Episode One Part 1; What Was I Saying?

Do you ever just have a really strong desire to write something? You’re sitting down with your morning cup of Joe, reading the paper, and you just want to write one of the stories on page one? It’s not really a common feeling I suppose, but it’s one that has plagued me for the longest time. Perhaps plagued is the wrong word. I don’t really feel like it’s a negative sort of thing. It just really feels like something I’ve always been drawn to; the written word. The black bloodstains seeping into the pages of this battlefield—the battlefield of intellectual development. I really don’t think that made sense, but it just kind of came out that way.

Regardless of what people say, writing is pretty important when you think about it. Everything that can be learned can be taught to oneself—if the proper motivation and educational material is present. I myself have learned everything from how to pass that really bothersome level on Metro: Last Light, to picking locks or building a cabinet. Everything can be learned from the collective database we have created in the Internet. It is up to the people. however, to decide which material is worth gleaning, and which material is fundamentally sound. But where do we get our fundamental base from? Personally, I have no idea. That’s a fantastic question I expect a college man to answer—or perhaps it’s a question asked and answered already…you just have to look about for the material. 

Back on track though, eh? Stream of consciousness can be a bit weird to work with. I’ve always been a huge fan of Holden Caulfield, but I think this is taking it to a bit of an extreme. Well perhaps that extreme would be buying a people hunting cap and wearing it about to signify my individuality in a world full of phonies. Full of phonies…that makes me wonder about phonetic alliteration. Whether or not that is a thing that actually exists, or whether it is just something which my ears find pleasing. Assuming, of course, that my ears are sentient and can enjoy anything at all. I don’t think they are. I don’t believe my ears have developed a conscience, only a little bit of wax in the time that it’s taken for me to get this far in my stream of consciousness. I misspelled that, bollocks. I have some difficulty with spelling, but only rarely. I’m typically a fantastic speller, at least when I’m typing. Some may say that’s the added comfort of having auto correct to back me up. However, it’s actually because I can easily change a word when I feel it looks wrong as I am developing it. That way it doesn’t negatively affect my productivity.  It takes forever to erase even one letter with a pink eraser. It’s much easier to just clickity clack the backspace key a few times. Speaking of things that go clickity clack, I am planning on purchasing a mechanical keyboard. I love the auditory feedback you receive from them. That or a typewriter. Either would be fantastic. Regardless, mechanical feedback is a beautiful thing which is yet to be replicated by anything digital. There is the clickity clack sound produced by some smartphones as your type, but it’s not really the same feel. Something is missing. I can’t really put my finger on it. I suppose it’s the understanding that the pressure of my finger on the key made it lower and make contact with another piece of material. There is no such thing with a touch screen. Its all just sensory perception, and I prefer the former to the latter. If you even remember what the former and latter are in this case. i have been rambling quite a bit. I suppose a bit of explanation is in order.The former in this case is the feel of pressing something down. The latter is a touchscreen. Which I wrote a piece about a while ago, sort of. The Malefic Monument is published on my friend’s blog. It’s one of the best pieces I’ve ever written, I’m incredibly proud of it. I actually originally typed that as ‘super proud,’ but I changed it. It feels like that makes it not really a stream of consciousness. So I felt the need to explain that to keep this authentic.

I really have no idea whatsoever why I’m writing this. I suppose I really just like that little pencil go across the page by the word count thingy. It’s still doing it even though I’m not typing. 

I’m going to give it a second, just in case it’s catching up. It was just catching up, it’s proofreading my paper. It took an entire fifteen seconds for it to notice a grammatical error after I had stopped writing. I could’ve gone on like five paragraphs by the time it noticed. God, what an inefficient machine. I suppose if I make a spelling error it will tell me right away. Dannr. Yep. It did. So maybe it just has issues with grammar? Everyone does. I’ve had English teachers who have trouble understanding the very language they teacher. It’s pretty sad. Still, I had some great teachers who were English teachers. Leahy was actually the pinnacle of English teachers that I’ve studied under.Holy cow, I’m almost at 1000 words. I can’t believe I’ve almost typed 1000 words. I have had difficulty coming up with 350 for News assignments. Goodness gracious…that’s absolutely bloody ridiculous. 

Remember when I started this about how fantastic writing was? Neither did I, I had to scroll to the top to remember where I started. I may just print this off because it’s a record. When the author can’t even follow the stream of what he’s thinking, that’s pretty bad writing. Don’t tell that to…what’s his…SALINGER! God, what a man. One of the only men who served in World War II not to write about war—I’m looking at you Vonnegut…Salinger wrote about a kid whose only wish was to freeze time to preserve innocence. What a dream, to be a catcher in the rye. I’d love to do that. I’d love to get a whole bunch of people together to just form a line ahead of that cliff that leads to the loss of innocence. An unbeatable game of red rover where we prevent the kids from running into the dark, evil, petty world that waits with a gaping maw, just past the edge. 

On that incredibly depressing note, I’m going to end this stream of consciousness…well, the written version anyway. Welcome to the college of Dylan—not really sure why I said that. But, I suppose it doesn’t really matter…does it?

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