Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.20.14

  This, right now, was once the future. Isn’t that wild? And, what used to be happening is now all behind us. Guessing games and wishing for time machines won’t get us any where though, will they?

That’s what I was afraid of.

Oh, us humans and our struggles in the forth dimension! It’s interesting, almost complete madness, how my former fear of the future makes me ache to have the past back again. And how my past unhappiness of my own fabrication made my disdain for the present and my hope, fool’s hope though it may be, to get a better future. I don’t know if you all struggle with it, but hindsight has certainly provided me with a plethora of grief and guilt and regret. Of course I’m not counting my many accomplishments and successes in all that. Why? Because I don’t think about those as much. I am consumed much more by my failures but then again, I always have been. Then again, who among us isn’t?

There’s a guy who wrote song involving something like that. The line in reference was something like-

I’ve never learned to count my blessings,

I choose instead to dwell in my disasters.

Great song, if you don’t know it. Some bloke out of New Hampshire penned it. You can find it if you like. If you’re reading this, you clearly have access to the interwebs.

I could bore you all for ages by vaguely describing the specific regrets that plaguemy heart. I could, but I won’t. I won’t because it’s probably most definitely inappropriate and, more importantly, there is nothing that me telling any of you about it is going to do to make it go away. It doesn’t apply to you, unless it does, in which case, you’re already very well aware.

See? There’s progress!

I think I’ll count some blessings instead.

To start, and I don’t mean this to be insensitive, at least I don’t live in the Middle East. If I did, there would most likely be a lot more bombs happening in my life. Everyone and there sister over here in the West has their two cents or fifty billion dollars about how to fix the problems in Syria, Iraq, Gaza, Afghanistan and so on but I can tell you for certain what won’t work. I can tell you this because if you look at the history of the human race it becomes tremendously clear. What won’t work is violence. It never has and I can prove that it has never worked because there are still people, a good number of times children and other innocents included, who are being killed by someone else’s bad intentions. If violence worked to end wars, I would have to imagine we would be done with that business by now. Yet here we are, more violent than ever.

Alright, well I’m doing real grand with this counting the blessings things since my first attempt was to say, “well at least I’m not some dead Palestinian kid.” Let’s try to move on.

So, I finished the first draft of my first novel. It’s incredibly messy and needs a good bit of revision but I’m working with my editor on that one. Some day, I’ll figure out a method of payment for her.

Anywho, I have now created a story that begins and ends and that people who have read it seem to like. There is still a long journey ahead to get it out to all these strangers in the world, and possibly even longer until it inspires folks to try and save our planet but it’s been written. Sure, it was heartbreak and pain and guilt and anger and the sort that made me pump out the last fifteen-hundred words in a week, but I’ve heard myself say that pain can truly make some beautiful things. At times. Not all the time. Sometimes pain makes bombs.

Was that better? I thought so. It’s like I said right off the bat, I’ve never been very good at counting my blessings. I also hate the word blessings. I don’t like fortunes either but that might only be because I have been very fortunate in my life. In fact, aside from a a small few traumas, most of my misfortunes are self-inflicted. I’d stop it but my younger self always seems to have it out for future Brian. Every since elementary school, the Ghost of Brian Past has really been making sure that Future Brian has a lot of work to do. The Brian of Christmas Present only does so much to help either of them out. His problem, like when in school, was staring out the window too often. He is a creature of fantasy worship which has gotten us (by us, I mean me) into many of our current predicaments.

But like I told my editor, we’re making progress. Those damn creative types though, always trying to milk their misgivings and misfortunes. If only they would have let themselves be happy way back when. Time is tricky like that. Around this time last year, I was in the writing room of my greatest inspiration’s, greatest inspiration. My idol’s idol, if you will. That was a very good day. I’ve had a lot of those. I hope to have them again.

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Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.6.14: On Regret and the Sort

 For a person who isn’t very good at them, I have found myself spending a lot of time apologizing. I wouldn’t have to do so if my behavior was that of a more decent human being. I’m not saying that I am always a vindictive self obsessed and loathing human being with masochistic tendencies but I certainly have my moments.

I’ve done many a great things with my life but I still have managed to spend the majority of my day brooding over the mistakes I’ve made. The good may outweigh the bad but it is difficult to see that when the tragedy and travesty hang so heavily on my mind and heart. Loneliness is a terrible thing and has caused me to do some terrible things but if I spend all my time so fixated upon my downfalls, my life would waste away in a pool of regret.

I had a few conversations today concerning my many follies and even though the demon liquor may have helped my viciousness along, to blame it entirely on that would be very incorrect. The truth is in my heart somewhere and I may just be too terrified to make right all that I have wronged. But even with all of that, many wonderful people have forgiven me for my harsh words and deeds and though I don’t understand it, they must be able to see something in my that I just refuse to look at.

I want happiness, as we all do but unlike many others, that which stands most prominently in my way always seems to be myself. It has been a long journey to get where I am and yet the same struggles keep plaguing me and they are almost all of my own invention. I’m not a liar but I certainly have a tremendous fear of the truth and as one of my many dysfunctional idols had said, the truth is what is and what should be is a dirty lie that someone told the people long ago.

But to get back to this loneliness of my own creation, I must confess that despite my talk of despise for the many negative traits of man, I still feel obligated to help save this world and all who are in it. It has a lot to do with my ego, which is a monster that often gets out of control. I want to be loved by so many and so few at the same time and yet I can’t seem to find that love for myself. I know I contradict myself constantly but I can’t seem to find the satisfaction in my soul I claim to crave so greatly. I’ve made mistakes and I know I will in the future but if I don’t do something about my pettiness, it will surely destroy me.

I say I want happiness but how could a person claim such a thing and yet always be the one preventing it? The only explanation I can give for that is my own existence which is living testament to my own inability to accept things for how they are.

But how are things?

That’s a question I have dodged like Al Capone with his taxes and if I keep it up, we may share a similar fate. I’ve been at this point before and I’ve always failed to fix what is broken. I’ve pressed on but there has to be a limit and I may be reaching it, if it hasn’t already been passed. I’m not perfect but I’m told I could be if I would just let myself be so.

I don’t know. I was hoping that writing this would bring me some answers be all I can see are more questions. I’m sorry for the hurt I’ve caused and I can only try and do enough good to outshine the spots of heartbreak and tragedy I’ve caused. It’s messed up, but that’s who I seem to be and who I strive to be. Maybe it has to do with the people I try to emulate and aspire to be being dysfunctional degenerates who manage to create beautiful things from that. Comedians, writers, actors musicians and the like all make wonderful things but they ones I like the best make them from sweeping up the shatters of their lives that they have broken themselves. To quote one of these men, “I don’t know someone loves me unless I can make them cry.”

Awful, I know, but you’d be just as much of a liar as I can be if you didn’t admit it was true. Someday I’ll make everything better but today I will wallow around in some self pity and deprecation. Again, I apologize and I’ll try to make it better if I can.  

Sunday Morning Thoughts: 6.15.14

Just because I started a blog before most of my college friends, doesn’t mean I’m any kind of better at it. Might be that’s why I’ve retreated so much for so long. That and reddit shat right on top of the last thing I posted. And rightfully so. It was garbage and I, being far too self absorbed, couldn’t even care enough to edit the damn thing.

I’m not conceding the idea I boasted. It’s just that elegance and delivery are key to any and every good argument and I didn’t even bother with those categories. Foolish, I know- since they often mean more than making any kind of sense.

The Haunted Tech Booth

But here I go again, wasting words and tossing out two paragraphs of rubbish that no person comfortable in themselves would ever want to read.

I was taught at some vague and hazy point in my years of education about some upside triangle method for writing. You know, like in the news where they lure you into nothing with a catchy headline and whatnot. My method was, and really still is, shaped much more like a very guilty polygraph test.

But there must have been a reason why I decided to retreat to my home this evening and sit in solitude with beer, saltines and some late-night weekend public radio. Right? But even if there isn’t, here I am and here I will stay until sleep manages to find me. ‘Tis a bummer to confess but once that sleep catches me, the next day that rises will be impossibly fought as this ol’ mind in this here noggin strives to stay in the world of dream instead of being hoisted and propped up in this regular reality of ours. Don’t get me wrong, I love life and particularly my own. I just don’t feel, as a working adult, that I get to spend a lot of my day being myself, or week… or month for that matter.

I suppose the idea that has emerged within the first year of my full-time working life is the desire to leave it all behind and become a hermit of sorts. Mayhaps a sage someday, but that would be a good few years away. Twenty-three year old sages are a rather small population, and no one likes them anyway.

Of course, such a life is not impossible.

The Power Kingdom

The following is a list of all the reasons that becoming a hermit is impossible for me. None of them are good reasons, yet they are good enough to keep most of us humans down our entire lives.

 

I have a job, and, this job pays my bills which allows me to live in my own apartment and pay my own student loans soo… I don’t have to live with my parents as so many of my graduating classmates have had to because my parents’ generation (which is most likely their parents’ generation as well, or one right next to it) made poor economic decisions, or elected politicians who made poor economic decisions, or didn’t do enough to stop everyone for voting for such bad politicians, and therefore, guided us into a debt pickle, and, in order to go become a hermit I would have to leave all that behind and trust that I can live in what remaining wilderness I can find in the world. I’m not blaming them, I’m just saying it has to be their fault.

But.

More importantly, the things that I want to do with my life have very much to do with an audience of friends, acquaintances and most prominently strangers by giving them bits of my creativity in the hope that it will cheer or jeer them enough to help fix the world we’ve got. If I retreat to what most would call nowhere, I lose the chance to make something that someone would want to see, or read, or hear. And due to my peculiar and superfluous egotistical paranoia, I fear that if I don’t try and make a thing, or things to inspire someone else to do the real work in fixing the world, I have failed as who I want to be.

In truth, nothing stands in my way between here and a life in which I detach from the social spectrum and take my survival into my own hands. Nothing but myself and that is really all you need to have in the way to stop you from doing anything. And by you, I mean me, which you will connect to yourself once you read. Get it?

It is too much though, and me and my peers have the grunt of the self inflicted tech addiction. This is most likely due to all those blokes selling cigarettes with medical doctor endorsements not being able to sell cigarettes like that anymore. So we all got hooked on screens and now the self sustaining system keeps us connected in every way but the human one. We hang around because the potential of such grand communications is too great to let go to waste.

So I may not be hermit material quite yet, though I’m not ruling out the possibility. But if there is anything a sage who is still more amused by prank phone calls can offer, it is this.

Delete those damn social media apps from your phone. Most importantly Facebook. I did it and I can tell the difference in how much better I feel each day. It’s not all that much, but I can tell it’s there just the same. You’ll thank me when you find extra minutes for staring at the ceiling instead of flicking through pictures and consolidated and flaccid statements of people you probably don’t care that much about.

You’ll also appreciate people more when you actually get to see them. Go ahead and touch their face. It will be hilarious.

Somewhere near Mink Hallow

 

Sunday Morning Thoughts 1.12.14: In or On Jeopardy

I’m practicing a technique of some writer who wrote this brilliant book that became a pretty good movie that a lot of people liked. The idea, among the many he suggested, was to set a timer for when you sit down to write. I’ve set myself for an hour and have already dawdled through the first few minutes. Still, since I’ve begun this current attempt, the pressure has kept me moving forward.

And if I were to make up some big metaphorical lie, I could tell you that I need to do the same thing with my whole vague life. But perhaps I live without truly feeling all of the pressure that I would or should be placing upon myself and therefore can progress no further. Oh, so many times in the last few weeks have I succumb to my body’s tiredness and slide away to non-specific and slightly terrifying dreams when they can be remembered. They say that your dreams are supposed to be your own unconscious mind attempting to tell you about some injustice it sees in the rest of your waking life. If that were the case, I may have to kindly ask my unconscious mind to lay down the crack pipe and get a little bit of focus. Riddles are not the thing to be had in the effort of problem solving.

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But since I was lying, perhaps the mysterious and ever eluding desire that drive such an individual forward is exact what is needed. I could argue that it is, for a time at least, and say that there is no greater driving force in the history of humanity than that of unraveling mystery and revealing purpose through that which makes no sense. For myself, boredom arrives in force when I am stuck with the same routine for any length of time I deem to be unfit. Normalcy is a dread. I have always grown weary of standing in one place, which is usually and eventually adjusted as it needs to be.

But reflections in the past can be so tainted. Memory is far from perfect. Just ask any crime scene analyst. What is remembered may not have been what had happened. Either way, there is no way to prove what was. We only know what is and fight or flee the impending fulfillment of a single timeline. So there won’t be any more about any of that then.

The struggle is being able to say, or make, or play something that someone else hasn’t quite done yet. You could say that I, as a youth in the farthest point this species has gone in time, that my ability to absorb information scattered across the past would allow for me to hold an idea composed of collaboration but lacking on uniqueness. All the art and knowledge of the world is at the disposal of my finger tips, yet with that I am robbed of the experience of discovering something new.

You could say that, if you were a total dipshit. Nay, for it is I who say, that the ability to experience that of those who came before me left behind is exactly that which creates a perspective that has yet to be had. And to toot my own horn, I have been able to steer clear of a lot of the popular cultural consumption that plagues the youth and aged alike in the saturated market of product placed entertainment.

From here the burden, which I shall carry with me for most of my days, is what to do with all of this. All the things that have inspired hope and jaded my edges helped to sculpt this experience but what is to be done with it. Turning potential energy into kinetic is not as easy as the Science Guy makes it seem sometimes.

Yet I should sell nothing short. In fact, I won’t sell anything at all. It is my aim to not try to profit off of this life, though I do plan to enjoy it. And so I have been trying to again. My health is getting better, simply because I’m trying to pay more mind to it. I’ve been keeping on all of those oh, so important outlets and trying to weed out the negative impact. It is far from going perfectly, which is exactly how I expect it to go. I hold no desire to wish for things to be without making the attempt to make them so myself.

I am nowhere near where I need or want to be in life, which is the truly the greatest thing I have. I still have a vast world of mystery left to trek through and the only thing that keeps me from it is the same thing that keeps me from everything else.

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Um… what is, myself?

Correct, you can now pick the next category.

I’ll take “Where to go from here?” for 200.

The answer: Anything you want.

Um… what are, the possibilities?

Correct.

By the way, I didn’t go past the hour mark. Some would say life is about the little victories. I would say that every victory is great and grand.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 1.5.14: To the Queen of Farting Face Masks

It is true. Life gets harder as you get older. I always suppose I thought they were shitting me but I’ve come to find that with each day, the burden and price of existence build in weight and mass. Our timelines strain and creak from overuse. People fade away and all of us eventually die in this life, despite whatever beliefs in afterlives are held. As they say, on a long enough timeline, everyone’s chance of survival drops to zero.

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Some would call that last paragraph pessimistic. I, on the other hand, would not. Remember friends, there is a line between being pessimistic and just having a proper sense of reality. I would be more wary of too much optimism. It’s a fool’s dope after all and junkies can hardly ever admit that they are junkies. And if they do, they usually cease being junkies soon after.

The struggle is the balance between reality and hope. We can only hope for the future, because it is the only part that we have all yet to see in life. In fact, you are in the future right now, as you read this. It could be minutes (depending on how fast I am able to keep this flow going), or hours, or days. It could be years if you’re a fan (unlikely) or even me from the future. I could easily turn this into a letter to myself through time but I feel that future me would find that terribly clichéd and lazy. I do trust that future me will laugh, if I ever get around to reading this. I always have when I think about when I was younger and doped on fool’s hope I used to be.

But here we are now, in our overlapping version of the present. Me, as I write- and you, as you read. You may know who I am, or at least could get an idea from mulling about these collected ramblings. However, I do not know you. Even if I do know you in this life, I do not know you here and now. I take this quasi-beatnik, supposedly philosophical, emotionally driven dump for you to look at, which is a terrible thing to do. Yet it is what many of my heroes have done for me and I have a wonder and addiction to the idea of it. I wish I could say that I’m addicted to writing but these days it’s almost as though I’ve quit. The desperation is here and all I need to do is trade out some of those many dirty habits and replace them with the proper ones.

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This has made me ponder on the wonder that is writing. Though I adore the art of good conversation, there is nothing I know that is as cathartic as a good vent at the keyboard. But I suppose that balance comes into play again.

Before I get off topic, I want to dance around an idea. Though I can’t say for sure, I am going to go ahead and reckon that when you read something by oh, let’s say your favorite fiction author, that you have a sense of knowing who they are. There is always a voice present and as I’m sure they planted specific things in specific places to best replicate the ideas they held at the time. They create the best replication that they can to express the perspective that they themselves had.

And even if the authors themselves don’t emerge in your mind, that characters must. Even if you don’t like a character and agree with how they think and act and whatnot, you still see how and why they do it. Justification is for those with hindsight.

But I still haven’t gotten to the thought, which is as follows- no matter what you think, most of us will never meet those who write what we read. How I wish I knew Vonnegut and Kerouac, or know Palahniuk and McCarthy, but I do not. They leave whatever ideas they want me to have, and I straggle along behind them picking up what was left behind.

And damn grand about it, I say!

To be able refine ideas to words at a pace that they need to fall from a mind that has been sharpening with each love, hate, mistake, wake,  innovation, heartbreak, loss, gain, sprain, action in vain, drunken stupor, promotion, demotion, commotion, devotion, lack of closure, over-exposure, bar mitzvah, wedding and funeral- what a thing that must be. And is and I know because I’ve done it, just not on any noticeable scale yet. But I’ll be starting my ascent soon. Though future me might stick up for present me and use that hindsight of his to say I’ve been going at it for much long. Such a sucker he is sometimes.

I won’t bore with more details on what my plans are. I’d rather talk about them once they start happening. But I will tell you that my father decided that he wants to be buried in sandals. Jesus wore them and he wants to kick it off right when he meets him. So I’ve got a new bit to punch up one of my old stand up jokes. And that’s a good thing.

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Sunday Morning Thoughts 12.15.13 – 12.22.13

I have a confession to make.

I’ve been in a slump. For how long is hard to tell. I could say weeks, or months. I could say years. Hell, if I worked hard enough at an explanation I’m sure I could argue it’s been going my entire life. It’s not an easy thing to admit, especially with how much effort goes into convincing the rest of the world of the complete opposite.

I had this whole bunch of nonsense written up what seems like ages ago. Preachy stuff, you know, trying to feign some sort of enlightened vision. Don’t get me wrong, there were a few good points. It just lacked its own essence in its own delivery. The words were alright by the usual standards. The problem is that they don’t live up to my standards.

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So dig, I want to declare some sort of intention here. I won’t though, as that would just perpetuate the issue. No, instead there will be dissection, inflection, slight reflection, just a tad bit of analysis with little to no direction. Correction depends on pressing forward. Watch the ripples and the sort.

The echo of your life will bounce around in the caverns of others, just as other echoes exist in your own cave. Good, bad, indifferent or incomprehensible- those whom you meet and those who meet you create impacts in your timeline and each of us has our own way of valuing such things. Sometimes these values overlap but I’d wager that most don’t. If you have ever seen the ‘news’ in any medium, you know most of us don’t see eye to eye. Ipso facto- war, murder, rape, theft, racism, sexism, bullying, religion, nationalism and so on and so on. It seems as though the only thing that everyone can agree on is that there is something wrong. But even then, it’s still not really everyone.

However, this we already knew.

There has been discourse in all known human life. Perhaps it is only a set condition associated with mortality, or maybe not. Perhaps things are worse than they have ever been and they aim to keep getting worse. The impact we have on each other and the physical world around may actually be reaching its flash point. Or maybe not.

That doesn’t have too much to do with my slump, other than it existing in my head all of the time. The slump itself seems to be a demon of habit, lazy and rooted in a lack of confidence. Or something like that.

It may just be the time of the year. High holy days of materialism really get to me, especially when people viciously defend their destructive habits by loosely affiliating them with words of some bloke who was murdered a few hundred dozen years ago.

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The irony is just too beautifully infuriating, considering what they gave that guy the chair for. Or whatever that times equivalent of the chair was. I just hope that this is just some big joke the rest of the species is playing on me.

But I know that it’s not the stupid holidays or the end of the year. It’s not my health or my job or my location, it’s just me. I read something a few days ago that said that the act of telling someone that you are doing something can often insight the same sort of psychological satisfaction as doing the professed deed. Not saying that it is the same thing, it’s just that you would feel as though it is. It feels good to promise something but actually taking on the task appears to be so much more effort.

I haven’t gotten to where I am in my life, wherever that might be, through promises. And even if that was what I thought at certain points in the past (or convince myself to think onward into the future) the promise never has the true impact.

I’ve had this twitch in my right eye for months now, and my back aches like I’ve spent years working in a coal mine. Or so I think. I don’t feel rested when I sleep and my dreams are vague horrors of no specific purpose and void of any meaning. And to top it off, I’ve cut my life short of so many of those vital outlets that kept the whole place from burning down. I’m wasting too much time.

My hiatus from writing may have been the most savage and malevolent thing I have ever done to myself, the effects of which reach out and infect almost every other part of my consciousness that I enjoy. The things I don’t like will magnify and march to the forefront of this mind trapped inside my skull and as a result, total production goes down in both quality and quantity.

But here I sit, a bad taste in my mouth from using the word production, and with no clear way out of such a slump. The only thing that offers itself up is time not obligated to any one or thing, and the supposedly uplifting symbolism of the end of one calendar year and the start of another. Other than that, it will still just be my self and my thoughts. The only reprieve will be from those means which I had made for myself and not yet destroyed, or seeking out new ones.

I would like very much for the answers to emerge after a few hundred words as they used to. Or at least seemed to do. But I am no longer that young, dressed head to toe in naivety, and can no longer be satisfied by the means of college aged millennials. At best, now I wear a very naive pair of socks and because of this, new ways must be forged. If the dreams I have continue to assault me with nonsensical symbolism, they shall be molded and sold with hand crafted meaning made from whatever was there.

Because, you see, after all of this time that I’ve been brooding over who gives a damn, the necessity of such slumps reveal themselves in murky clarity. Ups and downs exist for perspective, or at least they do to me. As a crafter of fictions both near and far, it is important to leech and reach for new depth both noble and superfluous. I am still young, but clearly no prodigy. I have been working at my few humble talents to make something else. There are those who don’t have to do that, and to them I say, how can thou be so boring?

Fresh from my slump, I know how to be boring and I know the illusion of joy that it seems to bring. But despite that, the fury has lived on inside and kept any true comfort wrapped in a healthy dose of paranoia. This, what seems to be insanity, is a very important step in finding the most pure and spectacular version of insanity. The one that fits just right on the first shot and has no need to be hemmed. I am an ape among apes armed only in the belief that this ape, that I call me, is somehow different from the rest of the apes, who all think of themselves as something special as well. The prodigies are already ahead, using up all their juice in the first lap. This ape, the one called me, is just getting ready for the long haul ahead. By the end, my feet may drip with blood. By the end, delirium may twist the everything, even down to the shapes and colors I once called normal. By the end, I may have gone completely off-the-deep-end, batshit bananas.

I just hope that will be the case because if the pop mentality becomes culture, we are all doomed. If me and those who wants something more don’t succeed, I’d rather die than accept my over priced shackles. I don’t even care if they’re designer.

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Sunday Morning Thoughts: 12.8.13

This week we will take a look at the idea of progress. Don’t mind that this posting is falsely advertised in regards to its time stamped title. We are going to get a bit abstract, so if that isn’t your kind of thing, turn away now.

But progress and that ever-eluding human ambition seem to be always on my mind and might even find its way into yours here and there. I couldn’t say, as I have never been in your mind. This is your chance to take a glimpse into mine, though this will be metaphorically similar to an iceberg. I can only let so much out at a time.

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But moving forward- progress. Get it? See what I did there? Anyway, I may be alone in this but despite progress allegedly being something involving the future, it is really only made up of the past. People guess at what futures may hold and despite many of them being rather educated and plausible, they cannot be known. A person can look back at all they’ve done up to the moment in which they stand and claim that progress is inevitable from there on out. Those people are usual idiots or fools, and not the good kind either.

The problem with probabilities as I see them, is that they don’t account for the improbable. Now this may be my madness or just my faint and fuzzy memory but to the best of my recollection, improbability is one of the key factors in any personal progress that I’ve made. Every leap forward was only vaguely planned, at best.

With that being said, I seem to be at a point in my life that I generally approve of.

Now with that being said, I should profess that in no way am I content. I itch and burn for more and more and more, and those loosely defined intentions do not show the exact way onward. They hardly even suggest which way to go and if they do, it seems to be wrapped in some sort of infuriating riddle. There are projects upon which I work and I have a good job and things along that nature, but if there is any wish of mine that were to be fulfilled, that would be to never be defined as something so single minded as an occupation.

Still, I don’t know how I wish to be defined, at least not exactly. I do know that occurrences that are considered likely, I also consider to be boring. If my memory serves me correctly, which it doesn’t always, the steps I’ve taken in life were not predictable.  Many of the great things were unexpected, while many of my tragedies could have been predicted, except for the true tragedies of course. Pop culture has turned that word into a deformed bastard of its former self.

So what does this mean? Are we all powerless to control our fates? Is progress an idea that only exists within the mind and has no play in reality? It is not my place to provide any sort of answers on such things. Ipso facto… that is exactly what I am going to try and do.

You see, I really rather despise the idea of fate. Whether that is just conditioning from my own personal past will have no effect on my argument against it. Fate is for the lazy. I believe firmly, no matter how foolish, that existence is totally moldable. That’s not to say such a task of metaphysical arts and crafts is easily accomplished. Nor do I think such a deed could be conquered by a single perspective. I just think that ultimately, it can be done.

I suppose the entirety of this half-assed essay could be summed into a simple and very common phrase, that being ‘I don’t know’. But I ask you, where is the elegance and sport in that?

You see, I believe, in each moment as it passes, that existence is the smallest of things. If I were to elaborate, I would confirm this by asking what is it that you truly experience? We’d all like to say the past but that is gone as soon as it passes from the present. The only fossils left behind are memories which can and most certainly will be altered based upon the present in accordance with where one would selfishly like the future to go. It is far more common for one to remember what they want to remember than what they need to remember. Further, I will be so bold as to say that what you want and need to remember is still different from what actually happened as each of those moments originally passed.

Then there’s the future. Everyone is talking about it and yet none of those talking are living like they give any kind of damn. From the tiniest deed to the most massively dire of straits, almost everyone around lives each moment based upon some made promise of some made-up history. Every little sheep tightening their own chains around their own ankles, each one chewing away all that is left of their lives.

But I know this because I often live it. Despite the reputation, a hypocrite would know more about what they are criticizing than he who does not participate.

But all of this doesn’t solve the issue, does it? Is there any such thing as progress? Which moments of time would such a thing even be based off? The past is at best a bent moment of the truth. The present is near immeasurable and far beyond capture. The future is bloated off of the illusions of the other two but is always beyond imagination.

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Perhaps it is in that unpredictability that the truth resides. The idea that we will never really know why and that the mystery is that there is no mystery. It can be a terrifying proposal and I’ve spent many a sleepless hour being afraid of such things, even since I was a kid. Trying to grasp how small and insignificant you truly are can cripple anyone with fear. At first.

But.

If you think of all that is that you don’t know and how small and fragile your existence is, you might, with the right amount of madness, see a tremendous amount of freedom.

I do.

And when you begin to grasp such meaninglessness, you understand that if there is a force in the universe that is something like fate, it probably isn’t concerned with you. And that my friends, is freedom beyond imagination and for those with the right kind of madness, that sounds like an opportunity to make yourself into something colossal amongst all that tininess.

So is there such a thing as progress? I would have to say yay but only if thou embraces a good bit of thy insanity.

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