Long short one two five eighty-one I can't understand this. I don't know what to say. Maybe random words will be easier. Six ten flowing hair neck voyager justify knock first Would generating random words let me out? I can see the first day going down the drain and I haven't a thing to show for it. Oh, I did get the scanner to work. What a ridiculous way to package a scanner. Kitten runner time to let you know. How close am I? Does the day look as bright to you know as it did when you woke up?

Long ago and far away I write these words to me. When the ages ended and I went home I left the door open. Up until that point I didn't know what I wanted and maybe I never will. Still don't. I can run around without any pants but no-one will ever see. I can't understand where these words are coming from but they seem like the thing to say. Maybe I'll read them again and laugh until I hurt inside. I've hurt before but that would be a better pain. Watch out because here I come. Two three four.

When I wake up in the morning all I see is the day behind. I can't look at the day coming until I've had my daily dose of cereal. The music in the car is never as good as I hope but I listen anyway. Maybe it'll be better after the commercial break. Until last year I walked everywhere. It was the best way to get around. Now I need to drive. It isn't as much fun. I enjoy it. I found my perfect route but that doesn't make it any more enjoyable. I'll try harder next time. Long Gone.

Once in a great while we see something that cannot be explained. Wait a minute, that happens every day, particularly if you interact with another human being. There is no rationale people's actions. We do and say the most amazing things with no warning or explanation. Purple monkey dishwasher. When we try to create an artificial intelligence we need to create those sparks that give us those moments even if we can't fly. It is the random parts of the human condition that allow us to be truly sentient. The unexpected and irrational behaviour of genius keeps us moving forward.

Every once in a while I look at the stars. Then I look at the pavement. I really must keep my eyes on the road when I'm driving. If I was to look at the stars all the time I think I'd end up with a crick in my neck. That wouldn't be very much fun. Aches and pains are what hold us back. If there were no pains in our lives then there would be a lot more comfort, joy and happiness. With happiness comes well being and with that the drive to imagine and to look at stars.

I am being forced to accept it. I'm not there. I'm here. Whether the here is better than there I can't say. Remember, "No matter where you go there you are." But what if I want to be there instead or here. Do I waste my time thinking there is better than her? Maybe I should suck it up and accept here is not so bad even if there looks better. (Or was better.) Despite the yearnings I have to soldier on and work with the here that isn't there. In time I might learn how to make there here.

Bones head things free white free long death hurt been sent four where junk sailing darkness class zest fly grout service banal hilt flirt wind cry misty greet last count forget wish jubilant poor crest gumption quickening usual great untoward fresh caught exact revenge cold justice north undone hunger want last phial solstice keen hone ground junk introspective vulture mind youth police vengeful quest conquer spelling hunt dance. If you thought that made sense you should try walking around in my mind. I haven't swept the corners in a year or two so the cobwebs are dusty. Tick, tick, tock.

I finish work at 11:30 p.m. I drive home and sit at the computer for an hour. What does that say about me? Am I lost in my own life? There's a brilliant idea. Lost. Maybe lost is just being somewhere new. But that can really be genuinely unsettling. Imagine for a moment never knowing where you were. Not just your physical location but your mind and soul and entire being. Imagine reaching out for a hand and finding you didn't have one. What do you do then? If you can't find a place to begin where do you end?

My dreams no longer exist. There is nothing new or old. I can see the light from the tunnel spilling into the sea. When the waves break on the shore the spray is swallowed by the sky. Until a person seeks it the bottom will remain hidden. When I try to locate the limit of imagination I don't know what direction to take. Is imagination a box? A cube? A figure in n-space that we cannot describe? Am I at the center or will I face a longer journey by turning around? Do the limits of imagination exist or matter?

I wanted to be the one who comforted her. I wanted to hold her close and protect her from the world. But such was not to be.

Long ago and far away I ran into the field without any shoes. The grass felt exquisite as I crushed it between my toes. I couldn't run fast enough to do everything I wanted.

When I close my eyes my head refuses to stop. I can't turn it off. I lie in bed and wait for sleep but it refuses to arrive. I wait until the spinning of my head tires me completely.

I am. I can. I did. I saw. I ran. I held. I felt. I wished. I tried. I sought. I lost. I froze. I returned. I recanted. I refused. I polished. I spoke. I failed. I sank. I learned. I waited. I acquiesced. I shrank. I diminished. I gathered. I refrained. I denied. I hoped. I quashed. I desired. I awoke. I rose. I fought. I gambled. I exposed. I waited. I focused. I died. I vanished. I forgot. I remembered. I grow. I cleanse. I plan. I move. I live. I refine. I recall. I review. I love.

Some days the words simply fly from my mind and I cannot write fast enough to capture them. Other days I have difficulty forming a coherent thought I wish to share. So, where does that leave me? I suppose it leaves me like everyone else who tries to share with the world. Not every day can be an "ON" day. We must accept that on occasion there is nothing to say. When we have nothing to say it is as important to hold on to the unsaid. Forget the 1000 word picture, a blank slate can be just as profound.

I have two round boxes. They both have hats in them. I rarely wear the hats. Why do I have them?

I have ten fingers. I don't use all of them all the time. Why can't I leave some at home when I want?

I have two feet. I use them a lot but sometimes I could use an extra or two. Why can't I have them?

If we have only what we need and not just what we want are we happier or just fooled?

Material things make us happy but the necessity must be questioned. Minimalist or materialist?

The last frontier of human exploration is the recesses of the mind. When we manage to chart all the mysterious ways then we will understand the compulsions and actions of any person. Under the mask of civilization there is the face of humanity but we've worked so hard at civilization that we are losing sight of the human factor. Tragedy brings the humans in us out and we can relate to one another in truth and freedom. There are few chances these days to understand each other as human beings before society gets the hooks in. Then we are restricted.

I recycle words, every day until they don't impact any more. I wish I could generate new things all the time but I don't think the world works that way. We are all in ruts whether we like it or not. Some may not even realize it. We speed along and tell ourselves that everything is getting better and that the world is always giving us something new to do. Even our attitudes are recycled. Spontaneous original thought is such a rare commodity that if we were to pay for what one original thought was worth the economy would collapse.

I listen to the same songs all the time. I may grab a new one every now and again but mostly I have the same dozen or so in rotation. They come from a variety of styles from bubblegum pop to classic rock. To my shame I even have a rap in there. But the style is not as important as the theme. Too much of my music revolves around trying to feel. There isn't anything causing me to feel these days. I feel like my insides are there to keep the outside from falling down like a limp noodle.

When I try to write my thoughts I can move from one topic to another without even realizing it. I'll start talking about politics and move into music. I don't know how that happens. Maybe the short circuits in the brain make it possible. Oh, yes, I think everyone's brain has a share of short circuits. If they didn't then we'd all make sense all the time. What a boring world that would be. I don't want to live in a place where everything has to make sense all the time but more sense every now and again wouldn't hurt.

Some days I can write without end. There are not enough pages to fill or enough ink to spill. That's an interesting turn of phrase. Let's think about that. Is writing the spilling of ink in the same sense as killing is the spilling of blood? Do we destroy something when we write? Does the writing cause suffering? I spilled ink today. Was that for good or ill? What of professional writers? Are they then mass "murderers?" I'm going to need to do more research into this one. Phrase origins and dictionary definitions. That's where I'll start. It'll be fun.

If I had the ability to change things I am sorry to say that I'd be tempted. Change the past? You bet. Drink the magic water and live forever? Sign me up. I guess I'm weak like that. But more than anything I'd relive the last four years. Most people report that they wouldn't change a single thing in their lives but I can say for sure and certain that given the chance I would replay the last four years differently. Right from Day One. I know I made mistakes and I can see how not to make them again.

Some days I let her in (Or is it out?) so thoughts of her can spin inside my head. Those days aren't so good. I know there were feelings there but there isn't much I can do. I'm not allowed to feel those things. But forbidden thing are often more attractive. Is that what makes me feel this way in the first place; knowing she'll never see what I saw and she'll never feel what I feel? If I were to write her a letter and fill it with my thoughts who is to say there would be any impact?

I write while I'm sitting at lunch/dinner. No one is talking to me so I have time to think. Mostly I think about the things I missed doing that I will never have the chance to do again. It's a horrible thing to regret. I know the day will come when I am bitter and old that I will berate myself for not doing the things that were possible in my youth. I already berate myself for things I have little or no control over. I suppose the rest of me will follow suit. What a fine way to live.

I fall behind and I pick myself up. There isn't anything else worthwhile to do. Worrying doesn't help. Making excuses doesn't help. All in all, the only thing to do is give up or keep trying and giving up doesn't accomplish anything. I was tempted to give up once. If I had given up it would have made things a lot easier. But that way also led to mediocrity and disappointment. I could not allow that to happen. There was all or nothing. So I forged ahead and here I am today. Happy with the way most thing turned out.

I miss it. You don't realize it until you're gone and trying to recapture some of the feeling there was about it. Even if I went back it wouldn't be the same. There would be an odd sense of not quite belonging. It can't be escaped. Now I have to learn how to move on and keep the part of me that is still there alive without giving it total control. I have to fight the battles that are coming and not just remember the altercations past. What we do with the future is as important as how we remember.

I turned the pages but never read a word. For all I knew the book was upside down. It didn't really matter. I was so far away that nothing mattered but the pressure of your head on my shoulder. The clouds of the afternoon had given way to the rose of sunset while you slept. I could have wakened you to see the beauty but your peaceful, rhythmic, breathing distracted my thoughts. You stretched and I held still. When you settled down I continued to turn the pages while the rose glow faded and the stars began their nightly dance.

I opened my eyes and peered through sleep at the clock on the nightstand. The power was still out. The candles had long since burned themselves out. The rivulets of wax down the side of the dresser could hardly be seen in the pale moonlight. I stretched a little. The thunderstorm had been wondrous. I recalled sitting on the porch with the big blanket wrapped around us. Even in the high summer night the wind was enough to chill to the core. I rolled away from the clock and smelled the sweet fragrance left in your hair by the wind.

I tried. I tried to move beyond but the wall wouldn't let me. I walked along it looking for the end and a way around. There wasn't one. I tried to climb but every inch of progress I made added a foot to the total height. I attempted to dig under but the ground was hardened against me. I beat it with my fists. I cursed it with every breath I took. Spent, I slumped against it. I felt it on my back. The sun had warmed it. It felt good in contrast to the breeze. I accepted the wall.

I can generate words without meaning but that's not what I want for myself. I imagine myself some type of latter day philosopher but I have the depth of a puddle. I cry out about my melancholy but there isn't any substance to those words. I haven't yet faced that I am still a child. It doesn't matter what the numbers say about my age. I have pieces of paper that say I am capable and have done great things but I don't feel them. For a moment I just wondered if the great ones feel great. I think not.

I have walked the streets at night a hundred times or more. I walk at night because no one sees. If I walk alone at night and no one knows then did I really walk at all? The shoes wear out and the legs become numb but there isn't anything else. I walk because there is nothing else. I imagine I have gone somewhere and I'm walking in places I've never been. Fools have such fantasies. It matters not how long I walk. In the end I always arrive at the same place; the place I left and came to.

I can generate words that no one ever reads. If they never are read do they hold meaning? I have a pad at the ready by my bedside. There are nights the light in my rooms is as a slow strobe because I cannot still the thoughts of my head. On. Write. Off. Toss. Turn. On. Write. Off. Toss. Turn. Breathe. On. Scrawl. Off. Sleep. I even go so far as to write the time date and inspiration. But no one ever reads those words. I won't let them. I fool myself by believing I'll make something of them someday.

I have written two batches here at 100 Words. They were written a year apart. In that year I finished school and left to start in the mythical real world. But I don't know what you know. Dear Reader, please let me know you read these words. Let me know if they were enough to make you write or read more. Let me know if I make sense or if my words are only my words. Do they resonate? Am I alone? I am making a plea for feedback. Maybe you read the words I never wrote but always said.