Thinker

Thinking men don't like to think that they may actually have to do. They hope that once the dream is made, someone else will realize it into reality for them; I've come to decide that manner of thinking is a bunch of hog wash really, it is incomplete.

It is like the concept of making everyone aware that there is a problem, but not doing anything to combat the problem. Awareness is all fine and dandy, but if no one actually does anything about the situation, the situation will never change.

I enjoy being a thinker, I really like thinking about things. I've always considered myself a thinking man, but in order to progress as a human being I need to reach the next level. I need to become a reality maker, not just a dream dreamer, a flight of fantasy builder.

Those with real power over their fate are those few who have the imagination to dream, and then the bravado to make that dream into something real. Some people seem not to have the capacity to be both, in that case they have to find someone else to take up the other half of the duty (either dreaming or creating). Alas there are many who will not find their creative partner.

A person who is both a doer and a thinker is a person who is a creator. Someday I hope to fancy myself a creator of both things great and small, instead of just half of the equation, a thinker.

Mein Kampf mit Leben

Life is interesting. I find myself making that statement quite often. I find myself at this time still struggling with some self inflicted mediocrity, but no worries, I'm working on it (albeit slowly). I cleaned out the freezer and refrigerator today... is this small step foreshadowing greater things to come? I most certainly hope so (in the depths of my mind there is an Aqualung style vagrant mocking me, but not for long!).

Rain

Finally some respite from the heat, the rain has come. The heat here has been nearly unbearable, reaching well into the 100s. I love rain; I love the smell, I love the sound, and I love how it makes everything look vibrant and alive. To my friend Pamela - we talked just last week about exchanging weather, so it appears you have delivered on your end. I hope some sunshine and clear skies will reach you, the gloom I have been seeking has finally arrived.

A Spider Dies

Creeping warily it crawled, eight bony legs to drag its mass silently across the floor. With a flash of brilliant light, the room flared to life as if lit by four brilliant suns. Shelter it thought. Where was shelter? There was no shelter to spare it from its fate, for the suns had prophesied its doom.

A crack was not far away, but it was too far. A roar of great mammalian ferocity tore through the room, it had been spotted. Scrambling with all its sinewy might it skittered towards the safety of sweet darkness, sweet shelter.

Fate could not spare it, it was its time some would say. It was its time to die. Shelter, sweet shelter! So close, but too far! Safety so scrumptious denied, in mere moments the way was blocked. A great rod of oak slammed down in its path, safety had been stolen. Panic gripped it, fear stole its soul.

Desperation drove it away from safety, searching, searching for some other sanctuary. There was none. The rod of wood lifted, and the way was clear again! Hope! Beautiful hope! Hope was vain; its vanity ludicrous. The rod of wood, now a device of death decisively slammed down on it.

It twitched violently, and with its last strength tried to drag its failing carcass to safety. CRACK! It was struck again, hope was completely ruled out. Legs trembling and shaking it curled into death. The four suns faded, and a shadow cast itself into its many eyes. Shadow turned to darkness, and the darkness was not sweet darkness, sweet shelter. Dead.