Eternal echoes, said someone far more famed than I.
That’s what this life holds the potential for. This, and many other lives. The others, perhaps, being the more likely contenders.
But, I suppose, the echoes may vary in size and scope. While the timeline is a diminishing one, for each recurring vibration. All of it, eventually dust, and even the loudest of bellows will wane to little more than a whisper before slipping off into what we only know as nothingness.
And the idea of the echoes being positive is in itself a bit self-indulgent. Ignorant, as well. Regarding my particular self. It isn’t hard looking until paths cross with some less than ideal influence I’ve both harbored and sent from port. After all, bad habits don’t go down easy. Though they were certainly conducted without any explicit wickedness. Still, such an angle of antagonism has historically proven to have far reaching resonance. The diary of a mad man, and what not.
Yet, I wonder why it is I still wonder of such thoughts. A strange enough occurrence, considering the regularity I can view myself as some form of washed up, whether true or not. Something that any lasting lineage seems to have scrubbed clear, if ever present at all. To be a fly on a wall with a time machine, and witness the doubts of those sentients that have passed into legend with nothing but their confidence.
And even after all that, weighs the cosmic indifference. The potency of perspective, when peered upon from far enough, can always become comparably insignificant. Just some beasts on a rock, chasing impulse and ideology. Which as far as we shaved apes might know, could be some smaller part of some larger same.
So many words to say how little I know. To say almost nothing at all.
Which is fine.
The larger the question, the more doubt I’ve always held that any one soul has any sort of answer. Any solution perpetually defeated by the corresponding why.
Yet, you can bend your ear and divulge upon the impulse that wields the wheel ever back to here. And all the ponderance upon echo grows from the thinking upon my own.
Inspiration? Sure, I’ve been told as so and have seen some results. I know folks who have seen or heard or interpreted some word or action of mine to invoke and derive some potential energy towards something of their own. In fact, I may even abuse such waves without the mindfulness enough to regard it.
Woe? Without a doubt, I’ve cast plenty of my own upon the them or those around. I reflect with regularity upon what wires I charge to this day that might make some other pay for something they should have ought not. Does my presence serve but to repulse and reserve any true emotion, a symptom of selfishness seen as something more ambivalent? Apologies if I have, or do. Whilst hanging on the tree of his demise, the storied savior at the center of the culture I was born residing put it well. They know not what they do. Though in many cases, I had eventually been made aware. At times, in a playwright’s fashion. Which may just be the self-indulgence back at work.
And with all that, the truth of the matter is all more basic than I dream it to be. This grants me relief. Scribbling on pages or clacking away in a way that requires a fraction of the discipline of the greats of yesterday- I keep showing up here to write because it somehow seems to grant me relief. From what, the exacts always change when zoomed in and out upon specifics. When granted a further away glance, it again simplifies. I write because I feel I must. And every time I do, the affirmation or vindication is granted. Naturally, I eventually abuse that. But the more I click and clack and scratch away- the less the chaos reigns inside.
I wish my mind and spirit were a bit more efficient. Yet, tragically, it all runs like an antique steam engine. Keep shoveling and shoveling, and hope the combustion has no adverse effect.