What about this school, too many people running from place to place to be of any noticeable . meaning, any noticeable effect. I can't find the word trying to scribe all my thoughts brimming down. It is much easier for me to describe the pictures in my head, the vivid sensations I am accustomed to beholding within my minds own personal theater. I have developed my own way of thinking, so I like to think!, through day dreams and images, which I behold clearly even with my eyes open as if they happened in front of me. I like to write, but not this droning nonsense which may not receive the benefit of human eyes except for its execution and if, if it gets read. I am told it might not be, and it is this insignificance which repels me to the assignment. At least its easy, except for the internet part.  I have generally avoided this dismal institution for my years, I spit upon the "net" when it first gained its genesis, and I spit upon its multi-media, machination which steals the waking lives from people. But what of it, for that matter, they do it to themselves, I can not pity them for that. If they like computers to sunsets let them use paintbrush to engineer their own nature, but I prefer the real thing made of so much chaos and chance that these simple number-crunchers couldn't make anything with that much sensation, that much depth. That is what lacks in these computers, they are vicarious to life. Not that I condemn them, they are useful tools, and not that I condemn their junkies or pushers for the fact of the creation, and not that I live my life to its fullest potential as it may sound I condemn the computer junkies for not doing. Its just that, I guess, I have found my own niche in the wall of the world, my own peaceful way of doing things that is inhibited by the computer only slightly, in the way that I hate it and most embrace it. I am hypocritical in this matter as well: I own a computer myself, and use it nearly every day. I like to think, probably falsely, that my downfall in the machine is not so complete as those web-surfers who spend 8+ hours browsing the electronic dreams of men. But then, my won mind produces the dreams I live in: whose to say which is worse?   I prefer to see pictures of the world inside my own mind, and I can contrive any number of vicarious situation, locations, persons, emotions, sunsets, anything I want with a near vivid copy of the real things my eyes behold. Is this the same as the infernal computer? Is this any less debilitating a habit to daydream in ways even more real than my own, insignificant life? I say insignificant, and I mean it, not in a degrading matter or that I don't feel I have made full use of my potential or that I want for a better standard or situation in my own life, but that it is the truth that all humans are insignificant, no matter how important or influential, save in the numbers of our immense crowd.  I'm sure philosophers have pondered the subject as I do right now for a useless computer, but as I have mentioned, I prefer the daydream, I prefer the novel, and I prefer the realistic sunset to a game of doom(not to say that the particular pastime isn't fun, I'm just as guilty as wasting an hour or so, but I haven't followed it up as many have with the endless assortment of clones that rock the computer gaming industry). I am bored with writing this as though I think in words, because normally I do not. Normally I prefer to think in sight, in sound, and even smell(though that's a hard one to master, I don't think I shall). So now I think its time to stop this wonderment I have going and describe what I think about when I don't do it in words:   Flashing colors, sometimes geometric-shapes, until I can find something to build the energy in mind into. I remember during psych class when I began to waver off(which I am in habit of doing, sometimes at the wrong moment), daydreaming about my Kendo class coming up soon. I thought about a stalwart master standing over me as I held out a bamboo sword, poised straight and steady. I though about going over the moves I knew so well, I am quite a fan of kendo and cannot wait to take the actual class. I hope, though, that my daydream will predict some of the success I hope to have, but I still recognize that it was not real, only a contrivance, and I will have to wait for the fact to see. back tot he daydream I enjoy remembering, and have thought about since. I then imagined as though I were past the class, but somehow not in the real world as we know it, but somewhere where the sword still ruled the land. I think now it must have been my own idea of feudal Japan, but needlessly I walked around in nothing but a (I forget now what the karate uniforms I have donned so many times are called) but I was wearing one of those, carrying a real sword this time, trudging through muddy roads through a country side constantly lit by an orange, pasty sun.  I cant remember where it went form there, but needless to say much violence, honor, and success followed. That's how my daydreams sometimes run, but sometime they are more erratic. Sometime I let my mind go, though I do have extensive control, and watch bizarre unfoldings before me of pictures melting together, sometimes a forgotten memory boiling up from the depths of my mind, but more often a collage of unearthly landscapes. I have done extensive travel in the southwest of our country, sometimes willing, sometimes not, and have amassed a great many memories of the landscapes. Enough memories, in fact, to create my own realistically, though vicariously, through my daydream ability. Sometimes I imagine titanous walls of huge cliffs, eaten away by a river evidently, but impossibly showing the scores of rain as though it were eroded by that force alone, topped with greenery though the valley below is of rocks and tumbled stones. I like to visualize. I like to visualize so much that on the last vacation I made special note to remember the best landscapes I saw, and discovered in the process that I couldn't remember the scenes if I wore sunglasses. Without them, I could remember the sharpness of Shiprock, the depth of the Grand Canyon, the crumbling stones of Chaco and Mesa Verde. But with sunglasses on, I found I could not remember the details, they seemed clouded and sometimes distorted as thought he glass stole away the true definition of the pictures I wanted to remember.  That is the unfortunate part of my visualizing saga, sometime I mar and twist my own memories into fantastic visages only seen in movies, and then find I cannot twist them back. Sometimes I remember the waves at Galveston quite a bit larger then they really were, the sun at the most vivid sunrise I recall that much brighter and golden, though taken from the special effects house and spliced with my memory. and I wonder which is better? To have the memory unaltered or to have the memory better, improved and refined into something so stunning to remember or think about that I might include it in stories. That's how I write, too. don't think out the story, I see though it were a movie flashing before my eyes, I hear it though a speaker were plugged next to me, I feel it though I were in it myself. Sometimes I think about conquering the world, so much to the fact that I have it all planned out. I feel safe writing about here, because it is doubtful anyone will read this carefully or pay attention to it, but I am confident enough of my long-term plans that I would feel bad if someone didn't have the warning. Maybe just fancy, but we will se won't we? If not, then I'll die a normal life, or maybe get a few books out and receive some fame, not as much as I'd like the money though. I'm sure Ive met the twenty minute interval, but I forgot to check the clock so I'll keep writing a little longer to be sure to satisfy the requirement. So now I will daydream for sure, and write it as I see it, as though it were happening. NO, I better not, it would probably appear too much like my writings, but I will go ahead and make-visualize a new landscapes like I did up there(Earlier) because I enjoy it so much.     I see a rising pyramid, sitting atop a four-cornered stone terrace that hold the point towards a sky with two suns, one burning bright and vaguely familiar to our own, the other a hazy blue color, lazily sitting near the point. surrounding it is the ruins of a city, not Egyptian though, but more reminiscent of the Roman culture, with tilted columns and ruble returning to the desert. The sand is a yellow with glitter, like mica flecks imbedded in the sand, which is hot tot he touch  but not ruff, it runs like silk through the hands. My hands? I don't know, I just watch. The valley surrounding is windswept, though, perhaps they must be my hand because it appears quite desolate. The wind whips the sands into speeding wraiths across the amazingly flat area around, somehow no dunes develop, though. I wonder how that could be. I said valley, but I do not see any moutons or hills around. I wonder what prompted me to describe it as such. If I were writing a book, I would have changed it or added in a distant mountain line, but not so here. The sand seems compacted though, to the foot, though a hand can easily dislodge it, though it seems to flow back into place. It reminds me of the black sands of California, more gray then black, but equally as smooth and mica filled. Perhaps that's where its glintiness comes from, a mixed memory of TV and actually physical things I've seen. Sometimes its is, most times, though, it is merely illusion, merely contrivance, so I will let it go at that,