AN: this was something I wrote during Spanish class the other day. It was
kind of inspired by F-451 becuase I've been writing a paper on it,
comparing the censorship in it with that of Stalin's Russia. And it jsut
kind of clicked that maybe this was how Clarisse might have felt. . .Just a
thought
Thoughts. What are they but words on the page? What are they but an endless blurr of blue on white? What are they but meaningless information, important to only the persob who thought them? We live in a world today where true thought is all but obsolete. We live in a world where thoughts mean almost nothing, where no one thinks for themselves, and those who do are thought to be weird and shy. The curse of being an intorvert. . . the curse of analyzing the things you hear, not just accepting them for what they are. Thinking. What is that but just lettle your mind wander? What is it byt more endless words on the page? More blue lines blurred on white? Words mean nothing to anyone, not event he one who thinks them. . . Words. What are they but a pathetic attempt at confessing what's in your soul? An attempt at communicating with the rest of humanity? Kind of feels like I've failed. I always fail to get my points across. Fail to make anything evident. But maybe that's what I mean to do. Maybe I mean to just ramble endlessly about nothing mearly because I cannot bear to keep from thinking. Because a life without thought is a life without meaning. Because I feel lonely if I can't hear those little voices in my head talking to me. No I dont mean "the voices" as if I were a schitzo (though that may very well be true), the voices of my thoughts as they all take onnew forms, all take on new personalities. So I'm told not to think,, not to analyze what people around me say, told to like a life without it because I'll be happier. Well if not thinking is happiness then I'd rather stay down and out forever. Maybe such a thing is for the best?
Thoughts. What are they but words on the page? What are they but an endless blurr of blue on white? What are they but meaningless information, important to only the persob who thought them? We live in a world today where true thought is all but obsolete. We live in a world where thoughts mean almost nothing, where no one thinks for themselves, and those who do are thought to be weird and shy. The curse of being an intorvert. . . the curse of analyzing the things you hear, not just accepting them for what they are. Thinking. What is that but just lettle your mind wander? What is it byt more endless words on the page? More blue lines blurred on white? Words mean nothing to anyone, not event he one who thinks them. . . Words. What are they but a pathetic attempt at confessing what's in your soul? An attempt at communicating with the rest of humanity? Kind of feels like I've failed. I always fail to get my points across. Fail to make anything evident. But maybe that's what I mean to do. Maybe I mean to just ramble endlessly about nothing mearly because I cannot bear to keep from thinking. Because a life without thought is a life without meaning. Because I feel lonely if I can't hear those little voices in my head talking to me. No I dont mean "the voices" as if I were a schitzo (though that may very well be true), the voices of my thoughts as they all take onnew forms, all take on new personalities. So I'm told not to think,, not to analyze what people around me say, told to like a life without it because I'll be happier. Well if not thinking is happiness then I'd rather stay down and out forever. Maybe such a thing is for the best?