Was it courage? Some sort of boldness and bravery, that would lead me to this place? The cliff upon which I would dive out into the harrowing depths of my own consciousness. The precipice from which I would precipitate an amateur ideology that somehow always reassured some sense of self belief. Was it that which brought me here?

     Or, arrogance? The undeserving pride of a younger mind that believed in self-righteousness stronger than the hopeful satiation of a dripping needle. Bold not in benevolence but the boisterous bowels of ignorance. Was it just that I was fool enough to be believe in my own fumes?

     Thoughts as this have kept me from these keys, for a while now. Though there are certainly other factors at play. Wonders on not only the potency of purpose, but right down to questioning its possibility at all. And the worry whether wanting for something to say deems some sort of worthiness, or just further perpetuates indignant identity.

     So, I’ve avoided it. Not just the public proclamations that used to be on some sort of regularity, but even the personal penmanship, that took a thought and placed it physically somewhere within my perspective. There used to be poetry, and I cannot tell whether it is my own deficiency or some larger demand for silence that keeps me without it.  

     Yet, the thoughts still plague. And it is not peace I have found within my own narrative silence. Truth be told, it has given me only chaos that thankful to other stable portions of my life I am able to nullify to the point of not causing harm. At least not noticeably. The war is of attrition, between my words and me. Or lack thereof, in either category.

     I feed the beast in other ways. Consumption of the work of others. Lectures, as of late. Or the equivalent. The histories of Greek philosophers, as of today. They had a few ideas, I’ve gathered. Some good ones, too. But I cannot help but feel they would be destroyed in the current age. And my moral compass cannot forget or really forgive the behaviors they often engaged in, as their own histories can recount. History seems to be what has generally filled the voids of my own writings, as though I have not changed much at all since my school days. Between reading and the modern oral traditions of information exchange, I have observed the tales of the ancients, to my own national founders and those from whom I have likely descended, right up to the more modern makings of trends which just a generation or two before my own knew only as the world from which they were from and could not seem to comprehend their ascension into human history. Or descension.

     Which then makes me wonder whether my own passing of time has already gone by its relevancy. Whether I am in midst my own sayings of ‘back in my day’. Whether I am just a few steps away from all the ways you can say ‘should’ve, could’ve been somebody’.

     And yet, whatever it might be to the outside, I know that my own insides cry out for me to continue to be here. And that my lack of words, either typed, scribbled or spoken has proved to be more of a killer to this spirit than anything most of the outside influences which have regularly disturbed my plans or potential. The selfishness I have disguised in a way that anyone else might find something to take away, though the purpose is far more primal. I believe I need this because I have wanted it for so long that whether I can exist in some other way in the longer term seems deemed impossible. Even in my lengthy absences from writing, both seen and unseen, the idea was rarely ever that it would never be again. It was just how in the hell can one start up again from such a voided scene.

     This isn’t some miraculous answer to that or any other questions. In fact, I’m quite certain that I have acquired more inquiries since setting of on this bout of self-inflicted biophilic psychosis. And I worry, based upon my own observations, that those subsequently infected questions will then go on to spore and spread their own. Further infestations of what and why and how.

     Still, I am certain that it feels better to write than not. And whether empirically proven or not, I cannot shake the belief that the continued venture to and off this edge or making internal thoughts external is in alignment with better understanding of the sometimes woeful mysteries of existence. That hashing out ideologies or things not even worthy of such a lofty title in a method that at least temporarily immortalizes them is an efficient way to understand thought, both personal and in comparison with the other conceivable ones within this matrix I find myself within.

     But I’ll try and be funnier next time. It has always been one of my strong suits