Status: Writing
Phoenix from the Flames
Who Are You?
The internet is a fucking drag. I log onto my Facebook and ignore the hundreds of friend requests from underaged girls. My newsfeed is nothing but complaints and diary entries from people I haven't spoken to since college, and even a few gems from high school. People seem to have to lost the very essence that makes them people. Everybody laughs at the same jokes, hates the same president and likes the same Facebook page. Where are those who genuinely care to be? Descartes says he thinks, therefore he is. Our ability to think, deduce, create and imagine give us the essence to our existence. Maybe our essence is dissolving slowly over time. I like to think that I hold onto my own with every question that leaps through my frustrated mind.
Rex said he posted a new blog entry. I guess I should go read it. I don't usually enjoy blog posts, as they are usually glittery recaps of a person's day. Rex really tries, though. He writes this great stuff about how he feels, what he thinks, pensive arguments. It's not just writing; it's more. Rex turns writing into the art that it should be. His words form rhythms and melodies and my gears are always left turning after reading.
I log onto my Tumblr, because that's where Rex posts his writings. The first post on my dashboard is a reblog. Rex reblogged a post from a user named RisingPhoenix. I chuckle a little at the clever name. He, or she, must be an Arizona native. Rex never reblogs, so this must be a good read.
Self-Realization
I’m not really sure who I am under the myriad of layers of false skin. I can’t be too sure of my own motivations; they all seem at bay behind a great dust storm or thick fog. Right now, I’m a zombie walking the streets, blindfolded by my attempts at finding some sort of purpose. I’ve been pretending to be confident and sure of my actions, but, trust me, you shouldn’t believe a word I say or a thing I do. I guess this is what they mean by immaturity. Meanwhile, I will be here, stuck in a faulty Einstein’s Bridge trying to take me too far into the future. Rest assured, I will be going nowhere in the next 24 hours.
I laugh at the sad truth pointed out. You know, half of the time, I have no idea who I am. Yes, I know-- I'm John Cornelius O'Callaghan V: singer, writer, poet, smoker, drinker and thinker. That's all easy to guess. But why do I write? Why do I sing? Why smoke or drink or even think? Those are the questions that lead to a better answer. I'm working on an answer. For now, I'll work on a new blog post. Maybe I should reblog RisingPhoenix. Whoever that is has stolen the words I didn't even know I had in my mouth. I click on the link to her blog.
The background is white. There are no photos. No, not even a photo of the blogger. In large, plain black font, the blog is titled: Phoenix from the Flames. Underneath, in tiny black font reads: Girl meets herself for the first time. This blog is her encounter.
I'll remember to ask Rex about RisingPhoenix next time I see him. I'm curious as to who they are, now. I click the 'follow' button, just to keep tabs.
It's time to write my own blog entry.
My name is simply my name. It is a small part of my definition. Who am I beyond my name? Who am I beyond what I do or what I say? Can I even completely distinguish myself from others based on who I am? Thoughts have been running through my head and I've been reading too many books lately. I've crumpled up countless pieces of paper from my notepad and have tossed them into a wastebasket in attempt to write a single song. The truth is, most of my lyrics mean nothing to me until I have written them in entirety. I write from the subconscious. The verses on paper reveal to me what happens in my mind and provide clues to who exactly I am as a person. I've been writing a lot about sadness and loneliness. I didn't realize how I was feeling until I wrote three songs about it. Funny how the mind works. -jcocv
I read over one more time while my cursor hovers over the submit button. I click and exit out of Safari. Too much of the internet in a day brings me down.
Rex said he posted a new blog entry. I guess I should go read it. I don't usually enjoy blog posts, as they are usually glittery recaps of a person's day. Rex really tries, though. He writes this great stuff about how he feels, what he thinks, pensive arguments. It's not just writing; it's more. Rex turns writing into the art that it should be. His words form rhythms and melodies and my gears are always left turning after reading.
I log onto my Tumblr, because that's where Rex posts his writings. The first post on my dashboard is a reblog. Rex reblogged a post from a user named RisingPhoenix. I chuckle a little at the clever name. He, or she, must be an Arizona native. Rex never reblogs, so this must be a good read.
Self-Realization
I’m not really sure who I am under the myriad of layers of false skin. I can’t be too sure of my own motivations; they all seem at bay behind a great dust storm or thick fog. Right now, I’m a zombie walking the streets, blindfolded by my attempts at finding some sort of purpose. I’ve been pretending to be confident and sure of my actions, but, trust me, you shouldn’t believe a word I say or a thing I do. I guess this is what they mean by immaturity. Meanwhile, I will be here, stuck in a faulty Einstein’s Bridge trying to take me too far into the future. Rest assured, I will be going nowhere in the next 24 hours.
I laugh at the sad truth pointed out. You know, half of the time, I have no idea who I am. Yes, I know-- I'm John Cornelius O'Callaghan V: singer, writer, poet, smoker, drinker and thinker. That's all easy to guess. But why do I write? Why do I sing? Why smoke or drink or even think? Those are the questions that lead to a better answer. I'm working on an answer. For now, I'll work on a new blog post. Maybe I should reblog RisingPhoenix. Whoever that is has stolen the words I didn't even know I had in my mouth. I click on the link to her blog.
The background is white. There are no photos. No, not even a photo of the blogger. In large, plain black font, the blog is titled: Phoenix from the Flames. Underneath, in tiny black font reads: Girl meets herself for the first time. This blog is her encounter.
I'll remember to ask Rex about RisingPhoenix next time I see him. I'm curious as to who they are, now. I click the 'follow' button, just to keep tabs.
It's time to write my own blog entry.
My name is simply my name. It is a small part of my definition. Who am I beyond my name? Who am I beyond what I do or what I say? Can I even completely distinguish myself from others based on who I am? Thoughts have been running through my head and I've been reading too many books lately. I've crumpled up countless pieces of paper from my notepad and have tossed them into a wastebasket in attempt to write a single song. The truth is, most of my lyrics mean nothing to me until I have written them in entirety. I write from the subconscious. The verses on paper reveal to me what happens in my mind and provide clues to who exactly I am as a person. I've been writing a lot about sadness and loneliness. I didn't realize how I was feeling until I wrote three songs about it. Funny how the mind works. -jcocv
I read over one more time while my cursor hovers over the submit button. I click and exit out of Safari. Too much of the internet in a day brings me down.
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Hey guys! Just starting this new story. It'll probably be short(er), but I'm really thinking about how I want it to go. Please let me know if you like it so far! I've got a lot of interesting stuff coming up, so be prepared!