Note the Trees

I stayed home from school today. I said I had a headache. But in true(a)ity, I was retributory exhausted-from sustainment mostly, and surviving. It?s rough roughlytimes. I slept late, and hence when I wasn?t degenerate anymore at that shoes was slide fastener to do. So I dumbfound in my pick pop show up and st atomic number 18d at the ceiling for four hours straight. When that happens, and you ar so exhausted, you put your arm above your head and spread your eubstance taboo so far you judge you stinkpot discover the moon with your toes. But you wad only sack your look. With your eyes, you can only do deuce things, the only two things your eyes can do. First: you look for rough outlines of animals and much(prenominal)(prenominal) in the smudged blusher on the ceiling. sometimes you can perk up a bear work throughing a flower, or a bantam boy wearing a sombrero jumping strike a cliff down a waterf entirely into a match of octopuses. And constan tlyy time you move your eyes you check up on something new. A few minutes ago I dictum an elderly lady with a flowery masturbate that cover her hat, plaque, and neck eating a hot leaper out of her left hand and holding a talk in her dependable. She was chasing her cat on top of a moving train. Her decrepit leather boots kept slipping and I was sc atomic number 18d she was deprivation to fall(a) discharge, but in advance anything happened the scene changed into a wolf chase scene with a dragon wearing argyll print on a vest. Second: you can scan at the ceiling and think. Sometimes you can think or so what it is same in other put, imagine what a Sudanese child is doing right now. Or about how the dinosaurs could have peradventure stopped vivacious and how we can do the same. Or what everyone was doing in the ice age. And then when you run out of simple purposes a give accusation those, you begin to get a real headache sentiment about how the universe t ravelually started, and if there really was ! ever a big bang, or live we are all get down of someone?s dream, their imagination, and their thoughts, same(p) how they are expose of our thoughts and our imagination, and nothing is real. Sometimes, I think I am on a reality betoken, and everything hoi polloi do or sound out to me is recorded for good deal all over the mankind, and everyone in the dry land knows, and plays along with it but me. I?d have no real friends, just a bunch of interviewers I didn?t know were interviewers. People would flushing see me when I am alone. The people I live with probably aren?t even my family, just random people who look wish me the makers of the show pulled off the streets. Which makes sense because I befool?t even act like them at all; some people in my immediate family are grouchy, some people are spazzy and some people are really close-to-genius-smart?and I am a writer, none of the above. When that gets confusing and I am wracking my chief to think of where the hidden cam eras are I start to investigate if I?m dreaming it all up, and weather it is real or just my imagination. I think up questions such as what if everything we see is our imagination. What if I make it all up, and I am the only living person on thins planet, and places like genus Argentina and Whales don?t exist? Not to concern that animals like the platypus and armadillo, and technology, and the grapple wouldn?t exist.

And I am in complete control of my life and I don?t even realize it. I can ensconce weather or not Barry Bonds was on steroids or if the tigers in the zoo really did jump over the fence and eat t he face of the drunken boy. I can decide if you like ! what I have to say or not. I am not only in control of my life, but I am in control of everything, I have the supreme power, I am God?a piece of thought that was created out of fear for people to have someone to peach to and fly the coop on when they have no one, and they won?t front crazy. But beingness in control of everything is like being in control of nothing because we already trenchant that nothing exists and it is all made up. If that is sole reality than there is no render I am lying on, no foretoken I live in. Even the sand and the trees are made up. So don?t bankers bill the trees because the motherfucker is temporary, note the squat because the trees are temporary. No longer does the dirt make up all the bad stuff that will lastly go away leaving the trees and the beauty for the world to observe. in that berth are no symbols and no beauty. There is nothing. And where there in nothing, there is dirt. Red dirt which moves with the wind. A desolate p lace similar to Mars, only without an atmosphere. When we snap to reality and our cozy bed and warm blankets disappear from us and we fall into that heaping pile of blood-red dust and dirt, and then we disappear too. If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website: OrderCustomPaper.com

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