Sunday Morning Thoughts: 9.3.17

For those of you regular readers. Oh! you brave few, I’d like to apologize. I’ve been dripping with a bit of unadulterated positivity as of late. And that, is not fair.

Fret not, though. My mind both waking and otherwise, has been heavy at work to check that which history has proven to produce the very events that have crafted the sharp cynicism that has made my word-working what it is. The duality is still in play, but in order to balance the one-sided portrayal of summer days, we must dive elsewhere.

And what a lovely, rainy Sunday to do so.

This may only apply currently to those within a few dozen miles of this here narrator. Some of you following this ramble may very well be in midst a sunny afternoon, drenched with vitamin D and foolhardy hope. But as it is my voice on display here, gloom shall not be hidden.

It’s the dreams.

A doctor may tell me a whole lot about my health habits influencing the mental status of my unconscious self. But whatever the source, my resting mind gives me none of what its name suggests. Meticulously and aggressive, it seems each night when I manage to recall these overnight fantasies, the plague of insecurities and fears run rampant in an efficient and elegance performance. These are things that have never gone away, though my efforts in combating them have been pronounced, as of late. Yet when any ability to reason is removed from the equation, only the worst comes to mind. Loneliness, failure, frustration, melancholy- the coordination they find in terrorizing my consciousness has been and may always be unparalleled.

And as such waves crash about while inactive, the waking thoughts of Bruce Duluoze have been left with little choice than to recognize the erosion. And subsequently, logic tends to side with the stronger argument. Which would be that things will not go as well as one hopes they might. And though argue you might, evidence certainly shows to support the cynic.

To use a common example, upon rising this morning after a night of fighting off unconquerable demons, the phone addiction I share with so many of you, brought me to check there for hope. A horrible idea. Instead of perhaps a message from a romantic interest or love from a friend, I read about a possibly pending global nuclear aggression and a death toll rise from unprecedented Texan flooding. Once roused enough to pull myself from bed, the television proceeded to tell me all the horrible things that happened overnight within a few short miles of where I live, in addition to the chaos of the world. Ipso facto, I drink my coffee black.

And when such things occur, a great difficulty rises in fending off negative habits. Cigarettes, smartphones and apathy. A terrible way to start the day, and yet, so it went.

But still, there is something to it. This mental dread surrounded by natural gloom. It invokes memory, at least for me. Of days long past, where the dream of sunny moments were still fresh. I can recall the wonder I had found in destitution. The truth of self that lives when lofty fantasy is drowned out by pestering actualities. And how much fun can be had when one feels like there is no lower to go.

It is not how I quite feel now. For as mentioned, this is only seeking balance. A rapid and unexpected influx of positivity will certainly show the soul to know what it is too feel good. But unchecked, the lack of contrast can make even the grandest of perpetuated moods become dull, if not worse. If it goes long enough, you may very well lose the mind entirely.

So, what are we to do? Because just as good vibes can breed more good vibes, negativity is even more efficient. How can one tell when the mind is wielding its own wellbeing without regard? Or how to know if the fantasy has slipped into the ways of reality?

I suppose, we can’t. In this very moment, I am unable. Even my wants are not as clear as I’d hope they’d be. Vague desire could very well be muddling any specifics that may be believed.

Or.

It may all be as it is. The gloom is just as real as the solar rays. Love is just a real as hate. And even worse, the blanket of indifference we force ourselves to feel to find a middle ground. Good things happen. I know they do. They have happened to me. But if not more often, the dread is certainly more memorized. I know I am not the only one who feels that the overly happy person is either lying to themselves, or lying to us all through some sham show.

But one more time, just for redundancy’s sake- this is not to wish horror upon my own and any other mind that finds themselves with these words today. This is only for balance. To keep in check an unruly hope for happiness. For such a way of mind will create larger disappointment in anything that happens. Our expectations can damn us. And the grander wonders are not often those that are planned. To hope for the best is not so foolish. Granted, you must be able to be prepared for the worse.

And how to deal with all this varies by person, and by moment for each one of those different sentients. I have my ideas on what to do, all ending with drinks with friends this evening. It is a holiday, after all.

And to use the words of Ol’ Blue Eyes:

I feel bad for people who don’t drink, because when they wake up in the morning, that is the best they are going to feel all day.

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