They say doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity... well I guess I am going a little insane then. 

I know this is probably so stupid - a waste of my time. My goodness, do I hate when I waste my own time, but man I can’t help but waste all that time; like a retrovirus burrowed away, deeply engrained inside my DNA, it can’t help but be expressed, the gene to try, try to do anything, grasping at the straws of nothingness like trying to hold onto a ray of light, because I can’t imagine a life where I go on wandering around deep in the dark doing the same things as everyone else, hoping to see what lies ahead, but... I can’t. 

So, I try and do anything, everything, testing each permutation, like I am counting states, as if to find the maximum disordered fate. Yet, it seems so utterly pointless when the thermometer is right there and I can check my temperature any time and anywhere. A game of hot and cold, and I am so very cold – I’m shivering – so far from where I want to be. Yet, I am so disillusioned, disillusioned by the fact that my parents told me that I can be ... anything. A mythical idea like the tooth fairy that I have believed for far too long, past the point where it's still cute. I’m Peter Pan, too afraid to see what goes on outside of Neverland. 

Maybe it's time I be more like Wendy, a person willing to grow up, a boy who is no longer lost.

I know all that, but I don’t want to leave. Who would ever want to leave? When – in my imagination, everything works out the way I want it to be? The fantasies that I live in, inside my own mind, seem so warm and seem so bright; they sing to me like a Siren’s call. Who would ever want to leave? Everything is alluring when the things I think come to be, unlike the place where the goops of honey that fall from the sky coat my skin in warmth outside and not the feelings that come from inside, not the warmth that hypothermia deals before the cold is all I feel. Who would ever want to leave? Out there, out there, it’s not so nice. Anything I think is bound not to be, an exclusion principle when it is observed internally has collapsed the state into anything else. Like the spectrum now makes a complete Hilbert space where my hopes of reality are no longer an eigenstate, needed to define an entire space – a state that can never be reached. Who would ever want to leave?

Yet, the world is a place of imagination, a thought fished out of the emptiness and made into a somethingness. A wish upon a star to make a mere toy into a real boy. Progress can never be made, if no one ever had a dream, if no one ever thought it could be. Sometimes, it takes someone, who is just a little bit insane to try the things that people couldn’t imagine would ever be. 

Anyway, all of that stupidity to say that I’m starting a new venture. I’m giving myself a chance, an opportunity to do something that I enjoy. I’m giving myself an excuse, an increased area, a larger probability, that the off chance that luck strikes in its Poisson distribution, the central limit theorem will place me in the most likely place, at the center of the Gaussian. Maybe, just maybe, if I keep doing this, something will happen in $\Delta t$ the time interval of my life. Maybe, just maybe, something will convince me that the reflection I see in my resume is an image of me, not a person I have been pretending to be. Maybe, just maybe, it will show me that the actions I think I do for show are actually just the person that I am meant to be. 

 
So, I’m starting a blog, as you can probably tell from the convoluted strings of sounds that were placed on this page. I like to talk, and I love to write, but I don’t know what to bring to the light. I don’t even know who reads blogs anymore. I certainly don’t, and I certainly won’t. I am not even sure what makes a good blog anymore. I would think a good blog is like a good anything else, based on the same metrics as everything else: how much value does it provide at the most competitive price. Yet, I can’t imagine that I have anything to give. All I have is me, and I put all of myself, onto the page; I take three dimensions and collapse it into two and hope that it conveys the data I once knew. Yet... I find that people rarely find that quite interesting. 

Maybe it’s because we live in a generation of quick and fast, attention spans no longer than the minute it takes to view a clip online, or maybe it’s because I have nothing interesting to say. 

I’m not old enough to have wisdom to provide, and I am not sociable enough to have any advice to give. I just have all of the me that has been fermenting inside, getting stronger and stronger a more poisonous pesticide, waiting for someone to take a swig to tell me if it has aged long enough, to be qualified as Top Shelf. 

This is so stupid posting my diary online, some may even say it’s a little insane. No one should be seeing such stupid thoughts. No one should be seeing the unconscious thoughts of somebody else. That’s why people can’t read minds; they would likely become perturbed, and those who claim they can, are most certainly disturbed. Although it sometimes feels like I am – disturbed that is – but it’s probably just my own mind speaking louder than can be contained in the space of such a small brain. Maybe that’s why I write, to make sense of it all, to stop constantly thinking through all the thoughts. Maybe if I write it down, and share it with you all it will make sense to more than just me, or maybe everyone has already thought all the same thoughts as me. At least that’s what it seems to be because... 

i can read minds 

and they all seem the same to me, or maybe there all just the same old me, or maybe they are all just the same as me and just say it in different ways than me, or maybe they are all just different from me, and the all say it the same ways as me. 

There I go again, pretending to say things that make sense, but it’s just the insanity peaking through in present tense. 

No, I’m just like every other angsty adult - nothing new, and I am not pretentious enough to believe that I have anything special to say or do. I am not an expert at something and I’m not sure if I know anything. I’ve done many things, but I don’t really know how to do a thing. However, if I am going to spend so much time writing every day I might as well make this waste of time into, into, … I don’t know into something that isn’t that, make it into something that can help a person or two, because I will waste it on something anyway, because there are just too many thoughts, stuck inside of my head. The words are the only way, I can allow them go be free, to make them have definition, in the sense that something physical, has definition in its purpose. Purpose outside of “my eyes only” or classified as “need to know.” Since, maybe I can connect, with more than me and myself, maybe I can connect with a person like yourself, or at least a person or two, because in a group of the insane, we are all the same. If I am going to be doing, the same thing, over and over again, I might as well do it, with something that I love to do with someone who is like you. Something that no matter how many hours wasted, I can be happy that I wasted a lifetime or two. 

If you are still here, I am surprised you made it this far. Maybe you too like to waste your time, or maybe you too enjoy laughing at an internet madman’s defeat, or ...

Maybe you too found order in some of this constructed chaos and your afraid that maybe you too are a bit insane because this makes sense to you. If so, 

Welcome Home 
 
Welcome to the Asylum

welcome to my mind 

And for once, I have no hopes for this. None whatsoever. They’re just here. Just like me and maybe just like you.  

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, maybe I enjoy going just a little bit insane, and maybe so will you. So, I just have one question for you: Are you willing to go insane with me, too?