My problem with most people isn’t that they are hateful douchebags, but that they are so unimaginative and boring.

Son looked at someone’s blogger.com blog this morning, and blogger.com features a “Next Blog >” link at the top of the page. The link sends you to a random blog in the same genré as the previous one. Since the first blog I saw was a family blog, I was directed to more family blogs, which were, quite honestly, terrible. They were littered with bad photography, filled with million-times-a-day clichés, and most importantly, showed no originality or imagination whatsoever.

How do my blogs stack up? I may be a weirdo and a dick, but at least I show some imagination once in a while.

I know these people imagine things. The trouble is that they imagine what they are told to imagine, mostly by corporate America, bad television, and their equally unimaginative parents.

Next I looked at some pictures of “The Bean” that Michael shot on a recent trip to Chicago. It was crowded, so there were many people in his images. What galled me was that they were all posing for photos, and none of them, none of them, were just being themselves.

Maybe I’m asking too much of the masses. Maybe sentience is a rarer and more elegant gift than the masses are willing to give themselves. I think people are capable of creativity, but are mostly afraid of it. Afraid of judgement. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of risk.

“Alas for those that never sing/But die with all their music in them.” ~Oliver Wendell Holmes’  The Voiceless.

“Alas, who among us will shine these wretched turds?” -Richard R. Barron’s Goons, All Goons.

But from Michael also comes hope. In 1979, he wrote in his journal, “All is not lost, only misplaced.” Maybe I am blinded by my misanthropy and have become too dismissive of people. Most people’s mediocrity is due to their circumstances, yet they have the power to become great. If you feel stifled by mediocrity, consider this: be creative. It may be as simple as that. I recommend starting with a pen and paper. I remember when I was writing in my journals instead of writing these blogs: nothing inspired me quite as much as bringing home a new spiral notebook. Those blank pages were already written, and were just waiting from me to make the words visible.