PROMETHEUS AND I

My quest for writing the perfect article has led me nowhere; the inconsistent incoherent blabber is a synopsis of my hardly stable mind. The disarray a mind faces when one does not utilize it for the betterment of himself is beyond ones contemplation. It was once said by a very wise man whose name i cannot recall "To better oneself does more good then to better society, since it is not society that makes the changes, it is the individual". Don't try looking this up in any of those fat books in the library, the quote is as obscure as the article I am writing. My over enthusiastic reading has led me to discredit and yet regard highly the mediocrity of my life. It's weird, think you not, people never appreciate mediocrity out in the open and yet each one of us covets it deep in the darkest parts of the heart. But this has nothing to do with my article. I shall try an new old philosophy of the ancient masters "since most people are mediocre; they will love all those superior to their own sense of betterment.Further if they are led to believe that the mediocrity of their passive lives is what greatness is, then they will learn to appreciate mediocrity openly; while those superior to them in thinking shall quietly snicker at the meiotic dope benevolence to something the others will never understand".

That has led me to believe that by impressing on those, that are to read the writing, that this is an article to be held to the bosom and never otherwise, it will make them value the non-being of my succulent ramblings. Moreover since the reader shall never see me or hear me so I can create a non existent intrinsic value for my writing which the reader shall accept without a doubt in their mind because that is what they were taught; that is, not to question greatness The parsimonious simple manipulation of imaginary trust which will create an unflinching bond between the reader and that which is being read, which in the end makes the reader believe that he has seen greatness while all he has done is instead of making a simple translation of what I, the creator, wrote; finds some veiled meaning which I never anticipated for.

If you are waiting for some bohemian bullshit for an aritcle it is not what you shall recieve... nothing but brutal disappointment awaits you. For I am noe going to do something I have never done before; close witha relevant conclusion. For this I will say Prometheus stole fire from the Gods and he paid the price. Society hasd stolen our imagination and will pay the price, a price too heavy to put down in words nevertheless it will be paid for in full; that was the serious part, the funny part is no one even remembers.