I'm trying to make a difference in this world. I'm trying to keep philosophy alive. I'm trying to influence your mind all the while mine is traveling an a billion directions at once.
I believe a little insanity is a good thing.
I'm inspired by life and I'm inspired by brains and nature and love and happiness and obsessiveness and anything else that's in this universe and outside of it. I think too much. I write compulsively. I don't want society to stop reading. I don't want society to stop creating. I want to contribute to this planet's literature that is so often hidden under media, pop culture, and other things that won't really matter in fifty years.
These are my thoughts, and I can't control them. I can't control the words that flow out of my brain and through my body.
This is word vomit. And I'm not cleaning it up.
of you
My philosophy professor seems as if he’s a very sad man.
He presents his lectures in speech of monotony in sluggish stature underneath a yamaka that hides a growing bald spot.
Perhaps he’s tired (as we all are), and perhaps a smile flitting across his face is a rarity—of which it only presents itself in the occasion of agreeability on thought.
Or perhaps he’s grappling internally on the one idea that is gradually overcoming all of which he teaches. The idea that he’s teaching a class in a department that will be expunged from the university he strives to make a living at. Perhaps the thought that he’s teaching a study that less and less students seem to gravitate to every year—so much so that in a year’s time, no such study will be present at the university—perhaps this idea is what tires his mind the most.
