Why Do I Do What I Must Do?; Why To Reflect on The Reasoning of Things; Writer or Not, ‘tis Worth a Thought — Morning Papers XV

As I deeply peel away from the contentions of the night, I come back into the day, with a different person about me and my writing — always the reasons why are at the forefront of my imagination.

THE LAST PAPER:

So, we arise together in this assorting tumbling of the daily cycles of this living upon the Planet of Earth. Where you leave the night is one thing, but who you leave it as, is another. To arise during the morn as another.

To reside away from the often stillborn, meaningless reproach of senseless time, you deem to create and behold yourself within mere moments of utmost concretion to presence.

To be Becalmed, curved up by the queer act of being Refreshed, seemingly from the previous days' terrible burdens, even for a mere moment after a hearty night’s congratulatory rest — it is a queer motivator, one which is always made impersonal, though to be strange, it is most likely personal, on the bridging tacts of rainbow waves and scientific starkness, it may be a deciding force, dependant on the act of react and deduct of the previous nights unanswerable or answered calls.

My, what liveliness, especially over the phonetics, would you have if you could hear my voice compelling you over my morning thoughts! Such a pity often shades life, even in the tiny consumptions…

Hear that? A chorus of morning birds accompanying, a chant of uncoupling canisters beguiling you Why now? A holster of banging metal, fear away in distances unbeknownst to you. What a morning, what a chorus! Hell, what a feeling, that love bids me to stay!

History, I’m brought back to the notion of history, within you all, My Dear Readers. What strength or what hopeful hotspur does it instill in you? Seemingly, you have been taken to a narrative to the simplest means, and by the bodes of the most simplifying faction —what a harking family it must begin you as when one is young and without their consent of personal history. What hotspur, so!

I worry, as I always do, that it is achingly oversimplified to the feats of imbecility. Certainly, it cannot weighed on the concept of caring for a Truth, rather, what narrative befits whom and where the best. To be objective in this humane art is a stark and disquieting place if one isn’t willing to gauge the feat well, oft without the need to or the chance to make friends and acquaintances. Mayhap to be why naught to few ever dare to be that posture at all, with the foredooming fear of damnation of sake and character. Bloody be, maybe this queer reason, to the why it isn’t so, kid.

A cycle of bad words stifling, a demain bonne journée! I fear it, as it twists my tummy unlawfully, totally if it wasn’t for the helpful lawsuit here. I quip…

A demain des hommes Of the great dissertations of ideas today, confounding and melding with the ideas of yesterday and last year. The inquiry of the fossilized Bavarian Bird, remains as a shouldering hunch there, as I lounge in my chair, under the lightening influence of the bright orbs of my top, the charm of a vague tune comes to me slowly, through my thoughtless weight of once alive thoughts. What a spook! How quickly tho’ are we shaken by a single discovery, seemingly The upheaval is in a similar force to us solely as the retching up of one’s bowls after too much fun in the fun-dip, the flames dozed off by a gallon of root beer! I have seen a bit too much chugging of one’s bowls to ignore its effects!

Paying now in the minted lacquer and mephitic salt — Would it be fair to say, the world doesn’t care so much for truth, as much as does for the bemoaning turning of endless cogs and dials; The sexiness of a course, a sexiness of this paying due, when the harmed funnies are opened to do. Perhaps it is ramped and stealing for me to briefly quip here, but I shall return on that mark, as I probably unbeknownst to me, have come back on a point I have made, just on here, some time ago — ah, morning papers, you do position yourself well yet so funny in a traveler’s detecting diary!

So are… So are we! Adulterated in hypocrisy — we laugh and we cry all at the same term in the brief second we have to ourselves in time.

I lovingly joke, in the best of the Yorkshire dialects said: To have such excellence as a burden — awkward, as it may be for some to say; Oh, awful by fates, terrible by cramps, lovingly had to remain as that!

Soon the good stuff of the very best, becomes too much to quit on, and the rest will just not sit within you — every day thieving it seems, when one isn’t quivering so.

Even as all leaves fall, I shall be gifted to that, if I dare to reclose time by that specture and shield. A gift done by a time traveler never undone.

Housed to me, in the base pan of my reflections elects things I could never put my words to you, yet all captured in my notes — My, have the hearty smile, daring the wrinkling of the sides of my eyes, be that utterly yours now! Have that wrinkly heart in life. I could frail my head back to that perverse coming and going feeling of my life; every moment caught in sunshine, spanned to me by the transmutation done by music, like a rainbow bridge— Aye, that is one of the most marvelous things to ever know, and dare create for yourself.

But I shall remain closed and enclosing still, here, in these morning papers, the closest most shall ever come to a raw, unprocessed, though to be frank, it is the processing that I do that most shall ever know of me, so here, I have told that lie because you’ll know me as that here, processing — this is what it is still, and elsewhere I have already been processed! A tad bit convoluted but aren’t we just some of the time now?

So let me conclude here with this vague and open-formed piece:

Bethinking of a habit One occupies within themselves that

The thorough trudging of a scientific pressing could seduce it —

To a contemplation of Evil and Tyranny, if that is the golden accord of this terrible Universal —

To a bet on Compassion and Love —

Perhaps I run to them before such precise and precious things flare away forever —

That thing being the Acts I do — that we all must do before the End.

Ta-ta Now, Bethinking as of now, may I say what a delight it is to bring you something so rawly forthright with its process as this. Thoughts in their narrowing plain and destinations right there for you raw! Raw Power! Dare — dare — dare!

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As ever, Dear Reader.