Please read these two fragments by myself and discuss thereupon.

[colin r.s.]

"About Me" on MySpace:
Discursive, objective thinking shifting towards time, space and the human condition. Thinking of time, that is quite eerie; thinking of where you just a moment ago or what you were just saying, thinking of childhood, friends or family dead or far away, street names of former residences, thinking of pets long hence returned, summoning up the most pathetic or triumphant moments your clever wrath has encountered, thinking of who you once were and who you may be in the near or distant future; past and present - it frightens me in it's void; a void dreaery or colorful, depening upon my present mood. If a psychologist were to discern I am in the prescence of metaphysical crisis, a tall and wide wall of brick and morter, sheilding me from life beyond, I would slap his pompus face and blasphem his two white-hands so used to stroke, saying "Ah! but you mistake my demenour as a mere ailment you had learned at the university! No, though my thoughts may border on the sick and twisted, your thoughts prance upon the side of the normal and dull!" But such is the state with a great deal of people today: they live in a world of synthetic, chemical compounds that they have inadvertantly constructed about their persons because they did not think in an objective mode and instead beleived all they saw and see now on television who when such a person as I come along and diverge from the popular ilk cry like a child who, creating his own version of an idle, childish game with class-mates yelps "Those aren't the rules!" But such is the goal of myself, a firey youth: to destroy the plastic branches that sheild the peoples sight, obliterating them unto mere philament where they can acquiesce to a more real view of this world. So, in all the haughty language you may have you just read, my real course of action is help and be a friend, such is a reason for my aqcuisition of a MySpace page - that and a certain girl who, to me, does not resemble a child with obstructions in the way of a clearer vision of the world, who piping a mellow cheer in my heart upon her infreqeunt prescence sends an ambrosial scent to my senses, a fragrence so powerful my eyes water whereupon wiping them off on my sleeve I see a world clearer than how clear I feigned to see, just because it is she in my prescence, sitting upon her burnished throne, wherever she be. What the duality of the above is that my prime concern is to live a simple life; doing this, striving to live a basic life of love, work, optimal health, so that my life beyond high school and college may entail a pleasent lifestyle. That is the goal of my life. All of this free-thinking is not what I truely want or should strive to do.

A preface to one of my journals:
To write about one's self through daily experience is like tracking a storm; you need the equipment to do it properly and frankly I don't know what such equipment would be, nor think that anyone does. As in Cain and Abel, however, one should do their best. Because to know what to include in an all-encompasing compsotion of one's daily life would need to know the meaning of life as one may know the roads about their hometowns. And even then, what langauge is their to use? These synthensized mumbles that have evolved little from the grunts of a caveman and change from nation of people to nation of people? Only the gibbersih the Apostles spoke at Pentacost would suffice, and only the knowledge of God would make those ends meet. So to begin verily what follows are the disjointed memories, fading as they are created, of a life, stormy yet common, still searching for something great to be coorelated with itself, a goal shared by everyone.

[blazeofglory]

"About Me" on MySpace:
Discursive, objective thinking shifting towards time, space and the human condition. Thinking of time, that is quite eerie; thinking of where you just a moment ago or what you were just saying, thinking of childhood, friends or family dead or far away, street names of former residences, thinking of pets long hence returned, summoning up the most pathetic or triumphant moments your clever wrath has encountered, thinking of who you once were and who you may be in the near or distant future; past and present - it frightens me in it's void; a void dreaery or colorful, depening upon my present mood. If a psychologist were to discern I am in the prescence of metaphysical crisis, a tall and wide wall of brick and morter, sheilding me from life beyond, I would slap his pompus face and blasphem his two white-hands so used to stroke, saying "Ah! but you mistake my demenour as a mere ailment you had learned at the university! No, though my thoughts may border on the sick and twisted, your thoughts prance upon the side of the normal and dull!" But such is the state with a great deal of people today: they live in a world of synthetic, chemical compounds that they have inadvertantly constructed about their persons because they did not think in an objective mode and instead beleived all they saw and see now on television who when such a person as I come along and diverge from the popular ilk cry like a child who, creating his own version of an idle, childish game with class-mates yelps "Those aren't the rules!" But such is the goal of myself, a firey youth: to destroy the plastic branches that sheild the peoples sight, obliterating them unto mere philament where they can acquiesce to a more real view of this world. So, in all the haughty language you may have you just read, my real course of action is help and be a friend, such is a reason for my aqcuisition of a MySpace page - that and a certain girl who, to me, does not resemble a child with obstructions in the way of a clearer vision of the world, who piping a mellow cheer in my heart upon her infreqeunt prescence sends an ambrosial scent to my senses, a fragrence so powerful my eyes water whereupon wiping them off on my sleeve I see a world clearer than how clear I feigned to see, just because it is she in my prescence, sitting upon her burnished throne, wherever she be. What the duality of the above is that my prime concern is to live a simple life; doing this, striving to live a basic life of love, work, optimal health, so that my life beyond high school and college may entail a pleasent lifestyle. That is the goal of my life. All of this free-thinking is not what I truely want or should strive to do.

A preface to one of my journals:
To write about one's self through daily experience is like tracking a storm; you need the equipment to do it properly and frankly I don't know what such equipment would be, nor think that anyone does. As in Cain and Abel, however, one should do their best. Because to know what to include in an all-encompasing compsotion of one's daily life would need to know the meaning of life as one may know the roads about their hometowns. And even then, what langauge is their to use? These synthensized mumbles that have evolved little from the grunts of a caveman and change from nation of people to nation of people? Only the gibbersih the Apostles spoke at Pentacost would suffice, and only the knowledge of God would make those ends meet. So to begin verily what follows are the disjointed memories, fading as they are created, of a life, stormy yet common, still searching for something great to be coorelated with itself, a goal shared by everyone.

I recall something I have read of Virginia Woolf or James Joyce, something like the stream of consciousness. Really it is penetratingly moving. You seem to be pouring out something deposited inside you. Such expressions are really rich in idea and in point of fact very honest one. I like to read more of such types.

[colin r.s.]

Thank you sir. I have shared some of my writings with my high-school friends, but they don't understand what exactly I am feeling. I treat writing assignments in the same tone, however the reaction from my teachers were the same, which disourages me all the more, but does not affect my output.

One my best was met with dismay, although it is a flat-out train of thought. I thought, however, my effort were the most earnest, and infact followed the form/function structure exactly, without myself trying to follow it Her it is:

Assignment Description: “Choose an object and compare the elements of your personality to that of the facets of the object so that you can introduce yourself to a group of strangers. Introduce the object in the introduction, thread the object throughout the content of the body of the paper and use the object to provide a conclusion. This technique of using a metaphor or object to both begin and end a paper is known as book ending.” - Mrs. Constance Meadows.

--Thereafter a sample paper by student some years past, with a sewing needle as the object. --

A conceit, is it, that you so ask? Well, to start with I am unsure of exactly who I am, and despite the omnipresent, and to my patches of hair, omnipotent adult adversary, I will never find out. To tell the truth they sometimes smack as the caustic Fiend to the returning Shepard. Oh, and to the reciprocal of the latter: at my age I can’t quite fit into the orderly arrangement of formula, least not comfortably; perhaps later I’ll imitate Baldwin of Emerson, don the feathers of someone long hence returned, and try to soar. And I have looked at the sample on our web paged and could not relate to a carefully contained document of concise and clean paragraph, a sewing needle, or any inanimate object; I can only relate to a story. Yet of course… I believe (it’s been a couple years since middle school, mark you) it is Brutus who turns to Cassisus, says no - now paraphrasing - that all we have by way of seeing ourselves is by looking into a mirror. Sometimes I happen to do this, intermittently upon each drowsy morning brushing my teeth, trying to maintain my already shoddy features - features marred by dirt and grime, after a shower, no less. This moment always resembles a ponderous clay jug of marbles falling from the table, shattering on the stone. I find myself tripping backwards, and falling head-long into my cloudy black pupil for what seems a time mentioned in Milton’s great song, as Satan plummets, nine times the space of day and night to mortal men. This is a conceit, however, and I am told such a work ought to be of some length… so, I’ll elaborate a bit. I look unto that mirror and it is I, as a fragile cocoon or as a delicate Bud of May, diving with the serene grace of classical spectrum, the light of Tuscany wavers, the water green echoes on the sludge wall of a sea cove with nymphs, singing - out side waves crash into sharp rocks on a tumultuous landscape of barren crags. Between curiously sprung eyebrows of lilacs, the opposite corner there lies a puffy ball of pink flesh, jutting into the placid pool as the Apennines and Latium into the Mediterranean Basin, I dive into a ring of Gaelic Blue, where in the middle a cloudy darkness abounds - the pupil of a young man, almost boy - to the window to another world, where day and night the noise of battles howls. Water splashes on the rim of the pool, not as I collide into the aqueous community of sea-life, but when, after an arduous row, gasping for breath, I discover a hole under the ponderous rocks, emerge therein unto an obscure isolated, cavern, cut off from all other life except for one. Of this mysterious creature, in a dark cavern, all that can be discerned are two gleaming eyes, now looking at me. The room becomes enough dim, somehow, for myself to surmise a tall, slim figure, robed in white, a crusty old druid’s stance sideways for my dripping figure, with a face of blue and hair of black.
“Who are you?” I stammer out, freezing in such an underworld.
“I am everyone and everything that has grazed your young life. You will never know me. Now leave.”
Thereafter, of course, my senses, they are suddenly replenished, and begin to latch onto the crude arrangements of objects seen about a shallow sink - as one can‘t help but do in America; toothpaste, with the signet and inscription of an absurd brand, “Crest.” What is that? It then becomes increasingly difficult to return to earth; I feel warmth of my pulsating wrist, I become even more distraught. What is homeostasis? What are cells and cell groups? I begin to question reality, after questioning myself. Because of that, if I were to have told my nymph pals about my encounter with “everyone and everything” seen and felt in my young life, they would either conclude that I have eaten to much raw fish and contracted mercury poising as did Ivan the Terrible, or would have dived back in with me, curious of this apparition, where when found had morphed into something else, and did so on every other attempt, saying the same thing as before, of osmosis and an incessant transformation, cultimating at last in the casket to something unrecognizable from my first impression of that misty figure, or from the reflection I looked upon many, many times in my sixteenth year.
P.S. I am unsure if this paper will sink or swim with a teacher. But I enjoy writing, like what was just written, and am therefore quite content with an A or an F.

--Here is a link to another thread I started that bears no reply; if you are intrested here it is:

http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=28998