Friday Evening Post: 1.7.22

     Becoming acquainted enough with isolation starts to slide toward conditioning. And that is not necessarily a knock on the notion. In many ways (metaphysically and the sort), we are very much set apart from all the rest. The isolation of identity. The alone of the mental innards. Though closeness might be attempted and achieved, no set of perceptions can be considered two of the same. A whole lot of almost, but never the exact thing again. Not as far as I can tell, with my amateur knowledge of varying enthusiasms.

     Yet, despite all that lonely of the individual- most minds (and souls, though less easily defined) drown within themselves after too much of not enough, or any, others. To agree, or argue, with something aside the reflection upon some inanimate placid surface is a drive very much human. Or warm-blooded creature, though we seem to be the only ones that get together and talk about it. That we know of. Just because you’ve never heard a mouse speak, doesn’t imply that they don’t. It just makes for a reasonable assumption.

     It is a wonder, to know one might be a decent practitioner of stretches of isolation and think of how that came to be. And what the cost might be for finding ability without many souls around. And a wonder, to think that too far toward one way can inhibit the standing on the opposite side. Too much time alone and never know any aside yourself. Perhaps not even able to know that person either.

     I was thinking about our species, again. And where we might be going. Scary prospect, for many. These days, for sure. But always, as well. Lots of ‘ends of the worlds’ in our past, as well. Which, judging from the ability to have a perspective about a former fear of apocalypse, means that none of the earlier ends ended being our ending. Not completely. Not yet.

     And though, dear reader, this may be a feeling new for some, or many- this is not a new feeling for me. I’ve regularly wondered for most of the time I’ve been able to retrieve as memory, what fate the future holds. And, egotistically, what role belongs to me in such a performance. The opinion on such a placing has varied over the years. From mildly messianic highs, to something closer to the ant beneath the looking glass lows- I’ve pondered the place of my existential protagonist.

     I still don’t seem to have an answer.

     I’ve been reading an old history. Meaning one written a while ago, about even longer ago. This one was penned about a century prior to now. It attempts to encompass all from the dawning of the planet until the author’s period of publication. I’m sure there are things about such a book that a modern mind might cry out about inaccuracy (particularly a mind that considers itself modern, and therefore, far greater than most of humanity’s previous chapters). And correct as many of the look-back assessments might be, there is an elegance in the compressed and simplistic approach to viewing the species since there was mud to crawl out of. I’ve only made it past the Neolithic human, thus far. We’re not all that different from then. Interesting to know that art seems to be beyond ancient with us, the hundreds of thousands of years kind of ancient. They haven’t gotten to commerce yet. I get the feeling that money and the making of it have clocked far less time in human importance than drawing. And singing.

     If there was a point, I’ve lost it. My abilities at the keys are rusted, as is much of this method of thinking. There are fears and concerns, along with the insecurities and inabilities to see past preformed perceptions. It is not my intention to make noise. Not the non-specific kind. The radio static of thought that seems to be so much around us. In avoidance, I seem to dodge many attempts at outward thought. But my mind has suffered for it. As any sentience would, being deprived of its sustenance.

     So, I suppose I should cease with the deprivation. Clumsily, though these steps may be, onward must go we. Not to exclaim opinions. Plenty enough of that, already. Too much. But to rather work on thinking outwardly. As once was done, when my own times seemed easier. Which, of course, can have a direct relationship with enthusiasm.

     We’ll see if I can’t get these words to do something.

It’s not totally unheard of.

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