Journal 809

I say rubbish when I want to.

Photo by Content Pixie on Unsplash.

In my tendency today, I want to write in my perceived image of myself.

Let me imagine my voice to be consequential, patronal of words that sometimes have no meaning until I arrange it in its needed form.

I want to just be writing, so I won’t let my mind force its pragmatic opinions into the style that may come out, or as my mind churns — that I may evoke.

Invoking is a strong word.

It is one of those words that inspire in itself a picture without necessarily describing its efficacy, or its parameters, in light of better words to use.

Today, I am going to try otter, see how my dictation which is another aspect of public speaking would be churned out by this inanimate AI.

Do AI have lives of their own? Do they hold their own beliefs? Even if we don’t know, is there that possibility?

I’m writing gibberish and I am doing this in an effort to become synonymous with my voice.

The way particular words could be transformed to play other roles is one of the great abilities of language.

I must communicate. I must be the greatest.

I don’t know why but I have this persistent fear in my throat, ever since I watched a good actor say that we should not attribute greatness to ourselves.

Was she clowning?

Although I very much see her point, how do we aspire to be something if we do not see an end result of glory?

It is fine for her to say those words because she is established.

It is fine for her to preach, but what about those of us who want to become something else?

Do we lose our fire because there is no need to be great?

It is a developing thought and I have not fully figured it out.

I have also not figured out the questions I should be asking concerning my beliefs about this worldview.

Either way, I have to keep writing without destination, till the end of this page, to where the lines don’t blur at the edges, to when my people grow.

Let us try something. Let us try a style of writing that does not make sense.

I remember when I used to write surrealism, how each line was senseless compared to the next, but whose whole triumphed as proper prose.

By all means, when the dogs fly into the east, the parrots would raise their legs and holler out in the speech of humans. Though the circumventing of natural law is not circumstantial, the prerequisites for achieving piratical visions is embowered in our native tongue.

Now the end of days are glowing, a steady line at the edge of the horizon. Now the beautiful queens are enamored, now the sun will shine when pillows are involved.

This is my surrealist talk, does it make sense in the general view?