I was reading an entry from jack. Interesting descriptions of numbers colors and gender. 

The numbers that I most often identify with myself – “8 is black. female. apathetic but watchful. i get the feeling her apathy is all an act. she’d write if she could. she longs for something else, but sticks to her duty because there is dignity in that. she is careful not to care.

’11 is an athlete. male. he is white like the number 1. his mind is comptetitive by nature and he is analytically sound. he can argue, but he only likes to argue plays and strategy. he would be a warrior if he knew how.”

I am in awe actually. Makes one wonder about how people are connected to things on a higher plane than this physical one. It seems that maybe the world problem is that there are a billion different places to exist and that is why we don’t always understand our differences.

I do know upon reflection that I lack this kind of originality. My existence is the epitome of the definition of creativity…making something new out of something old. But that doesn’t make it original. I am void of attachments to the abstract….wallowing in a physical dimemnsion. I draw well but I have to be looking at a picture. My poetry becomes a story built around a common cliche’. My writing is only the ability to tell my own stories. I can’t even create the thing I love most, music. I can only listen…mimicking, more technically proficient and less like any talent for originality.

Oh, but they are my passions. 

Why can’t I share these types of things with pepper? What emotion did I turn off? Where’s the fucking on/off switch anyway?

%d bloggers like this: