Feelings And The Such

I admit it. I have absolutely nothing to write about. While a relief to some, I'm sure the lack of fullfillment to a 4 o' clock yih blog high was disturbing for others.

But I have learned something this past week, day after day staring into this computer screen searching for some inspiration that is my own. Neither mad about anything or in love with anyone, neither ecstatic about an event or disappointed in myself, I am stuck in the writer's nightmare, the poet's purgatory, the artist's dilemma.

I feel nothing.

And in moments when I feel nothing, I must think like a naked Greek philosopher (and I heard they raped boys). Unlike the Greek philsophers, however, I have no great mystery or solution to announce to the world. I am merely a set of lines connecting points in outer space, a dead mind calculating the years of my own life.

And to be honest, no one wants to hear me think. Why? Well, for one thing, even I have no idea what I am talking about. For another, the "You think too much!" complaint rings true in dozens of minds, especially mine.

There's a precise and unquestionable mystery and greatness to what one feels. Because in a time when we feel our heart the most during the last movie we watched, feeling something in real life is special. Somtimes, I am even quietly excited to feel rejected -- it makes me feel human and secures the fact that I need to need.

So how does one feel? After this past week -- I think I may have figured it out. One must live. One must go to the streets of the slums, the lights of the city, the backs of the moutains, and the dunes of the dessert. Exploring the world through Google Earth like I did does not count.

So when I live, I shall feel. And when I feel, I shall write.

Write well, that is. Till then, you have semi-profound crap like this.