Time to Babble

I gotta write something. I just got back from a political rally, and I'm going a mile a minute. I guess I'm under the delusion that I mean something. It'll be gone tomorrow, but it's coursing through my viens right now. It was interesting to see for me what were real people. Their lives were completely different than mine. They had purpose and identity. They were trying to support liberalism in a hotbed of conservatism. It's funny what makes the world go round. People have to go out and do something to support themselves. They have to get along with other people. They're real. I have none of those concerns. I have all these thoughts running through my head as to what needs to happen to make the world a better place. The problem is that I have no place in the world. My thoughts are completely divorced from reality. I've made a separate peace with the world, and now I have to live with it. It was interesting to listen to people that have to deal with a bunch of closet racists talking about how we need a black president. It really is hopeless. I'll come down in a little while and be able to go back to my comfortable hopelessness. This really is a bunch of gobbletygook, so much desire and so little ability. Why can't I say what I'm thinking? For one thing I'm completely disorganized. There is no one true direction I can focus on. I want to make a speech that will change the world. I'm lost in a fantasy that has surrounded me since I was a little child. It really is depressing and rather meaningless. The last thing you can call me is a person of substance. What is the one thing I would say to people if I had the chance? I would guess it would be to quit being so materialistic. That's funny coming from me. I live off of other people. It seems like everythiing about the human condition revolves around status. I want to be number one. I deserve it. I have the solutions for what ails us. It's just that no one will listen to me. I don't deserve to be listened to. In my head I live in one world. As soon as I begin writing I live in another. It's true, but not that interesting. So I'm left where I am. Why, why can't I do better? Why can't I be satisfied where I am? It seems like in this moment I ought to be able to come up with something useful, but it is not to be.