The elephant in the room is one of self-censorship.
On the one hand, to write, toward the end of being a writer; this, if left unchecked, could be nearer to the production of noise, for the sake of noise, than to the letting out of thoughts, elucidation, thereof for which my efforts are aimed.
Mmm, conversely, perhaps it is the incessant blowing of this, my vuvuzela –a contemptible instrument– that clears it out, such that I can, as I once did, make music.
My brain, my mind –allow me this digression; a mind is a terrible thing to waste.
Always, most always, mmm, often; often, I feel as though my mind rests in some super-position of creative / ideological potentiality. Touching upon many and varied possible paths, options, ideas… often to the benefit of no single idea.
I imagine a person sinking into quicksand, and I see this person considering his escape forwards, backwards, to this side, and to that. Mmm, such a man, unless he selects the right option in time, such a man goes nowhere but down.
The recent period in which I stopped writing, in this time, the world seems to have become that much more crazy.
So many facets of this, too.
Where does one even begin to untangle the mess? How does one reform this colossal house of cards, while standing upon it?
Mmm, I believe the solution has more to do with addressing the card, the nature of the form of the card, the individual card, itself.
Why do I hide my ideas, so?
What if someone heard my words, and they completed my work for me? Why, on a deep and substantial level, do I fear this?
I do not understand. Well, the ego, et al, I suppose I do. But, you think I’d be above that, no?
It’s as if I was in a large burning building, and I wanted to let everyone in the building know that it burns, and that it will destroy us all if we do nothing, or if we spend too much resources doing other things… and yet, in light of my apparent inability to make this message clear, I have not handed the responsibility to others…
In fact, haha, truth be told, the very reason I stopped sharing my thoughts, here, was because I had begun to write my own book, to start my work with a true, real, honest attempt at finishing it.
I didn’t want to just let it out. I wanted to bottle up my feelings, my thoughts, such that they would burst forth onto the page.
Mmm, and they did. So too, of course, came forth the cruel reality that I am best equipped for writing… where the act of writing does not include editing.
Sure, I can edit, but my editing skills are seperate from my writing abilities. They come from different places within me.
I’d like to blame others, I really would. Well, I’d like to be so honest as to let my frustrations speak, however petty and self-serving as they may be.
I wish I had gone to university, I wish I could go back, right now, and continue my studies in philosophy.
Sometimes I think about taking all of my notes, destroying them. Perhaps then I’ll be able to write real thoughts, once more.
Otherwise, having written what feels like… most everything that needs to be written, I feel like I am just tracing the letters of prior pages written.
Do I have the rigor, the mind, the skill set to work at a newspaper, in academia, at a place that deals with minds, people, humanity, the future?
Well, a question I can answer with greater ease: do I have the ability to think less of my abilities, to undercut my worth, to stop myself where forward motion would bring me potential success? Oh yes; oh yes, my friend, I can do that.
Oh, the world.
You sprang out of nothing, out of the something which is nature, and here you shine for yourself to see.
And now that we have a clearer idea what nature is, what we are, what all this is… mmm, on the large, we do almost nothing.
There is a mechanism to existence, a reality of reality that, unless we fight, work to clear our vision of it, that blinds us to truth, makes us too lazy to act on that which makes its way through the blinders.
I have said it before, if I truly knew, if in my heart I fully, fully understood my own beliefs, the reasonable metaphysics of this place, this thing, this mind, this nature, this God, if I knew what I knew, and I actually knew it, truly, it would manage to be more terrifying than finally coming to realize that you are trapped in a cage with a hungry, angry lion.
For, if the lion takes his/her time to torture you to death, you still die; through cessation of existence, you find your escape.
The truth of reality? I could put myself in a cage with such a lion, I could put my head into its mouth, snap it shut for the animal.
And still, still, I would not, could not escape nature.
Of course, this is not a clear analogy. No.
Truer would be… haha… well, the truth, itself, would suffice; it’s like life, by chance, by the sheer volume and span of time and space came to be… and, in keeping with this improbability, life then advanced to such a dizzying height as inanimate matter becoming animate to the degree that it considers its own existence, right and wrong, that it contrives such things as the self, civilization, history, science, rocketry, et al.
Oh, yes, and then, despite how ability to know, and to know ourselves, we see that we hurt ourselves so. Worse yet, the atoms that might as well have arranged themselves into the blueprint for the mind, for love, for life… that blueprint stands to be lost forever.
And yet… despite knowing this… despite knowing that saving humanity from itself, saving life from humanity, saving humanity for life… despite knowing how terribly, terribly, terribly important this is…
The consequences of inaction, of incorrect action are so great…
Despite knowing this, we find problems in other, temporary, superficial things.
Donald Trump holds the highest office in the known universe.
Carl Sagan, you died too soon.
Nature, please grant me the strength to find a way to preserve our wondrous forms of life.
Do I want a job and a family? That is, do I want to participate in the game?
Or, do I want to communicate that which it is that I feel it within me to be necessary?
It’s a real question.
Can I do both?
I think I could be a good father.
I believe I can be a good man, a good human.
Why must I feel compelled to be loved so that I may write?
Anyway, I feel a little better having shared this.
The world is a beautiful place, and so are you.
Take care, remember to be kind,