variouse prose works, need imput

(here's a few prose works I've been working on in the last few days, feel free to disregard anything seemingly incoherent)

The chaos entwined with thought is indeed lofty, without second thought to what may or may not be right. This by all means is a pinnacle of human expression, the existence of one thought, shifting to another, the creative template for which one may work from, the visible, yet invisible fathoms that some, and anyone may enclose their time to, to build and to work upon, a masterful thing is the art of thinking. And yet to think in such complexities one must train themselves, one must reform, and rebuild, re-destroy and be reformed as someone more complex, not becoming more intelligent per say but becoming more aware of the intellect that each of us are born with, which indeed comes in parts, each part separate to its own and unique and useful in every way, the complications of human intellect are to me vast and unending, as the depth of thought and its meaning and truth behind each and every thought is too unending.

I believe solemnly and without contempt that thoughts exist to us are features to which are meant to be read into. I believe that each thought exist from a certain part of us which because the thought is being perceived, that part in actuality cannot be perceived. I believe to know the true nature of our thoughts at any time, takes someone of some diligence, but also requires that one must take from life as much as they take from others, which is everything in all accounts of what must be taken, the dignity of oneself linked to the unsurpassed and determined thinking that all things are equal, therefore all things must have some value, if taken in at the right perspective.

But what is it to man that strikes the curiosities of things which lead to thinking. The percussion of interest aligned solidly with the idea in hand, a perspective of sorts and one that is almost at ease given time and no set standard by which to grow and flourish and expand at any rate to which is allowed in the time given to the amount of study necessary to achieve what goal is in mind. This lends a fascination to me, for what does create this interest. Is it the brain set to grooves of thinking to which patterns stand clearer to other and live as separate entities alongside us, to be tossed or changed at any time?

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General openness is formed by acceptance of ideals with acceptance that these ideals may be wrong, in general thinking conclusions are formed but if the mind is trained and brought into the right direction then these conclusions can be overturned and reused for more conclusions, a stockpile of imagination and cognition of idea's. In expansion of the mind I believe there are few capacities that cant be reached in the specified area's of thinking that someone is more prone to. I think that these area's are determined by youthful engagement in them, and are in tern and effect more susceptible to certain styles of thinking. But to think by limitations that someone is smart or dumb, I currently see as a fallacy as the mind is always tearing and reforming, creating new levels of abstraction thus new levels of solid thought and comprehension. As far as our level of consciousness is concerned with holding complex idea's that does depend on the person. I believe thought patterns can very greatly from person to person. Where one might be erupting with idea's and strong fitted for each of them, someone else my have few idea's but of equal or greater stature, just as the idea's of the person bursting with idea's will come as equal or greater, there are no limitations, except the limitations we set our selves into believing, the things we convince ourselves, that we tell ourselves in thinking are the foremost direct link between what we are as individuals and how the world perceives us.

It also comes to me that through conversation misinterpretation is an easy thing to encounter. I think this happens on a less degree with people that are more close minded than people who are more open minded, and that while misinterpreting things, idea's can be skewed, and unturned, which to some degree can be an interesting contributing factor to any combination for conversation. I bring this point to mentioning because I see that people are their most when they are interacting with other, especially whom they are close to, the embodiment of each person seems to meet at a certain halfway where idea's and concepts can be born, if not a mass idea and theory of the complex world around us, then a small minute but equally substantial inter exchange of simple emotions, resulting in either a closer bond or a bond which is further separated.
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Inquisitions of human nature: A beginning.

As each of us becomes aware, each time we re-awake, to the morning fresh, to seep the cool air in through our lungs, a day is born in this moment. The day unfolds, like an idea, like something from within a dream, as the people around us become busy and caught in the webs that each of them have weaved. There is a certain economic value in this, a price of identity, to be sold on some fresh market, to where souls are bought, but even so I find this beautiful, as it is fascinating. Each day unfolding, becoming something, living as each of us are, conscious of its own subjective awareness, to which we all experience. This, to my definition is life. The breath and soul of every living thing, every thing which exist within our dimension. Every thing that is fathomed, each detail we miss, because our minds are concentrated elsewhere, in the folds and knots of our own realty, which brilliantly we fabricate. Life indeed, is beautiful, beyond my comprehension, beyond yours or his or hers. It is something we must only flow with, for to unlock it, would be chaos.

And beyond this world is space. Vast, endless space. Space to which we know nothing about, for even our largest eyes cannot perceive its depth. Worlds upon worlds exist, beyond our comprehension, where perhaps species, living the same life as you are, are wondering the same curiosities, or perhaps for them they have been answered. The utter awareness of such things can be madness, chaos and bewildered confusion beyond the average thing of life, our own existence. But why achieve this fathomed perspective, why escape the world and travel through your mind to see the other worlds, after all our bodies do nothing but rot? Why? I tell you it is part of our existence, it is the breaching point which separates us from the cattle that each day are slaughtered for our feeding, from the machines built to carry task beyond our lazy limbs capacity. You may ask, do I hate humans? Us, the race that dwells so solemnly upon this rock of such irrelevance, I say no. I love each person I see, I love them for the lives they live, for the characters they choose to show and I love them more for the insecurities that lay beneath these characters each of us so brilliantly create, this to me is the essence of what we are as animals, as imperfect, as pure and simple monstrosities, damned to our own blundering mistakes and so called misfortune. Life indeed a bread basket, and I am chewing on the warm and luscious centers of every loaf of bread.

And to life. The life which surges through us all, each of us as individuals, soon to be alive as soon as we are dead. The beauty of such cycle and the mystery in the constant renewal of life and this thing called death that ends it all. It is a fickle system of embowering love and putrid hate which brings us each to the extremes to create for the vastness of emotion and experience that dwells for each rising and setting of the sun. The extremes are humanity, they make for the lives which we stagger upon and create our foundations and our buildings and our things to which we depend on. We attach these extremes to the nothings which deliver us from the reality which each day we face in such a way it becomes numbing, thus is forgotten under the rug as where dust often dwells.