But a Sunday passed with no mutterings from me.
Then, came another. And still, thoughts stuck to my mind only.
And though the ol’ thoughts wandered many a place, I think now of whether missing a week even mattered. Or if anyone aside from myself cared. Or even noticed.
I don’t have many ways of telling, aside from a few peeps from persons that say so. And even then, it is all done through the online world, where no one seems to know whether anything is true or not.
Not all. That isn’t true. Some have told me they read. Direct, or in person. And I thank you.
But aside from the brave few who may know me and dare to mention skipping a nasty or nonsensical video whilst scrolling through sociopathic media and instead read a few of these, I cannot tell who these ever reach. And I can certainly not tell whether they mean anything.
Sure, the website gives me a daily count of views and allegedly the general place of origin of each viewer. But if those numbers be true, they usually are not impressive. I’d likely reach more people screaming and running around naked through Times Square.
And of course, there is the ever looming, and quite real possibility that those views are just non-sentient programs that research via collecting massive amounts of websites, or what have you.
Which is a bummer. I kind of try and appeal to sentience here. As best I can.
And yet, the fool presses on. Though he may be aware of futility and failure, he marches forward.
He writes, again.
In fairness (if there is such a thing)- it has not been as though I have been idle- staring at a screen hoping for some profoundness that will never come. This is the first genuine length attempt I have made since the last weekly production.
The time between has been filled with all sorts of chaos. For even in the moments I do not ramble, I still wonder. Anything that would even come close to idle time is usually immediately consumed by one of those two.
I’ll ramble: on paper, in person, in tune and any other outward expression.
And I’ll wonder: upon my own various reflections, on the words of others, of the elsewhere written page and any other thing that I consume mentally.
And when it is all laid out as such, it seems that every moment of this chaotic occurrence called life can always be featured or complimented by those two modes.
There is another thing that we do. Allegedly. If sense are to be believed. But that shall be got at later.
But oh, to the fever of the ramble!
And not only in this pouring of mind we have here. But to all the sorts I have engaged in. There are moments which I can recall where the mind poured out and out loud to some other being. And in many ways. On first dates. And last ones. In moments of meeting. In the small hours of some collegiate festive morning, on a friend’s back porch. In a living room. Walking down the street. In the dim light of an early morning bedroom.
And I can recall the lightness of feeling, as words could truly break chains and lift loads.
I can even say I’ve rambled to a literal reflection. My own, in a late, late night bathroom mirror. Anywhere in the world. Those ones can be interesting, though I am not always my own biggest fan.
And more than all of that, I have wondered.
Alone, most often. As we are all likely do. Perhaps I go heavy on the loneliness, at times. Countless hours spent over a lifetime, just chasing down thoughts wherever it is they run off to. And more times than a happy person might be comfortable with, I have wondered about topics of terror. In a waking mind, overwhelmed with the treacheries of consciousness. And likely more effectively, in the mind that dreams of the worst types of fears. The ones that reach to places beyond even the comprehension of the self.
What do they call them? Nightmares, right?
Though, alone is not the only. I have wondered upon a vast feast of ideas beyond my own. I have listened to another soul before me, intently at times. Moments of clinging to every word. Reaching through the eyes to try and understand some mind that is not my own. Eyes that gleam. Eyes that pry. Eyes that reach equal into mine. And tears. My life has left me with no shortage of wondering about the tears I’ve seen. The tears I’ve made.
Then there are the words left behind. A generation, or two. Or a few hundred. The words and ideas documented- graced or plagued upon those who might come after. Philosophers, bards and bands. The ramblings of others, preserved for some form of mass consumption. Those not lost to time.
All of that is grand. And all of that is so integral to this human condition- be it gift or curse. But wondering and rambling is not all there is to being alive. Because none of this matters if we cannot witness it. But there can be nothing to witness, if there be no action going about.
And if you’re a self-helper type action may mean one thing. To a masochist, another. And to those between, something else. But if the five means to measure the world most human are given can be trusted, then action plays a roll.
Of course it does. There would be nothing to think or talk about if nothing happened. And that may not even be up for debate, though a few ancient Mediterraneans could argue that. Still, the topic of wonder turned topic of ramble dives in on what all this action means.
And as with all things, we can look towards the self. Or, we can look outward.
And outward, we see an extraordinary amount of negative action. War, theft, murder, rape, etc. And no, it is not I who is attempting to desensitize such topics. I don’t deliver the news, though who in the hell actually does these days? I only refer in the way such things are shown to the populations, at large. The information that is given to the masses is not good. And getting worse. In many different ways, some that even contradict each other. And that may be because many of those things are getting worse. Or they are getting worse because we think they are.
I can tell you I have seen otherwise. Never on some tremendous scale. In the way regarding an everyday sort of living. Perhaps that is because we have not adjusted to instant and civilization spanning message delivery. But when it comes to the personal, the good becomes easier to find. Watching people help a friend, a neighbor. Getting someone who disagrees to see a new point. And likewise, for someone to show something to you. To hold someone. To love. To touch. To hear. To feel. To smell.
And to see, though those damn screens. You can never tell when they’re lying. And they are everywhere, telling a lot of folks what to do.
So, I wonder of my own actions. And wonder how they have helped and hurt. For they have done both, I am quite sure. And to the best of my knowledge, I cannot say I have done damage so unforgiveable.
But perhaps I have. But I don’t think it so. And besides, that would be between me and whomever it concerns.