The Not-So-Vietnam

As the election looms, creeping ever closer to first week of November, it's certain that the Iraq War will not only be an issue, but perhaps one of the clinching aspects of both the Kerry campaign and the Bush Administration. May 1, 2003 found President Bush declaring an end to the major combat operations regarding Iraq. With military strongholds in Baghdad crumbling, and the Republican guard virtually non-existent (all within the span of a month), it was rather evident that the end to major combat was in sight, if not present. Then came guerilla warfare. From the Fedayeen to radical Shiite clerics, fanatics, and psychos, American deaths came at a steady, but miniscule rate. Unfortunately, as we all know, the American media has long decided that the United States will never win another war - at least not in the eyes of the 'respectable' news mediums.

Enter comparisons to Vietnam. Being bombarded from every angle by the most ridiculous predictions for America's loss of the war, the comparison to Vietnam was the most implausible. It's more that factual on a number of levels. First fact: Vietnam is a highly forested, jungle area, which is swamped by monsoons in the north during rainy seasons, and suffers through tropical climates in the South. Iraq, on the other hand, experiences dust-filled, parched hot summers over a desert terrain that covers the majority of the landscape. Vietnam's terrain was prime reason why American soldiers nearly 11,000 deaths from disease and ailment alone. Malaria, to name one, was highly common in the humid, dank environment. Iraq on the other hand, isn't exactly the Jungle of the Middle East. Treacherous none the less, but not nearly enough as to cause such an exorbitant amount of diseased fatalities, Iraq's climate is scorching, to say the least (highs successively exceeding the 100 degree plateau), and the urban structure is remarkably different than the structures of Vietnam. Friends, this is this first in a series of facts that make the case undeniable.

On a more violent scale, the length of the Vietnam war effort is five times that of the current Iraqi War (90 months in Vietnam to 18 in Iraq). Over the span of 90 months in Vietnam, which calculates to some 2800 odd days of combat, a total of 58,168 Americans were killed. Yes, that's killed. No, that doesn't include the 153,303 that were wounded. In comparison to the war in Iraq, which has lasted 18 months thus far (some 550 odd days) has found the deaths of 1,803 coalition casualties. That's the coalition made up of 15 major countries. How the numbers of Vietnam, where massive numbers of American boys were slaughtered, can be even remotely compared to the war in Iraq is beyond me.

To further the point, and the comparison, the Vietnam War found an average of 526 Americans killed per month. Over the span of one year in Iraq, there was a grand total of 702 coalition deaths. Vietnam = 526 deaths per month. Iraq = 58 deaths per month. Again, it's hard to argue the numbers in a case that's made by statistics and facts. On a grander scale: Vietnam = 6,300 deaths per year. Iraq = 702. The yearly Vietnam fatality count is nearly eight times greater than that of coalition forces in Iraq. Eight times greater. It's hard for the facts to get much more real than this. It's rather funny, actually, how any comparison to Vietnam is accepted at all. If there was to be a statistic that would scrape the service of fitting comparison, it's the Revolutionary War. On a monthly combat death basis, combatants of the Revolutionary War suffered 55 deaths per month. However, that war was fought over a period of 80 months, and a grand total of 4, 435 deaths. Yet again, another unworthy comparison to the war in Iraq.

Frankly, the Iraq War is too young to be deemed anything close to Vietnam. With a whopping 57, 000 deaths yet to be had, and 72 months yet to be spent in the deserts and cities, Iraq's numbers are microscopic when compared to those of it's counterpart in the South Pacific. Vietnam was the most intense struggle of the modern war era, and though Iraq's war is a serious matter in it's own right, it comes nothing close of deserving the Vietnam brand. Unless our Shiite radical friends (now swarming into rank under the cleric Muqtada al Sadr) begin donning those stylish Hanoi hats, drop nuclear bombs on a mildly populated city in the American Midwest, and pledge their allegiance to Ho Chi Minh - Iraq just isn't Vietnam.

An Urgent Call For Your Assistance!

Friends, I've decided to broaden the reach of My Infinite Wisdom. I'm attempting to step out of the web world, and into the world of prints, papers, and hard copies. Yes, the rumors are true - the humble author of this blog is taking his work to the Press and Guide. In planning to expand the influence of this blog beyond the confining walls of the internet, I'm declaring my pre-eminence in the field I've chosen. It's quite simple. Anyone who has any aspiration of riches in the career of their choice has to officially declare their pre-eminence. Sure, I've stated that I'm simply the best writer I've come across (at least locally), and it's time I've made it official. With a stamp of my wrist, punch of my keyboard, and nod of my head, I now hold the official pre-eminent force of which I've yearned. Yes, faithful readers, it's time the world became enlightened at the hands of my infinite wisdom. Don't you agree?

In order to reach the masses, there's a small favor I must ask of each and every one of you. It's the least you can do, actually, for the man whose quips and witty pieces have brought you hours of literary contentment. The favor is this (and please, consider it):

I ask every patron of this blog to select their favorite article, poem, etc. and respond to this post with your selection, and reasoning for that selection.

It's quite easy. I'm asking you to think of your favorite work of mine, comment on this post with your choice and the reason for that choice. It's a well known fact that a portfolio is absolutely essential for those with high hopes of publication prowess. Who better to compile that portfolio than you, my faithful, devoted readers!Imagine the benefit to society you'll be doing by helping spread my infinite wisdom to the deserving, ravished public. The task is small, but all the while calls your name! Will you answer? Maybe you should, it might be long distance.

Remember, whether or not you choose to select from the archives of this blog, or happen to fancy a piece I've written as an outside project is entirely up to your discretion.

The civilized world, and myself, depend on your aid.


Pre-eminently and respectfully,

Sean Moylan

To Whom it May Concern:

I apologize to the few of you who actually make daily visits to encounter what I have to say. Things have been pretty stagnate of late, and I'm lacking an inspiration that tends to bubble in my mind. Perhaps it's the fact that the majority of my readers are actually spammers who feed off the IP adressess that this site contains. That alone is enough to piss me off. It's rather depressing that my 'fight the man' attitude of avoiding the online journal epidemic is slapping me in the face. People seem not to understand the concept of bloggging.

"What is a bl- bl- log, anyway?"

"Well, first, it's not a beelog. It's a blog - short for Web Log. As a matter of fact, it's what your dumb ass uses everyday you spill your empty heart into that online journal!"

"Oh. Cool."

It's rather obvious why people are a little less than responsive to what I have to say. Maybe I should decorate my blog with flowers and create a section for my friends. I suppose if I had a section of friends, I could look at it everyday and feel that I'm loved. I could baske in the glory of my friend counter.

"Hey, how many friends are you reppin' on your online journal?"

"Well, there's me, you, this guy I met, some girl that I don't know, this person from Texas, I think his name is Gino, or something."

"Oh. Cool."

"Yeah. Am I on your friends list?"

"No."

If I was to enlist and join the ranks of the regular online journalee, there would a number of alterations I would have to make, not only to my style, but to my whole thought process. For starters, I would have to ignore every fundamental rule of grammer I was ever taught. Secondly, I would have to write as though I was being forced at gunpoint. Thirdly, I would have to spill the innards of my shallow love life and petty dramatics, all the while pretending that I'm a featured actor on The Young & The Restless. For the sake of you true readers, I shall display the three exampes I've just explained in one solitary piece.

"Today i was lik at my friends house and we totaly called this girl that i met when i was with my friend at this one palce. she came over right away i seen her walk up the dirveway and was like i hate you guys and i didnt no what to think or say or do or what. i'm sooo confused. my life sucks. im going to listen to emo music and hope that my pain and misry goes away when i waked up in the morning. why does all this happen to me. why me!!!1 why me!! jesus i ahte this. i hate this soo much. people are sooo mean and insensative to what i say and feel. dammit, ima human to. mood: flustered, boo hoo. music: matchbook of the year."

Does that require any further examination? Please, it was torture enough to actually write it, I beg you not to ask for more. But, to be fair, if more is what you want, then do I have the link for you! www.livejournal.com. That, my friends, is the cespool for every trivial, uneducated, and overwhelmed thought ever "thunked". If that's what you want, then by coming here, you're in the wrong place.

"Hey dude, drama sucks. Do you know where I can find more?"

"No."

"Oh. Cool"

I've frankly run fresh out of ideas. I've tried cheap and schemish marketing ploys, shoving my work down the throats of my friends (and of people I don't even know). I've changed my answering machine message to plug for my blog. So this is what rock bottom feels like. Maybe I'm being given an ultimatum. Enter the World of Despair and Gloom, also known as Online Journal Land, or be forced to endure underwhelming levels of readership for the remainder of your natural life. Ok, well, maybe it's an exaggeration, but it's an ultimatum nonetheless. What other choice do I have?

"Hey man, I heard you made a live journal!"

"Yeah, this whole thing sucks. It's nothing but drama and whining."

"I know! Don't you love it!"

"God, why me?"

"Hey! You fit right in!"

God, why me.

Words To Dream

If words could only bring a sense of hope,
You’d wish for nothing less than what my voice
Could do unto these weary eyes. I’d cope
And comfort every tear to bring a choice
That takes not life, but asks of simple birth,
A birth of ageless, nameless, painless ways
Of life not knowing death, but only mirth.
And in the night we’d read the star that says
‘A truth two lover’s hands can only know
When joined with love, with memories to mold,
Is but a truth so rare, too young to grow
And fall into the pains of death so cold,
So cruel.’ But memories within the night
Are all that lovers have of which to dream,
And though my hands have fallen numb and tight,
My absence is not all that it may seem.

If words could only bring a sense of peace,
I’d speak of dreams that spread a smile wide
Upon a face that’s longed for some release
From every dying tear that you have cried.
And though a dream is all that we may share,
Our past of hands entwined beneath the stars
Will drift into my mind without a care
Of all the endless pains, and tears, and scars
That never seem to matter when we sleep,
For with the night befalls a calm to sooth
The bitter ends of which we’ve come to weep.
But how I long to touch your skin of smooth
And untamed beauty, gaze into your eyes
Of endless, flowing hope of which I dream
To see again. But with the sun to rise,
My absence is not all that it may seem.

The Song You Wish You Knew

I'm going to start this blog with the tone of an adult male, with tones of passive embarrassment, and obvious obligation. It's just a forewarning. There comes a point in the life of every young person when a car radio is turned on and experienced for the very first time. I know you're all wondering, "Where the hell is he going with this," but hear me out. I'm not referring to listening to the radio with your mommy on the way to Sear's for a Two-for-One sale. I mean the radio. The only time a radio is truly put to use in a natural state is when playing songs that everyone knows - that everyone enjoys. Obviously, in today's musical world, it's impossible to enjoy anything without enjoying it with someone else. Therefore, enjoying the songs that everyone knows is out of the question if enjoyed alone. I highly doubt that made a shred of sense, but hopefully I can find it in myself to clarify. As I said so gracefully before, there are but few songs that make the car radio's job worthwhile. Rather than stating the obvious, and simply listing the songs that deserve a berth on this sacred list, I'll allow you, my highly literate and multi-faceted readers, to assume the role of compilation maker. Seeing as though you're probably not yet comfortable with the burden of such overwhelming responsibility, I'll get to the point of this blog. To be as cryptic as possible, question form seems to be in order. What problem is so great to interfere with the singing of a classic song blared over the car radio?

Ok, I've caused enough confusion thus far, so I'll explain. What I meant to imply was that the problems of our daily lives simply don't have the strength to drown out the car radio. Of course, a good song amazingly transforms into an excellent song when played to a carload of close friends, which means that no problem, no matter the severity or the weight, has enough brute force to keep each and every pair of lips closed. Try it the next time you drive with your friends. Turn on some Bohemian Rhapsody, or even some Nelly, and sit there motionless. I guarantee you right now, unless you're in a hearse, surrounded by a bunch of closest dead buddies, it'll be next to impossible not to sing. There's an uncanny aura surrounding the car radio. As it sits, so discreetly, just waiting to be pushed and cranked, just waiting to belt out a former #1, it's so unbecoming. Compare it to Clark Kent, probably the most unbecoming alien superhero the world has produced. Obviously, behind the thick-rimmed glasses, the combed hair, and the clueless demeanor is the salvation of the Metropolitan world, but Clark Kent doesn't exactly exude superhuman strength. Neither does the car radio (on more than one level). Who could imagine that a small piece of electronic something-or-other would ever have the ability of uniting a group of people in song and throwing their problems to the shoulder of US 10? But hey, square-rimmed glasses are quite the disguise.

Unfortunately, as life tends to behave in ways unbeknown to anyone with a pulse, problems do arise. They rise above the decibels pounded from the speakers, they rise above the scratchy, shrill, or olive oil voices, and they rise above the unity that the radio brings. Anyone have any idea of what problems could possibly have such power? No, it's not kryptonite. I'm sorry, but we left the superman metaphor in the previous paragraph. This problem, this problem of such magnitude comes in the form of those songs that no one ever really knows. Now, don't even pretend like you've never encountered that. There are always songs that seem unable to be taught, unable to be memorized, and certainly unable to be sang aloud. It's rather funny, and I suppose I do have to return the superman metaphor (lucky you), but Superman isn't the bringer of perfection. In his quest for truth, justice, and the American way, he has to step on some toes, whether he likes it or not. Seeing as that the car radio has already been assumed to be the Superman of modern automobile devices, it must be true for the radio as well. Again, let me explain the logic that has gotten me so far in life. Even the car radio doesn't have full control of the songs that it plays. Sometimes it will in fact play that one song that people just don't know. Pour some what was that? If you wanna come and take a ride with me, three who in the where with the what what? Get the point? The thing is this; there comes a time when real problems will decide to show their pretty faces. Sometimes the one object that brings the unity, brings the songs we all know and love, can also bring the vague, abject lyrics. However, we, as devotees to the grand cause of the car radio, have to find it absolutely necessary to stand firm in the light of such dilemmas. Besides, it's come to be well known that the songs with lyrics seemingly impossible to master all have fairly easy melodies. Sometimes we have no choice but to hum and just give our lips a well deserved rest. It seems rather foolish to make a fool out of yourself by attempting miserably at singing a song you don't know. It's equally as foolish to attempt solving problems to which you have no solution. There's not a thing wrong with humming the beat, and taking life as it comes. Sometimes it's all we can do to hold firm through the storm. It's easy to use the little presets on the radio panel, switching aimlessly to a song of lesser quality, with stunningly easy lyrics, but not so much to sit through a song you don't know. I suppose I'm wandering myself, somehow ending up at a conclusion to this blog. But, before I write myself off, I'm taking this time to make myself heard. Problems will come. Some will be silenced by the unpolished, fantastic sound of united voices, and others will leave us stumped and struggling to find our rhythm. But we owe it to the car radio, and we owe it to ourselves to wait, to wait for that classic song that brings us together once again with voices high, low, deep, and squeaky.

So go ahead. Give your lips a rest. Hum the tune.

Besides, who would want to pour some sugar on me, anyway?

Dead Last

I'm taking a poll. That's right, a poll. Of course it's not a gallop poll affiliated by the AP, or The Washington Post, but a poll is a poll. I've presented before you a simple question worthy only of an even simpler answer. "How many people are sick to death of hearing that 'nice guys always finish first' "? That's it. I've laid it out, and no, it's not flashy, it might actually be quite boring, but it's a buzz worthy question that will hopefully stir up some needed attention.Frankly, I've never been more tired of a statement in my life. Let's face the simple characteristics of being a truly "nice" guy, and make an educated decision on the validity of the phrase under investigation.

• Fact #1: A truly nice guy will contain foul language and obscenities when in the presence of a female.
  
• Fact #2: A truly nice guy will have any intention but that of a one-night stand.
  
• Fact #3: A truly nice guy will know that women command and deserve every ounce of respect that he can give.
  
• Fact #4: A truly nice guy will never lay an angered hand upon a woman.
  
• Fact #5: A truly nice guy will never disgrace himself by using illicit drugs and excessive amounts of alcohol.
  

My friends, those are the ten, or five, commandments of being a truly nice guy. With them finally in the open, it's no wonder why we really do finish last. And when I mean last, I don't mean second place. I mean dead last- in the Boston Marathon. But let's look at the bright side. Without a loser, how could there be a winner. Not convinced? Neither am I. It amazes me how the supply of the "not-so-nice-guy" is enjoying such a surplus. To me, there's one rule that these people obey.

• Rule #1 (and only): The not-so-nice-guy will do the exact opposite of the five Nice Guys rules stated above. He will be successful in the hunt for constant sexual adventure/ illicit drugs/ copious amounts of alcohol/ all of the above.
  

Can someone please tell me how that's even remotely fair? I didn't think so. It comes as no shock that as plentiful the supply of idiotic men may be, the total of women to court such men is also fairly astronomical. I haven't the slightest on this alien logic. Well, perhaps alien isn't quite the word. It was once alien, for about half an hour in the Garden of Eden, but it must have filed for citizenship. If there was one dream that I would have come true, I wish it were the one where the tables were turned. Instead of this ridiculous norm, in which the chauvinist always gets the girl, and the nice guys eventually gives in to the pressure of loneliness and inevitable defeat, only to become as bad, if not worse! than their newly discovered comrades, a simple reversal of roles would be more than adequate. I envision this (and please forgive me for my fantastical approach to an even more bogus theory): The nice guy would always get the nice girl. The majority of us guys would be, believe it or not, nice guys, and the majority of girls would be, if you can comprehend, respectable. Now let's compare that dream (which it could only be) to the amazing reality we all know so well.

• Nice guys = Minority, to say the absolute least.
  
• Nice girls = "What are nice girls?"
  
• Not-So-Nice Guys = What was the male population in 2003?
  
• Not-So-Nice Girls = What's the female population now?
  

There you have it. If there was one thing to transcend race, religion, and sexual orientation, it's that diverse breakdown you have encountered above. An Indian can easily be a not-so-nice person, as can an American, a Briton, or any person from the continent of South America. In simpler terms, if you live and breath on this planet, chances are you can find yourself under only two of the four listings. Take a stab at which. Ouch - nothing but Aorta.

I suppose I'm not being exactly fair to us nice guys, but what can I say, we're more than used to being ignored, looked right through, and being labeled as born again losers. Fellow nice guys of the world, or at least those of whom who have stumbled across this epic blog, I ask you this: does that devilish lie, which is this focus of my piece, infuriate you? Are you sick and tired of every moronic loser getting the girl you wished you could? I expect nothing less than 'yes' to be answered for both of those questions, but let me tell you something you may not have realized. I'm a nice guy. I follow the rules. I know, for certain fact, that their are other nice guys out there. Trust me, there are nice girls, as well. I'm a guy, and I'll come right out and say that I want a nice girl with amazing looks and wits enough to blow the sweater off my neighbor's Scottie. I'm assuming that's the dream of every nice guy out there, so join the club. But, here's what I've come up with. Sooner or later, the nice guys that stay the course and live firmly by the Five Commandments will meet the girl that, until then, their dreams could only provide. I'm waiting for that day, and it will happen. I guarantee that. However, for those nice guys who swerve and fall short of the goals that they could attain, what's left for them but perpetual loneliness?

I've come to a simple resolution, and it tends to place people into simple demographics (probably simpler than the four divisions of males and females outlined previously). Nice guys will be lonely until they meet that perfect girl. The period of loneliness is unpredictable. We all know that true love can strike with more ferocity than Jaws on steroids, or as slowly as a snail in a salt mine, but that loneliness will end, only to be replaced by a love that's unlike any phenomena known to this world. However, on the down side, natural life, and love with it, is destined to end with the stroke of death. The cycle is quaint, and consists of loneliness, incomparable love, and loneliness once again. Perhaps it's not the most inspiring, but buck up. There's more. The not-so-nice guy will enjoy euphoria until he's worn to the bone. He'll have his excessive parties, orgies, and outrageous antics - and enjoy every second of it. But this euphoria isn't natural It's a blinding aspect of a chemical and chauvinistic high that's exposed by the unadulterated truth of love only gained by a truly nice guy. I'm thankful for that fact that I have the future of love that will shame and humiliate the men and women who took advantage of the things I never wanted. I'll enjoy true love at some point, while my counterparts one the other side will never have the privilege. I know, you must be thinking, "but those truly nice guys will only end their lives in disappointment and loneliness for a second time, having but a taste of true love".

I say this to you.

I would rather die knowing I had love's paradise than live wishing I did.

Perfect Timing

Joseph Heller died on Sunday, December 12, 1999. Seeing as though I have just realized this fact, nearly five years late, it came as a bit of a shock. Lately I've been struggling, one might say, with ideas of future greatness. Although I can be a patient person, when it comes to something swirling in my mind, there are two things I do. One, I immediately jot them down and become instantly disappointed with my lack of preparation. Or two, I let them stew in my brain until the ideas pile one on the other and become so cramped and crowded that it's impossible to tell them apart. Either way, I get screwed. Catch-22, Joseph Heller's masterpiece, inspired me to the point of actually searching for a way to contact the author. Apparently, as I soon would learn, it's difficult to contact a man who's been dead for quite some time (unless, of course, you're willing to slap down 10 dollars to the nearest Whoopi Goldberg). While caught in the midst of my soon to be fruitless searches, I had the bright idea that Joseph Heller would spill the innermost secrets of his art, of his uncanny ability to mesh and mold comedy and tragedy into a flawless piece of literary structure. Not only would he lay his methods down on the table for me, but I'd take his teachings, with the most sincerely eager mindset, and begin immediately my masterpiece, my Catch-22. You all now know that such dreams have been made impossible by sudden cardiac arrest at the age of 76. I found out the hard way. As is usually associated with discovering things "the hard way", I plummeted into a state of mild depression. What else could I do? Certainly I couldn't celebrate the fact that the man was dead, and five years gone for that matter. I couldn't very well learn the secrets of his trade now. It then crossed my mind that I would attempt contacting his wife, but in fear of the worst, I didn't bother. I wasn't about to risk the chance of severe emotional trauma for a second time.

There wasn't much else left for me to do. At the beginning of my 463 page venture through the mind and material of Mr. Heller, I would never have assumed the impact that it would later have on my literary mind and ambitions. Don't get me wrong, I've always had the dream of writing one single masterpiece, a work for the ages, but Catch-22 has knocked that dream from the foothills to the summit, and I'm not quite sure how I got there. It's never truly occured to me that the possibilty of failure ever existed. I don't write for them. I write for me. If it happens to stimulate the minds of millions of people world-wide, then I'm just as satisfied. I trust in my own observations, in my own gatherings of people and events, and in my own ability enough to know that I can always buy every copy ever published of my book. At least I'd fool the New York Times.

It became clear to me that something just wasn't working. Earlier in the year, in a fit of sheer rage, I savagely bludgeoned my laptop to the point of no repair. It had come to be known that it required the odd slap now and then, but it was the ultimate shock to find the plasma screen cracked and twisted and rendered completely useless by one swift blow. I could of cried. But I continued my assault. That laptop was the nucleus of my writing ability. Like an extremity of my brain itself, my laptop and I would spend countless hours together as my fingers furiously pounded the keyboard, not quite sure where they were going. As we typed deep into the night, working tirelessly on the next great story, paper, or all of the above, my brain really hadn't the slightest of where it was taking us. It tended to be, more often than not, that my brain was kept in the dark until the final draft was produced and handed to the teacher. I let my fingers do the talking. My brain just gets in the way. Thankfully, my fingers tend to be the Magellan of my body, knowing a course and sticking to it. My brain could be compared to William Bligh, tossed about by the fears of mutiny, and led to ultimate capitulation at the hands of a superior force. That really doesn't bother me. I figure that if my brain was active in the writing process, my fingers would clog and overflow with nonstop information. If I only let my fingers, which happens to be the closest thing to the keyboard itself, do the work, then obviously the result will be much more natural. It seems that my natural tends to be more natural than other's naturality. Sadly enough, and I'm sure you're oozing with sympathy for my sad, pathetic life, my laptop has moved on, leaving my fingers desperate for the smooth hum of her innards, and the soft patter of her keys. Yet, those days are gone, and like Joseph Heller before them, I'm found sprawled in the dark, fingers first.

My depressing adventure of death and inspiration has led me to this point. I'd like to capitalize, and take the time to issue my deepest condolences, and my deepest thanks to Joseph Heller for dying on December 12, 1999. It not only proves to me that his works transcend his life, which is the ultimate compliment to a life of literary genius and utter brilliance, but it proves to me that Catch-22 immortilizes him. It was genuine enough to fool me into believing that he was still alive, and that I had any chance of learning even the slightest of his secrets. And it came to me. Catch-22 was his secret. Every philosophical thread in his body was poured into those pages and woven into one of the world's classic literary tapestries. His secret was his genius, so plainly laid before us in the most complex of terms. His secret was to live forever. Catch-22, and Joseph Heller, will live forever. I'm five years too late.

The Top of My Mind

I've realized something. In the sixteen short years that this planet as lent me, I am now able to say that I have realized one single, solitary thing. In the sixteen long years that this planet has lent me, I've made countless observations on the way people work. I've noticed that most people can drift through life without realizing anything. It's quite the shame actually. People spend countless ticks of the hearts wrapped up in oblivious drama that they refuse, or simply cannot take the time to realize that their lives are slipping slowly away. It could be true that that's the one thing that I've realized; that people are too self absorbed to realize things for themselves. Luckily enough for me, I know it's not my realization. If that were the case, then I would obviously be the lonliest person on the face of the earth -- simply because I'd have realized what the masses have failed see. And since, therefore, the masses aren't myself, I would be alone to wallow in my realization. But have little time for fear. Since the entire world has caught the epidemic of self-interest, I've had time to make new friends, broaden my horizons, and explore the inner-depths of my mind. I've learned that the world truly has little to offer in terms of making new friends. I've learned that I was born with a tunnel vision that effectively eliminates a broad horizon, and thus eliminating any chance for expanding that horizon. I've also learned that my mind the only true friend that I have. Sure, there are people that are friendly, but that doesn't make them my friend. My mind is my only true friend because it will never tell me what to think - unless I think it.

If that fails to make any sense to anyone, I would appreciate a friendly visit of some sort so we can utilize the opportunity and discuss the validity of whatever statements I may have made. Whether those statements are conscious or entirely subliminal, I haven't the slightest. You're reading them, not me.

Yet, as the clock inches closer and closer to five in the morning, it's come to my attention that I haven't told you what I've realized. The ulitmate realization that places me in the upper echelon of anyone to realize anything, the realization that tells me things I'm not quite ready to comprehend, is this:

I've realized that someday I will realize something that will change my life. It will change my life, and it will the change the lives of people that have never heard my name - not in an utter from the faintest of lips, or the loudest of speakers. I've realized that someday in my life I will do something, produce something that will have people talking for years after I've died, for years after my closest friends have passed, for years after my mind and laid down it's secrets. What that realization is, I couldn't tell you. Not because it's a deep, forboding secret. Because I haven't realized it yet.