around believing their ill-founded racisms and prejudices are correct. Do they? Of course not. Geese have small brains. Do humans have small brains? Small brain capacities, perhaps? Alas, it is debatable. The brain is a silly tool of the human subconscious that yields illusions of some sort to appeal to the infinite windows of the soul. The soul is a separate being from the physical body as is the mafia player from the deep-rooted aspects of someone’s personality. It has been an adamant belief of mine that, yes, the mafia player is in fact another person outside of the person. It is a being that forms itself of augmented characteristics and traits that lie dormant in the citizen’s skin, buried deep deep deep until they arise and become cunning and fierce and aggressive and wise and logical and emotional and competitive and unscrupulous and unbelievable and insane and vehement and diligent and vigilant and curious and clueless and wondrously spectacular. ‘Glorified guesswork’ is poppycock. A common fallacy remains that a human will challenge what they do not prefer as the wrong preference. Subjectivity has absolutely no place in logic and in factual evidence. Opinions are perspective and perspective alone. Balderdash such as “Selkirk Rex cats are the best breed” are mere folly, as well as an unfortunate collective habit of the populace. Arguments, debates, wars, squabbles, skirmishes arise over such trivial subject matters. Would the world be a world if it were devoid of all conflict? Perhaps not, and yet it pains me to think on disagreements that may have been solved without violence and, instead, with compromise. Let Johnny and Timmy each have one half of the whole sandwich instead of encouraging them to spit in each other’s eyes and push each other off of the monkey bars until one begins either bleeding or crying.
No, I do not want blood on the seats, nor the walls, nor the ceiling fan.
Let me start with names. I do not remember names. I have heard many names and seen many names and read many names. I have embarked on fantastic journeys and greeted wonderful gentlemen and ladies and spectated many a tumultuous event; however, is it inexplicably necessary to recall the names of such events, or of the captains I sent off to sea, or the twenty-sixth President of the United States or the brand of apple cider I downed last night or the headache I experienced in my longing for an experience I would never feel? I can scarcely recite the names of my own friends. I can remember disposition, aura, appearance, color, emotional atmosphere, circumstances, role type, front cover art, and… quite a myriad of irrelevant things that do not involve the reiteration of a name. I do not store names in my memory as a normal human being does. I cannot fathom why, nor have I attempted to, for never have I viewed it as a considerable issue. Should it be? Are names important? Is the insignificant title of a person or the brand of attire they adorn or the species nomenclature the identity of the organism? What is identity? Is identity truly a name? Is it thought, ethnicity, gender *or presumed gender), religion, blood type, personality? Truly, this is a concept of every-day life that has baffled me and will continue to baffle me just as Terry Pratchett’s Alzheimer’s will continue to deteriorate his sanity that none of us never had and then the books will end the books will end they will end
I drink a rather dubious amount of tea and an even more unfathomable amount of coffee on a daily basis. Every once in a while, when I happen to be consuming either one of the two drinks, fleeting thoughts wander my mind that I do not always bother to write down, unfortunately. I never quite know where to begin, you see. I never know where to start the word flow, or when to channel what my characters wish to say through the writer inside of me that yearns to be awake. It loves challenge; it desires adventure! I cry exultantly each and every time a character of mine invites himself or herself in for a drink or two and recounts his or her tale to me. I have heard many a tragic love story as well as stories of heartbreak and friendship, of war and peace, of light and dark, of levity and gravity, of shenanigans and all of the worries and concerns and problems in this universe, all conglomerating into an enormous force that leaves me quite exhausted by sunset. At times I may not have even written more than a handful of sentences by then—I become too fascinated and awed, and cannot even keep up with my own pace of thought, and I require rest for the next day. Or the next fortnight. My characters and inspirations are fickle creatures. Inspiration is a cruel mistress; she comes and goes with no prior warning. No; not even a simple knock on the door.
This last sentence will be comprised of exactly eleven simple words.