Toasties

I realize now, my reality will never line up with the actual worlds reality. Since everyone has their own idea, they just kind of collide. Even more so when such things as, what one sees going on is never said. It just lingers until something dramatic occurs. That our laughing at nothing, the void in which we create our own reality is never objective to just myself. It's subjective to others and they have a say whether we like it or not. Even if that persons say is unheard, the point can get across just fine one way or another. I'm always the fish asking what the hell water is and trying to walk outside of water up the tree. Constantly feeling stupid for never walking, but in the mean time never swimming either. Never the rat in the floorboards or the intellectuals above said floorboards. Not really in the picture at all, locked away like Thoreau in Walden or Bon Iver creating his album. The difference being lacking the talent to create such things, so just a man moving out of the way for all to pass him by. Since rejection, shrouded skepticism, irony and cynicism has become such a chunk of what was once a child-like world. 'Tis not all bad I suppose, maybe I'm missing the bigger picture and just don't know it. I seem to do that oft. Hunter S. Thompson can finish whatever this diatribe is... with a toast.

"Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to unemployment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies and contraceptives... and to the ‘good life,’ whatever it is and wherever it happens to be."