Paradigm shift. That’s the phrase floating about this old skull, as of late.

Been putting my things into boxes. I’ll be moving at the end of the month. First time in six years. Nowhere to go, yet. No place of my own, at least. First time that’s happened in ten years.

And in this process of transporting long stagnant objects, I’ve felt some sort of stir. Might just be illusion. Might just be the stink of oncoming spring seeping into these weathered nostrils. But as I go through these worldly possessions, I’ve decided to drop the extra weight. Nothing quite like using physical material to symbolize the metaphysical. Am I right?

Clothes to donate and that sort of thing. An overall attempt to not carry so much with me to where it is I go next.

But it’s easier doing that than the philosophical moving. Still, I attempt nonetheless.

So how does one shred the papers within their own mind? There’s likely a self help book that claims the answer. Likely there are hundreds. I saw a copy of one of those in my packing process. Something someone had gotten for me with good intentions. The urge to throw it in the trash was great. I did not though. I believe it’s packed away. Not sure why.

I’ll never read it. Such works of writing are valueless to me. Beyond even considering that the actual writing is dull and void of any sort of poetry- there is a very flaw in the idea. The whole concept is a conundrum of language that cannot ever truly exist. A self help book helps no one aside from they that penned it. And not because of the money they make, which I have no doubt is more than what a better writer ends up making. It’s because the very idea of self help by definition means that outside entities cannot hold influence. Self help is an internal struggle and the very idea that another human being that you have never met can give you the path and guidance to correct or alter thine own self is impossible. Even if someone you know and trust and love were to give you the most insightful and exquisite advice regarding a conflict in your life- their words are but a spark.

The self is an inside job. It’s the only way it works. Not saying work cannot be done outside. It can. And does. And should. Other humans can be wonderfully fascinating beasts, when they aren’t being terrible. But if your aim is to navigate and organize the internals, you can be the only one doing the work. Apologies but that is the burden of an individual conciousness.

And to contradict myself immediately, I am using a soon to be change in living location as the excuse to attempt to dust out the attics of my mind. As I get rid of the things I no longer feel I need, I think of that which I should no longer think about. Think of the pasts now sealed in stone. The once was futures turned to the unpredicted present. Of the people I had hoped would be otherwise but ended up being who they were. And thinking of that image of what I thought I’d be. And how he doesn’t quite look like me. The future was to do other things. And he never seemed as tired as I look. Might be that he was supposed to have a better tan than me. He was supposed to go to more beaches. Travel the world. Nothing to keep him from going anywhere. At any time.

But truth be told, that guy, that future version of me I thought I’d be… that guy is a dick. A teenager dreamt him up. Of course he’s a dick.

So out it must go. Can’t be recycled. Just get rid of it. And the new will fill in the places left void.

I had a phone call the other day. With the cat who brought the term paradigm shift back into the forefront of my mind. I said to him that I grow weary of feeling sorry for myself. And I believed it. Likely because I am.

You see, life. This life and all life is a participation game. Not advocating more gung-ho dopey motivational types. But life is an action. It is the result of actions and performs best when active. When being out in the occurrences. Seeing, being, feeling, etc.

And participation does not promise success. Failure is one of humanities most vast resources. But non-participation can guarantee that nothing much will ever happen for you. Nothing at all, probably.

But what the hell do I know?

I just didn’t want to go more than two weeks without doing one of these. A lot of shit going. Playing shows. Going to shows. (support local). Parental business. Occupational business. Creative business. Social business. The likelihood on ever going on a date again seems improbable and grim until close to retirement. But there’s worse things.

Maybe I should have thrown that book out. If I had any balls, I would have. Can I still use that term? Is it upsetting to people? I sometimes have a tough time with understanding how other people feel. It’s happened before.

So, no. I don’t believe I’ll ever read that book.

Perhaps I’ll make kindling of it. A funeral pyre for the the life that once and never was. A sacrifice to the gods of whatever for their fortune and blessing.

But first, I’ll need a fire pit. So I’ll have to acquire some land.

Next phase. Begin.