Automatic Reason

My thoughts were scattered today, the page penetrated me with a blank stare. What purpose does this practice of automatic writing involve wherein error evolves into an archeticually unsound structure? As you sit in the comfort of your chair to watch the rubble tople, it might cross your mind to ask if it was worth the effort when all that remains are those fragmented phrases left parched by a creative spark. What more could an author ask for in this world of the imaginary where all things become tangible and life is forming a clearer calculation? I lay these crooked lines to rest on this clean sheet streched out along a desk in hopes that the turmoil will be brought to calm by the stillness. At the begining, it was my hope to achieve greatness yet all I have done is peered into the scribled mess before me formed by a jungle of vine like sentences and the dence undergrowth of thoughts. Is it possible that these are the seeds of a prized novel or short story? Could this be the content that changes history through radical reform or is it best to be forgoten upon entry? The real, uncompromised, self exploration presented here in all its error and intensity.