parachutes

lots to think about. as if that is ever not the case....even so.

mattress was pondering on the streetcar just now (he is fond of pondering in motion) about the origins of the universe, and whether or not there were in fact some grand intelligent design to it all. he recalled the clockwork theory from his philosophy classes. do you know it? basically, it says that if all the gears and springs and cogs and such that compose the orchestration which we nowadays would call a pocketwatch (use, say, an ipod if you're too temporally-hindered to be able to visualize the archaic brasses and silver inlays of a pocketable timepiece) were to find themselves right next to each other, manufactured masterfully and without a trace of reckless abandon, but carelessly tossed into a pile and left there to rust until the end of time, there is no way that they would ever assemble themselves through merely the forces of nature into such a complex arrangement as they present in the polished and completed (ahm, ticking) form. it isn't possible for existence to be complex without a plan, a thought, a design behind it. m pawned this theory off as silly at the time, and perhaps it is....perhaps. but for whatever reason from his cramped seat on the streetcar, doomed to swallow the yammerings of some young female on the phone with her significant other (presumably) with no escape as his stop was still far, he remembered this one notion and it made a good deal of sense.

what's funny about faith, that most people would probably not admit, is that they would like to have it. hell, this is the sole reason that some people have it in the first place...but for others, this 'brain' gets in the way and for whatever reason, stops us from fully being able to acknowledge an unproven as a truth. matches would really like to have it; is that shameful for a philosopher to admit? perhaps thats a sign that he does have it, in some waxing or waning capacity, in some solid state whose only reason for not bursting into color is the alternative existence of an antipode.
ah dualities. you will be the death of us humans.

matches likes the word 'pithy', but he feels like there is some new negativity associated with the sound of it which perhaps should not be there. it isn't a beautiful word; it isn't a sonorous word. not by a long shot. which kind of aids the definition in a way. but still, he abstains from using it as it sounds vaguely insulting. don't you find? he would say 'sententious', but nobody would know what the hell he was trying to insinuate; he himself had to look it up (which was what started this). which is sort of counterintuitive to the definition. so out the door these words go, doomed to be scribbled into the lexicon of the archaic and unused within the next 100 years~

in this paroxysm of discombobulation, he wants to write something babblingly poetic, but fears that this post is doomed to fall to the pace which has already been set this evening. le sigh. it isn't very expressive of his real thoughts. which is not to say that it is false, but moreso that he is preoccupied and that his thoughts are adrift like blue balloons. which are, coincidentally, the hardest to differentiate from the sky. funny how that works, one image corkscrewing into another, both contributing and extracting like a bee farmer but without the protective screening. the bees, are they appreciative bees? do they give willingly, cordially, with a wink and a bzz? do they storm and ravage; a thunderous cloud of particulate matter behaving with the characteristic swooshes and splashes of solar-systematic movement? boomerang, a-rang, coming back just as fast as you happened to have thrown it. predictable, but not to an untrained eye; not to a first. can you muster the fluidity to give, like water, space as it is taken? displace and rearrange? change? slosh, unspilling, maintaining, a balanced mind balancing a body, balancing the world that pivots with its step? microns of subtle movement, alterations, snowballing straight out of any measurement systems into something entirely else. a flickering edge of feeling; a paper-thin space where one thing meets another. a shift; a friction. a warmth.

perhaps matches should retire from poetry. but he does enjoy it so, even if not so much for his own~