Shirts are Pants: Like it Matters

Have you ever worn your shirt as a pair of pants? I have. It was like wearing a kilt if it was also pajamas. Kilt Pajamas. Also reminded me of a patient uniform. My bare suit hanging out of the back.
Nevermind that.

Have you ever thought of time?

Of course. Everyone does, but everyone does it in a way that doesn’t disturb them. Such as you think of time as a when and where. They are events disappearing on the face of our minds. Strike that. Not even fabric, it is more like a canvas. No. How do you describe the squishy mass of sponge that traps our personality, our fiber, our very being? A canvas would be available and understandable for someone who sees pictures. A sheet of paper is understandable for those that see words that describe things. A song, which isn’t something you can see at all. A song would be a hearing explanation, a sensual explanation. To see it would be as good as a canvas. A strange vibration of colors and movement.

I’ve seen that. Moving on. I had a strange experience recently. As in in, 3:30 in the morning.

I take showers normally to think. I had the idea from recent friends, family, acquaintances, or people of interest that I shall take my showers in complete darkness. seal the windows. Close the door. Turn off the light. I bet my last bit of rambling makes a bit more sense why I am so on edge right now.

Anyway. I don’t think about normal stuff. I don’t even think about deep intellectual stuff. So don’t get any ideas about my naked bum. I was relaxing under the semi-volcanic waters of the seashore boat of ” Dark, Confused, and Hallucinating”. It did wonders for my mind, especially with the recent pick up of a Sherlock Holmes thought process.

See there is something that I should explain that I found today in the passenger seat of my car.

I am a fake person. I am so fake, that my own reality is a made up coincidence. I don’t mean this in a I make my life up to seem interesting. Even a I lie to see where I can get with it.

Honestly, I just am aware that; despite my own self-loving ego, I am not as brilliant, great, or “awesome” as I or others think. I know you know this. You read my posts. You know that I am a complete basket case wrapped in a wet blanket that no one knows how the blanket got wet. Also no one seemed to care what was in the basket. Was it a picnic? Did it carry bread? If in the case of bread were they carrying wine? Red, White, Sparkling? Blush, Perhaps? Did they have fruit with their picnic? What was the entree? Sandwiches? Bologna, Ham, or Turkey? All three? Cheddar cheese? That would be more expensive then lets say American cheese wouldn’t it? Where did they purchase the meat? The cheese? Is it packaged or fresh sliced? Did they even make the sandwiches? What dessert did they bring if they even did?

They were by a pond, used it as a towel.

As I was saying in the beginning, time. 

I don’t think about this on a normal occasion. Only when writing my world, Mythe, to try and be more “Interesting” and end up being more “complicated” then I expected. Though, isn’t everything that is complicated interesting? But, everything Interesting isn’t complicated though, is it?

Strangely enough, I discovered the problem with my characters and writing. I have been writing about the characters. I haven’t been writing about what the characters experience. 

A mad man sees things. Though why is he mad for seeing things? I could easily say I see things, and would be just as mad as him at that point. I wouldn’t, but you would think it. So a mad man suppresses the feelings. He buries the memories of seeing these things in his mind. He acts like he doesn’t see them, and forgets about it when he does. At that point he doesn’t see them anymore does he? Well he does, but he doesn’t. Mind boggler. If you don’t remember something you saw, did you see it at all? Of course you experienced things. Did you see them though?

I have seen a butterfly. I don’t remember the last time I saw one, or what it looked like. I don’t remember what kind it was or when it was. I have seen a butterfly though. Does that mean that I haven’t actually seen a butterfly though?

In reality I was thinking about that blanket again. It was wet because the person fell in the pond. Used the blanket to dry off. Their clothes were wet, so they wore their friends shirt as a pair of pants. 

I mean, like it matters right? Time is not a when. It isn’t moments. It is not a thing. It is a collection of people who recollect the items and details of events. Without people in a place, would that place still exist? Of course it would. If a fire started in the woods, the woods would burn down. Well of course it would. There are trees there. Who is to say that trees can’t remember. Trees can’t know things. I bet you if we found a way, trees could tell stories. Not how we expect to hear them. They would talk about the wind. How it felt. Losing leaves, growing them again. The birds and how they come and go. The children. The nests. The seasons. The change. Losing friends. 

I imagine trees live sad lives. Brief moments of happiness. Just like us.

The thing with trees is even though they feel sad, they lose friends, they lose their leaves, and the things that live with them and have kids on their branches eventually fly away. Trees stand tall. They stay up. They know tomorrow comes. Time is irrelevant for a tree. I wish we were more like trees. Self-awareness is scary.

Anyway. I’m off to possibly not fall asleep, and dream of wearing my pants as a shirt.

I can’t do that. there isn’t a spot for my head. Shirt pants will do.

Also, someone put the blanket on the line to dry.


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