folky, youthful, mundane wisdom. thats very much prone to change.

heres some of my folksy wisdom:
and though I tend to really be unimpressed by all the literature that is really nothing but gibber gabber, I must admit, in a great amount that giber gabber is soothing.
My mother was born blessed with smooth and natural social abilities, with which she would walk up to a crowd of new acquaintances and she would laugh and she would smile and she would morph into them.
She was the kind of person that would be in all odds repelled by a weirdo like me.
Maybe not repelled but she would never be friends with someone like me.
And when I think of it it does hurt but I hardly care.
You see I may have been born with certain unpopular interests and perverse sense of humor that casts me away but I have an incredibly remarkable ability to remain unaffected and unmoved, I am vry unprone to peer pressure.
which is lovely at most days but comes days where I must spend time with distant relatives and such other grossly massivly difficult tasks and I have attempted to set my self away from the masses so often that small talk is death manifested.
I love these people, I love observing them and they are such complex intreseting creatures to me, and I think its retarded to do to them what so many do to me: assume.
hey, she's probebly just some wierdo artsy check thats not fun to be a round at all.
and some would think the exact opposite, shes the class clown.
I think you are beyond stupid.
all of you.
I am not much, but I really could be and I would never let the ongoing doctoren of liking and being what is liked, ruin what I potentially could be.
non the less.
here is my folky wisdom: being liked is hugely overrated. and it cripples greatness.
the funny, almost hilarious thing of the matter is these very people widely and prolifically glorified now a days, were back in the day hated, by the same people who will love people once hated.
let me further more explain:
little tim burton, the freak show, bullied and hated. then he would grow up to be: tim fucking burton.
some highschool kid would think sweeny todd is awesome, and likes tim burton, because he is after all, tim burton.
then goes on laughing at some weirdo kid that just may be the next tim burton.
to be great you must be relatively unique and genuine. once achieving that: you will be hated.
I am not here assuming I will one day be tim burton, I am just saying, I prefer being my full artistically pretentious, poetry sniffing, scientifically engulfing socially retarded self, and flat out mocked, than be a replica of what wouldn't be mocked, but rather faded.
then we move on to another, vastly differant, may be even the other end of the extreem. and god help me if I were faulting mere openions, and life style choises, god help me if I were to stoop to such stupiduty I am merely explaining why though I ten to attempt to be artistic, scintific, thugh I get flashed of deep ended sadness, I dont succumb to the idea of we were born to suffer.
hardly.
or those who believe happiness does not exist.
or those who believe to be artistic
to be scientific
fully opposes being religious.
I am artistic and I am scientific and I am religious and I 80% of my time is sheer melancholia but I believe in happiness.
happiness is not idealistic, nor is it absolute, as sadness not absolute, they burn within one another, you are so happy you cry, you are so sad, you cry, they all boil within you and comes days you can even tell them apart.
because as glistening as darkness is, as glistening as it is within art whiting the madness of science one does not live in darkness, nor away from darkness, but besides darkness.
and I use to think that to be wit god one must be over joyed all the time and I didnt see how or why I could or should do that.
but now I know that to love god is to pain, to love a figure one cannot see or hold or hear, is to pain, to be born longing for haven is to pain.
and all of that is art, all of that is melancholia and nostalgia and poetry unhindered.
and I use to think the evolution of science holds not god within it.
"but arent art and science and religion branches of the same tree?"
a tree that grows and intertwines within its self god is within the molecules of grass, and he is within its roots and stems and apical meristimatic. and he is within its bright grin that overfloods summer's joy rotting in a doomed heart.
I think it is all tangled in one another.
god and art and since and my social impediment and the perfection and ease and peace of m mother and father and how they cant really help me, they coexist within me, all these seemingly conflicting elements.
and it is foolish to decapitate a perfectly good arm, simply because you just dont see how it works with the rest of your body.