Huh?

As I was purging my room recently I ran across a file of stuff I'd written a while ago.  A while being "within the last probably five years but long enough that I don't have any recollection of actually writing such things."  But I literally have no idea what I was trying to say in half of them.  I imagine poets encounter the same problem when they find poems from the olden days, or artists who look at their young work and think, "did this mean something?"

Not like I'm comparing my words to those of a poets, or the brushstrokes of an artist (because, um, no, I do not wield that sort of power with my pen, I tell you what!), but it's just a feeble comparison.  For instance, apparently one day I was watching people who stride through glass sliding doors and felt a little bit jealous because I always have to pause before I go through them, or run into them.  Seriously, listen to this:

"That’s what annoys me about confident people, they make such bold assumptions. I mean, I sometimes just look at the person who confidently strides towards the sliding glass doors, not slowing down even a step, because somehow they know that the door will open for them. How do they do that? I stop for a painful second before believing that the doors will open sufficiently for me to pass through. I am not that person.

And people who have the appearance of being calm at all times. How does that even work? I see people, often, those calm-types, the type who, when it’s raining manage to merely walk through the parking lot, not caring that it’s raining with such ferocity. They don’t mind getting wet, and heaven forbid they should just make a run for it. They keep going, even pausing to find the correct key, and then they will calmly climb into their car, enter their house, or tape the door shut on their cardboard box of a home. I’m the type of person who has to run through the rain to get where I want to be. I rush through a store if I feel I’m late, even though others might be amazing enough to just walk purposely, as though that would be enough."

Admittedly, not much of that makes sense, but kudos to me for using the word ferocity.  I don't find much occasion for that word.  Also, the chances of me having seen someone tape themself into a cardboard house are pretty much zero.  I do not know what I was talking about.  Also (part 2), I have no idea why walking through a store purposely was considered "amazing."

You thought that made little sense?  Read this one.  Your brain will hurt.

"Either way, I haven’t gotten a piece of this to take with me the whole time. I don’t understand where in the world we could take these thoughts from. We always make things us: we assume we have all the answers, though we rarely have so much as a clue. Answers? Not so much. We wish we could change things, yet we don’t try. We don’t put effort into anything; we don’t attempt to alter the course of things that cannot rightfully be ours to begin with. How can we change pieces of history that weren’t ours to make? How can we switch courses that aren’t planned through our own free will? We take no thought for what we may do with His power, we seek those things that are "our own destinies." We don’t understand that our destiny, once yielded to His, is no longer our own. And destiny? As if the word commands more power than does His will. We haven’t a thought for the things we disown. We merely seek those things that own us. We seek the things beyond our reach, closer to the stars than our humble dwelling we call home. We don’t look for those things which are above: to do such would be to seek Him in the truest sense. We, as humans, merely seek the things that are above us. Our feeblest senses cannot seem to enter into the purity that could be ours, should we divest ourselves from the enemy that is our own flesh. Why is it, that one of our three mortal enemies should be ourselves?"

Is there a word for "quite possibly hadn't slept for days when writing that," do you think?

As much as I'd like my posterity to be able to have stuff of mine to get a sense of what it was to live in 2011, I'm sometimes afraid of what they'll find.  Because seriously, WHAT?

Not to mention--did I never start my thoughts at the beginning?  Both of those pieces of whatever they are start as if they're following something else.  Why would I jump into a rant about confident people?  why the confusing paragraph about free will and stars that begins, "either way" when there is nothing coming before to answer such a question?

I found one about Lewis Carroll as well.  Apparently I gave him the benefit of the doubt as to not being on drugs and figured he just wrote words at random and gave them to a publisher who was asleep (?) the day they published Alice in Wonderland.  I guess I wasn't too keen on Lewis Carroll.  Good to know.