Deterioration of Intellect = NaNoWriMo

"The only thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality." -NaNoWriMo. Hence title.

Regardless, it's an easy grade for my Creative Writing 2 class.

Thus far:

All the while each clock ticks, I contemplate seizing the day. However, isn’t being forced to carpe diem a prison in itself? I’d rather breathe the warm air on a walk down a familiar path in lieu of adding to a list of formal accomplishments, egotistical and ultimately meaningless.
I am constantly surrounded by walls I wish would melt, bitches I wish would chill, and the air, whose temperature it seems that I can never be okay with. The ladder, a warm blanket magically placates. The rest I wish could be that easy.
Visions of a sunny wheat field frequently please me, usually while I am anti-socializing with a monitor which mimics my thoughts, translated by the movement of my fingers, trained to work for me, trained to work for a panel of buttons. Thus passes the glory of the world… imperfectly justified by a lacking paradigm.
Continue.
Thank you for the things you think that I should that should thank you for, I’m sure you deserve said thanks, and I hope the sincerity will reveal itself in time. In my young and confused state, I’m doing my best, and am trying to show that, picking up confirmation and opposition variously.
What a long strange trip this is showing to be, though I know I’m still learning how to back out of the driveway. I’ve done it before countless times, but I’m usually pulling back in in less than 24 hours, grody every time, and ready for that blanket to warm me after a night like ones you lie to your parents about every weekend. Some day soon I’ll be backing out of the driveway for the last time, and pulling into one of my own, far away. That’s fucking scary isn’t it? Heading out on the streets backwards? Completely absurd.
Things that we do are the same thing over and over again. We differ by our details which cover the same exact plots. Human nature is pattern, familiarity. I miss listening to a flute in the wind when it’s getting late. My neighbor would practice, but she moved. In remembrance I’m fiddling with a recorder.
Downgrade articulacy: “floccinaucinihilipilification” indeed is worthless.
Black tacos are for newbs. Blatant consumerism at its darkest.
I envy the inconsequence of others. I hate the truth that I am bad at being bad. I don’t know what its like to live on the edge. The closest I get to that is usually skipping my last class to get high and eat a leftover chimichanga. But that’s okay with me for now.
Stories stories stories to develop character. Forgive me my past. No one is the same after time.
Misalignment of the senses creates the facetious irony that I walk through on the daily. A playful melody provides a beat for my fingers to strive to keep up with. So often anticipated events are anticlimactic. The sunrise, it rose, it shone.
Rebel, verb. An adolescent’s yearning to find the balance between standing out and fitting in.
Envy. Jealousy of those that get the attention attention attention. We all need it. Some more than others. Does not needing it make you any stronger? Or weaker for not demanding it?
A bluesy after hours lead, creeping out of a barely tuned piano, played the stumbling fingers of a wino in the town he has lived in since his great independence movement, dropping out of college to find an unconventional life.
Congratulations, everything we do twists us to be more demented from our idealized sense of self. And by the time we realize that, it’s time to dig our own graves.
Deranged I am. Screaming with subtleties, appreciate me damn it. We all look in the strangest places for confirmation. Some wear their insecurities on their sleeves as a way of advertising, because it almost ensures instant consolation.
But we all do what we do. Whether it’s our best or our passive demeanor is an argument of perception. We don’t know who we are. People try their best to output the character they’ve sketched in their minds, but the portrayal is betrayal. Where’s the courage to say “actually, I think your poetry is a reflection of how you try way too hard at being someone you’re not?” Condemnation for attempting to be happy. But the approach for happiness began with the approach of deceit instead of contentment. Be comforted by the fact that all you do is a lost cause, we all become the people we promise ourselves we’ll never become anyways.
The clicking of heels behind my back shrinks me back to grade school, franticly scanning my memory which causes my brain to forget to tell my heart to beat, for something I’ve done rather recently that I could be confronted for.
In the time we have awaiting our inevitable deaths, we analyze the shit out of everything. So judge. It’s all bias. Every single thought we have. Your best friend and her boyfriend are incompatible because you wanted him. She’s messed up because you are jealous of the attention she gets for her problems. We all have problems. Some just make a bigger deal of them. We can all be depressed. Sometimes a pill will fix your chemical imbalance, but therapy won’t fix a shitty situation, and who knows what can change a girl who chooses to have problems for the aesthetic addition to her composition. Sympathize with our individual tragedies.
I don’t love him, I’ve realized, I’d idolized him.
Who cares? Question.
I’m no longer amused. I’m jaded. Will somebody save me? Reinstate nature’s first green as gold? I almost wish I had an extremely boring childhood. Childhood robs you of your amusement at an early age. Happy babies. They don’t always become happy adults. Why not introduce us to life’s pleasures later? Make us wait. Give us something to wait for, live for, besides deterioration and death.
We think we know everything. But what is there to know really? Agnostically, might there be no truth? Do we search for people with the answers, or those who share our uncertainty?

"Nobody ever seems to remember life is a game we play." -Noel Gallagher