“…Who we are on the inside, to be better versions of ourselves on the outside…”
Everyone has a conscience. Mine has its own. It keeps telling it what not to tell me to do. I guess it’s there to question my motives up until things turn out fine for it to act like that’s what it meant all along. Typical. Typical of living life…and of humans busy being. On an unrelated issue, I bet dead bees are called beens. Those alive should be beings then, I guess… Moving on. I am often dumbfuzzled (which is new slang for no one’s sure what) by the little voice that bears striking semblance to our own. Like a piece of you that turns against you when you need the whole of you to agree to something. Some believe it’s the voice of the Deity, others believe they are whispers from ghosts of their pasts that know better. Personally, I think it should be ghosts of the future that would know better-er, but I’ll stay in my place…which is in between those two shoulder mini-mes. Owe it to old animations for educating us on this crucial matter…our proper place in matters moral. More crucial than most aspects of life like power and politics, I’d want to believe. They say something is as good as it’s relevance to one, maybe that’s why politics and I don’t mix. Okay, they don’t really say that, but they might as well. It’s high time they got the word out, maybe go ahead and call it four-twenty…or any other name going by the time. This is not to say anything, forgive me. Just a humble suggestion…
On the face of it, you can’t write conscience without science. You can’t write it without con either. A moral compass so against the foundation of science it was named to oppose it. If it was a person, it would probably be a girl. I don’t know why, maybe because it’s always right you’ll hate your guts for it. But then a crazy girl…the crazy-ex type. The one you’d break ties with and find a day later baptised with your last name just so it sticks even if it never stuck, never quite had a ring to it. The kind that deserve an accolade for patience and persistence if not the men. Strong! It’s always there no matter how many times you brush it off and end up messing up. And that’s a lot, going by personal standards. If it were a guy it’d probably think up an awkward situation, urge you into it and wait to see how it plays out. Cheers to that and life improv! It would be heard, yes, booming even, but that’s as far as it would go. Far enough for any guy. No nagging, just a note and that’s that.
Yes, life is mostly about spontaneity. Taking the bull that appears out of the blue by the horns. It may take a sixth sense to know how strong the bull is, but then again maybe that sense is reason. Weighing out the pros and cons to it might leave you obese. Not very sure what that means but you get the idea. If everyone was as spontaneous as the potassium element life would be K, no pun intended. I’m not sure we’d be where we are now in the economic spectrum, what with performing projects and tasks without planning, but we’d have had fun getting to where we’d be. But then we’d be much more mortal. We’d have shorter lives. That makes it more of mor-short. So maybe that little voice isn’t so bad after all. It keeps us alive. And maybe it’s not so loud that we may die as old wrinkled geezers celebrating our sesquicentenaries (150 yrs), or very faint that we may peek into our mids (if we’re lucky) and find the forties’ chapters torn off. It is fine-tuned to make life move at its own course. It is who we are on the inside, to be better versions of ourselves on the outside. And on that high note, unminding of the time, keyboard-drop.