Perhaps it is impossible to know someone entirely. Maybe that is why relationships don’t crash. Perhaps productivity is connected with change, and so productive people continue changing and are forever interactive. That seems like an awfully exclusive group to me; what of the mentally handicapped? What are they like inside? I guess they’re a fairly good example that ‘intelligence’ is tied, to some extent, at least, to the physical realm. I don’t think something as insignificant as a disease or slight genetic malfunction could render someone unlovable; not as long as they have a soul, anyway. I suppose, theoretically, a human animal, soulless, could be born, but I don’t think it applies to the mentally handicapped; and to be on the safe side, I’d rather not spread that idea around (rather nasty things could come of it).
Some people keep a journal. I wonder what mine would be like. This is rather interesting stuff, but I sat down with the express purpose to write it. Get philosophical, I mean. I only sat down to try to verbalize the "What am I?" conundrum; I don’t think I originally meant to write all this. If I kept a journal, would it help me do this? Would I have more thoughts? That would be nice. Sort of. It’s thoughts like these that end you up in the loony bin. Oh, to be sure, these thoughts themselves don’t cause problems, but the mentality does. It hurts. I wander the streets at night (on the nights it takes me), growling and moaning and demanding my identity from nothing in particular. Nothing, so far, has given me an answer, save that I sometimes feel I cannot be alone.
There have been billions of people born in the world, and I am but one. Surely my… psychological state can’t be unique. Yet, I see nobody that exhibits it. Or do I? Sometimes I think I see things. The allegorical aspects to Stuart Little, for instance. I think to myself that they are autobiographical, and perhaps they are. But I have the same suspicions of Hamlet, and Shakespeare wrote many plays. But, then, perhaps it is not coincidental that it is considered by the literate community to be a bit different from the rest of his plays. Or is it, perhaps, that I merely identify more with Hamlet than any of the others? Perhaps all of Shakespeare’s characters were written in part from his center. There are certainly some who would argue he couldn’t help but to do so. I watched The Wizard of Oz the other night, and it struck me as symbolism-rich as well. It’s the first time I’ve noticed the possibility. Perhaps –Frank, is it? Frank Baum? it is something like that– old Frank was writing something like Gulliver’s Travels – something widely regarded (today) as children’s literature, but really an allegory. Or perhaps I’m making a mountain out of a molehill; perhaps the symbolism is intended, and known by all, and I’ve only just recently noticed it. I do have a track record of being rather thick on some of these things. Still, I thought the tin woodsman’s thoughts on the heart, and his quest to find one, notable. To boot, I was only watching the movie, not reading the book. So at least the producers of the movie, if nobody else, should have noticed, or I doubt I would have through the movie. All right, then, I was a bit slow on that one. What am I? 20? Nearly 21. Well, you can’t win ‘em all. I suppose I have the excuse that it has been quite a while since I last saw the movie. I may have been only 9 years old; who knows. Probably it was more recent than that.
Anyway. I wonder if I can manage to fill up an entire page again. It doesn’t look like I’m too far off. I suppose it depends on what I talk about. I plan on going to get my driver’s license today. This is starting to sound like a ‘journal’. Many great authors kept journals, or so I understand. Why? Does it help? I hope so. If it helps, I think I’ll continue to do it. People say journals are nice, because then you can look back at yourself. I’m not sure I want to do that. At least, I’m not sure it’s ‘worth’ putting in all this time for. And I don’t particularly want others to read what I’ve got here. Maybe after I’m dead, when I won’t care. Oh, by the way, I don’t want to be pumped with preservatives and buried in a box somewhere in my best clothes. Give my clothes away to those who need them, or my kids, or something. Let me decay and nourish a tree, or somebody’s lawn. Burn me to powder and throw me into the ocean or something. I don’t need to let this old prison float around on anything. You can keep my brain. I remember reading somewhere that Lenin’s brain (or some Soviet leader) was preserved for the great thoughts it contained. I think that’s sort of dumb, but seeing as my major interest is in that area, I wouldn’t mind having my brain somewhere. Maybe I do have some sort of condition. It may help to research that, if I gain enough recognition for people to care. Maybe for sentimental value; that’s about the only thing I can think of worth keeping. Bodies change all the time; they’re very malleable. I mean, all someone has got to do is get a haircut and they look different! Brains aren’t quite the same. I can understand keeping around a brain, for sentimental value. Actual thoughts passed through it, and they are far more significant, and representative of who someone is than their actions.
Well, I guess I have a journal now. I have two pages, written sort of on different days.