There is, in my opinion, an unquestionable honesty to confusion. Some great truth involved with a lack of understanding. Not knowing and admitting such to yourself. For even what we may know is vastly less than what we do not. Some may say it is hardly worth the comparison.

And yet, conversely, those who don’t know and yet create the illusion that they do are often and easily marked as liars. Some more vicious than others. Fabricating an entire existence without regard for what the reality may be. Yet even if such a monster were able to convince others indefinitely, the truth be known to he who hides it.

Right?

No, that’s not quite right.

Because there are among us, those that believe their own bullshit. And if we are to allow honesty to prevail, I must confess to mistaking my own farts for roses. Not all the time, and not usually for very long stretches- but I most certainly have. And whilst sitting and rambling about finding the betterment of the self through bewildering honesty, I know the self-made fables shall come calling again.

And perhaps that isn’t as horrible as it may sound. If you think about it, what is faith aside from trust in something that may not be true? And faith may not be such a terrible thing. To have hope regardless of the reality. To believe in that which cannot be seen.

It is a powerful concept of motivation. To have faith, to give faith, to inspire or enforce belief. Particularly when done so without any actualities to back it up. It lends to the strength of the idea. And that which is believed in and yet unproven, is always something defended passionately. Likely because over time, parts of the real can begin to depend on the fabrications. Santa Claus, and such.

And just with most other things, humans can find themselves addicted. Hooked hard on the fantasies both grand and small. Building the lives of those around them and the self upon principles of sand. Be it the god of some religion, an all-consuming nationalism, an abusive relationship or some other lost ideal- they all depend on a central belief of something that may not be there. And after those things are taken away, all that is left is the great, big ‘I dunno’.

Which begs the question- what in the hell am I trying to prove?

Can I see said truths from atop this soapbox? Will some sort of clairvoyance descend upon me within this quest and fill my opinions and mumbles with righteousness?

And even if so, why would that matter? This is not a tremendously popular website. The half-ass public journal of some wannabe Kerouac. A few will read this and that is all that it may get. It doesn’t have the flash other such ventures do. This doesn’t sell anything. No free tacos, or candles or any other gimmick. I can’t even give you the promise it will make you any sort of a better person. Not more than just reading anything in general is good for your brain. And that would require the desire to want any betterment at all in the first place.

Is that too much to assume? That we all want some vague movement towards betterment in this life? It is clear to see that some may have more gusto regarding this than others, but is it mad to believe that everyone wants to at least try to improve any sort of thing from its current standing? Like how everyone that smokes is also trying to quit. Fantasy and nicotine can be so similar in the mind.

But fuck it. For the sake of keeping to the theme, I shall now boldly assume that humans, and I mean all y’all, always hold the desire for something better. Even if the definition of specifics may vary. There is a belief in our heads for what is better than what just is, and from there stirs the want. You hold your own carrot. Your own stick.

Yet, what is believed to be better is not the same to all. In fact, sometimes an individual or group has a directly opposing idea for what is better with another. So great lengths are gone to prove which better is better. And so, everything becomes worse.

And other times, qualifiers of different beliefs can mask the near perfect similarity it has to another idea. Never realizing that it is all the same, just dressed differently. Tragic, I know.

So, I suppose this is really all about me. Where I am. What I feel. And as the writer, it ultimately always does. Thinking everyone applied large, vague, societal sounding ideas to the navigation of their own psyche. I guess not. Can you smell the roses?

So, what is it then? What do I believe? What do I think is better? Which fantasies have made me into this junkie?

I’ve probably just watched Dead Poet’s Society too many times. Hooked on far-away romantics. Grasping at that which is always out of reach, with no regard for consequences. At least not until after the fact. And the human emotional remains left in the wake.

The excess of sad songs consumed likely doesn’t help either. The power of devastation paired against the artificial sound of many happy tunes. I consume stories with dissonant endings and scoff at those that resolve elegantly. And my attraction to difficulty. To complexity. Addicted to unlikely odds. Putting forth great efforts to sculpt an underdog character out of the personality I portray.

And it may only be a matter of time until the feeling of intention creating better out of the bad fades. I may eventually accept my own powerlessness. Abandon the lofty ideals in exchange for simple living.

But every time the cynicism begins to take hold, something happens. Something external and unpredicted wanders in, filling up that which was almost empty. And even if that something fades to nothing, the faith maintains. Somehow.

And perhaps, some day it may not fade. Someday, it may all be better. Though mad it may sound, I still believe.