A Day In The Life Of An Oblivious Ape.: Mobots.

Humans.

Men and women.

Us.

We're all kind of like machines in a way.

From time to time, some function or mechanism inside clogs up, breaks down or wears off, thereby signaling for some kind of repair.

Some kind of release.

Each and every one of us go about achieving this release through various means.

Some of us choose to repair ourselves.

Some of us rely solely on others for repairs.

Some of us work with others for a mutually beneficial relationship.

Some of us forcefully explode.

Some of us attempt some form of self-containment.

Some of us don't even bother trying, letting the degeneration run its own course.

You get the picture.

I, personally, find that release in writing. As if you hadn't noticed that from a 300plus post archive over a period of 4 years.

Expressing innermost thoughts - both pleasing and plaguing - through the beauty that is the English language. Call me colonialist. I don't give a damn.

Thing is, this form of release possesses equal chances of both inspiring and anguishing the reader. Coupled with facial anonymity through the Internet, such is the fallibility of the English language.

And yet, here I am, typing.

Am I okay NOW, you ask? Have I achieved that release?

I calmly offer you my response: yes.

As such, if you find that there isn't a point to this post, there is, in fact,a solid one.

To me, at least.