Final Revisions

The insistent tapping at the keyboard, or the push of the sharp tip of a pencil is where I come from. They are the means in which I am created. Luckily I am deaf and free of a nervous system. I’m the bi product of a human’s desire to subject them to the freedom in portraying reality in words, as well as criticism of others. A human develops me, laughs at me, and cries on me (smudging me up and down, messing up my dew). The best of me comes from spontaneous moments of motivation behind an idea. For the most part I come from good energy, even if my subject is depressing. I come from reality and then become reality. Weird? No, that’s life. Oh, and I’m a paragraph who’s master has now fallen short of words. Goodbye!

 Students, professionals, or any driven, literate and conscious mind develop the content I’m trapped within. My aided realizations drive many to insanity, confusion, and unforgiving frustration in either the process of producing, or understanding. The other week my midsection blurred beyond recognition. Doctor Eraser deemed the process of recovery too much of a hassle, so nurse Trashcan pulled the plug. My newly reincarnated form undergoes rigorous examination, and I’m glad for it. The reason, I’ve realized my life depends on the reading and writing abilities of your species. The more you read, scrutinize, re-read, disassemble, and reassemble me; my existence reveals higher levels in value and recognition. Therefore, I survive for greater periods. Currently I’m reserved for the fittest writer to avoid any regression of my impressive speech within the process of reincarnation. Thanks for reading, and continue writing!

As a life form of which never fully develops, I perceive life as a constant mystery. Weather nature, politics, psychology, science, drugs, or even butt cracks influence my existence, my presence lacks completeness. I’ve learned what, how, when, why, and who slave over my entity through countless, and potentially endless homework assignments, business reports, and any substantial comprehensive writing. Yet my understanding of where I come from remains muddled. Yes, the scientists told me I result from the numerous firing neurons that allow for my scribbled, typed, or artistically accounted forms. Ultimately where do the ideas I present come from? Over the years I find myself re-living past thoughts from former writers, both reprimanded and praised. My history continuously repeats itself, but life mystifies my still, maybe even more so. I now recognize the infinite intricacies of connecting patterns and individual qualities between similar ideas. From these recovered, or uncovering mysteries, I arrive.

I arrive untamed. The energy put into me potentially caries the weight of an announced death in the family, or the father’s promotion to ownership of a corporate giant. Completely co-dependent on conscious readers, my popularity derails and enlightens my vulnerability. They kiss my letters with tender love and care, acknowledging my strength in character. Two pages later they slam upon my bound book home in violent rage. In the dark I lay smothered against a friend of mine, dust building between our silent unconsciousness. Ecstatic, a reader will frighteningly flip through my pages to find my passage. Our initial connection arouses a psychic energy between the reader’s eyes and my gracious forms. I glow in a covetous fashion, seeking desperately to gain the reader’s full awareness, and often times I succeed. Textbooks and owner’s manuals fail me nearly every time, or at least for half of the time a reader attempts to connect in such a formal state with me. However I spill my beans, the reciprocator eats them however he or she chooses, or not.

What’s in a mystery? Did the egg or the chicken come first? More importantly, will the attempt to solve a question as such benefit human existence or cause more harm to the world? I relate mystery to excitement, curiosity, and life’s offerings. Potential explanations of mysteries seem to me more like dead, dried roses than a dozen freshly cut and scented roses: lacking in full sensory experience. In holding on and claiming to fantasized realities, my awareness of present stimuli, the mysteries that captivate not aggravate, vanish. Objective sensory reality, while experienced subjectively, spotlights the unforgiving mysteries a subjective reality may ignore. Why hasn’t the human race discovered every disease’s cure, how to end poverty, and the reason life exists? Will the grand mystery ever reveal itself completely? Now on a roll, I might as well ask, who am I? For sanity’s sake, maybe the subjective understanding requires a form of objective approach.

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