Sunday, November 18, 2001

Wat am I feeling? Why don't we have the devices to extract our hearts from within our chest and dab it on a piece of blank canvas? Why? For it may paint, in a somewhat incomprehensible way, the feelings that ravage it. How is it possible that wat is going thru my mind, isn't that which pours forth from this orifice on my face? Wat good is speech if it doesn't dictate that image that burns like a supernova in my mind? Why these questions? Will I ever stop asking why? Do we get definate answers from a monologue?

A mind like scambled egg, I say. You can't make out the yellows from the whites, and it fluffs up and outwards threatening the limits of the skull which confines it. I had scrambled eggs just 2 days ago and I was poking around the leftovers with a designer fork, like someone is poking around my delicate information processing machine now. And someone told me it's where my soul resides. It's where YOUR soul lies protected within the cranium.

So let me make you a proposition. Close your eyes. And let me, once and for all, mess up your mind.

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