The human mind is a scary place. Yet a place that is the definition of wonder, a mesmerizing place beyond anything possible of the imagination filled with infinite opportunities of what could possibly be conceived. The writings taken down in this journal are nothing but those ideas that my own mind has created and simply taking note of only the surface of which my mind thinks and lives. Although they may not make sense to anyone else that may possibly read this, simply because every mind is so different and possesses an entanglement of emotion and theory that is completely unlike any other, i hope this may spark something or anything really. But since they are my own thoughts and opinions, it only makes sense that I would believe they are the “correct” opinions if I should say so myself. But everyone believes that their own opinions are correct otherwise they wouldn’t think them. At the same time, I know I’m not perfect nor will I ever be so therefore I’m highly aware that I must have incorrect opinions since I don’t know everything and am ignorant to facts of life that not everyone could even ever become aware of. But my thoughts have been molded to what it is I do know. Yet I often question everything that has been portrayed to me in my lifetime. Such as, why am I even writing a journal? What purpose does it serve? I guess I imagine one day, someone stumbling upon my writings and possibly gaining insight of what my mind could offer. It’s preposterous really, but the imagination loves to make the best of anything. But when you really get down to it, why would anyone want to write them all down? Wasting one’s time in writing what’s already in your head? Yet I find humor in the theory that maybe writing it all down is a socially acceptable act of talking to yourself. An allowable form of insanity. I guess in that sense, it would classify billions of people and myself as crazy. But I’ve always questioned my mental sanity.