Disclaimer: I have completed writing this miscellaneous post of thoughts and have now come to warn. Before you read I just want to clarify that this was completely impromptu. And the inadvertent nature of this post has allowed for me to gather my thoughts and properly reflect. If you finish reading this and grow confused, it will most likely be because I wrote this for myself. This was advice for me, I guess and I began writing not knowing of that result. C’est la vie? I apologize if you were looking for something less ‘diary’ reminiscent but posting these things really helps me. Cheers.
What do I know about superfluous motivation? What do I know about releasing from an idiosyncratic tendency so trivially ghoulish to find this inner solace they all talk about? I don’t know anything. I just have a tongue that I move too often. And I have a mind that ponders the inscrutable until it turns grey and placid.
I’m sitting in front of a screen in seek of some desperate consolation. Writing that out has made me realize how pathetic that quest actually is, but I think I will choose not to efface the erroneous nature of my words. I need to feel them to step over them. I need to feel their guilt.
It is an emotion, and perhaps some days it is a leader. Days when it is the latter are stolid days of meloncholy and misery. I currently exist in its tempestuous waves that rock me back and forth until I exhale aggressively screaming that I am sick of it. But that does nothing.
TV shrouds. And it does that job quite well to be fair — but I have grown callous to that surrender. Distrait emotions are not real, they are fatuous getaways that imbue a mind with a hope nonexistent only to inundate it with floods of its undesired reality after their anesthetic has worn off. And I hate that metaphorical side effect. It makes everything worse.
This world isn’t about me but I am a real part of it and can choose to play a real part in it. I am nothing and everything in the same moment for the sole reason that I exist — and it is that paradoxical circle of life that I can choose to embrace or let haunt me until I am dead. Mankind has done a marvelous job in creating costly novelty that hides the “haunting”, but how much more can we buy? How much more TV can I squander my time on? How many more futilities can I continue engrossing myself in?
The seconds of experienced realism and all its minutiae spills an eerie bittersweet fear inside my soul that I’ve been programmed to shut out. Thank you society, for giving me the CD of instructions. Undoubtably, my gratitude is satirical and maybe a little sad. Why should I believe there was only one way to proceed with life? That I am who I am and if no one appreciates that it is their loss? Isn’t my proclivity to perverse aberration just as plausible as any angelic properties I’ve assumed?
I need to stop believing in myself so much. I know that sounds like some moody letdown, but for me it really is a problem. I need to stop carrying my perceived rightful rights on my shoulder everywhere I go — because some people are worth sacrificing for. Some people I care for! Some people I love! Some people want me to live in a pretty amelioration. And my defensiveness gets in the way of that.
Let the world help you and stop fighting it. Let the creations speak to you and listen to what sticks. You need not transform to reach solace, you needn’t apologize. Just take a breath and continue quietly.
Reach via The Daily Post