Silence is a clamorous cacophony. The chief reason modern man surrounds himself with televisions, radios, iPods, and portable DVD players is because he wishes his thoughts to be controlled by surface noise.
Joshua stabbed at the keyboard almost absentmindedly.
The moment all distractions cease and a man is alone with his thoughts, bedlam ensues. As the lingering tide of popular culture white noise ebbs, a faint drum beat of reality is heard in the distant gloom. Strange, fantastic thoughts swirl in the fog of his tangled brain. Strange because he doesn't recognize them as his own, fantastic because they resemble the bits and pieces of ludicrous dreams. Slowly, as his initial flights of fancy as to what shape these fantasies are assuming begin to be proven false, the nonsensical thoughts begin to assemble an oddly familiar pattern, a richly diverse tapestry with common themes running throughout; subconscious conscientiousness, unspoken, unrealized fears, and shocking fantasies. A spectral shape at last emerges from the fog, inch by fearful inch, and he stands finally alone on a stark white beach, between a vast ocean of useless media and a dark, shrouded jungle of unknown thoughts, alone with the most terrifying and bewildering ghost he has ever encountered, his own psyche.
Pointer on the scroll button, Joshua pondered the last phrase. Reconsidering, he highlighted psyche, and selected "thesaurus" from the tools bar. Murmuring all the while, he disqualified "personality" and "conscience" and grunted at the word "character." Psyche definitely seemed to be the lesser of four evils.
Bear with me, this will be a long, arduous journey. More later. . .
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