Five Hundred Eighty Words That Mean Nothing

Words are easy.  They are manifestations of who we are, what we think when we think them.  They are the shadows of who we are, and what we have been and will be, and think we should be.  What is more difficult is to simply be what the words represent, because often times the words represent less what we are and more what we want to be. Sometimes what we want to be is different than what we are capable of being, and shows we are guiding ourselves with the shadows of what we think we are.


Good things don’t always happen to good people, and we are all good people.  Bad things happen to good people, but that is just life.  The amount of good and bad in your life really doesn’t affect the good and bad things that happen, or can happen.  If only good happened to the good people in this world, wouldn’t there  be more good people in the world? More good things in the world? More goodness? Less crap?


Would life be better if we got all we dreamt of?  What we dream shows the essense of who we are, and how much of that essense are you willing to show the world? How much of your naked greed,  your ambition, your unbridled want and wild excess are you willing to show a cruel and mocking world? How much worse would life be if we got all we dreamt?


Speaking of dreams, what are mine?  At least one I’m willing to show the world? To have enough to have a better place to live, and to help all my family, parents,  brothers, in-laws, cousins, aunts, uncles, to have enough money to concern themselves a little less with the day to day grind that is living in this mad world.  To have enough money to get land enough to build a house of my own, from the bottom up, from my own blueprint, my own plan. 

With several acres of woods in the back.  That’d be a nice touch.


What happens to dreams?  They get beaten down by reality, by the cruel unfeeling world that says you are not paid to believe in the power of your dreams, you are paid to work, so get to it.  And what do we do? We work, not because we love it, but because we must.  We like work, we all really do want to feel productive,  but that particular like, that want,  is turned against us, we are not given enough for what we do, and not just money-wise and we are told that we are wrong for wanting more, that we should accept less for the work we do. 

There is much wrong with that.


Work is good.  I like working.  I like working hard, really getting my back into my work, breaking a sweat.  I want to work, but here I am not working. So I try to make up for it, by running, by exercising, by pushing my body, hard, as hard as I can with what I have to push it with, to make up for feeling like I’m not doing anything.  The running and whatnot helps me get through my day easier, feeling like i’ve done something worthwhile, keeps me sane, or as sane as I get, anyway.


And my day is done.  I’ll write next when I can, tomorrow I and the wife am out travelling.  I’ll write to you later, America.  Have a good night.


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