I ponder upon the benevolence of my habits. And whether the romanticism of some had rightly earned its place to die. And if I, as some personal Dr. Frankenstein, unnaturally keep them alive.

I’m aware of the ones that are quite plainly barbaric, or some synonymous equivalent. Outside of those, there are the ones that find themselves more deceptive. More aloof to the more visible ethical standards which I fly corresponding to my person.

This, as one example.

The catharsis is never in doubt. And if the metrics of my cerebral chemicals were measured upon each completion, all the right kinds of mental juices would be abundant at such an earmark. But beyond that, what good does any of this do?

A journal of a man with much still yet to accomplish? Perhaps, implying some belief in my own pronounced destiny. And beyond that, implying further that it be something worth the inspection of the historian of tomorrows yet to be. Yet, none of that would scratch the itch of an answer of the benefit bestowed upon the writer.

I could easily argue, particularly in times of greater self-doubt than ego, that all this ever does is provoke an instant gratification for attention. Sometimes, and historically often, a protrusion into the mind of some specific other. But in the vague bouts, nothing more than a poetic whimper out into the world which I otherwise have little interaction with. Listen to me, and my thoughts. See what I see, and see how profound that sight might be.

And although I know for certain that I have had worse dependencies that these, the thought is not shaken that this is and has always been an elaborate exercise in vanity. Enticing enough to seduce even the creator to thinking that it was ever something more. An outward introspection, refined to make a coward seem brave.

Of course, that cannot be untrue. Just upon its entrance into my own mind means that some part of it all resides in the base derivative of ego stroking. Part of this, if not most, has always been for me. To vindicate myself against the constant ramble of outside incursions. The justification of thought, performed through an extrapolation of the rather regular occurrences of specific synapses that induce the thinking of self-indulgence.

Yet, I know the flow is no liar. And that when the words drip and dive in the right kinds of vibrations, that something beyond my meager existence is at play. And I may be little more than a casualty of the greater consciousness. Being a pawn would be a promotion in any such ranking that would or should be granted to this sentience. Perhaps nothing more than the small stone cast, upon which larger ripples will never know what origin they might have had. Perhaps all I will ever do, is to serve as a path. A stone upon which stepping might be mandated, in the effort to accrue some larger cosmic tiding. Likely, not even that much. More just a molecule, a part that makes up the ass of some much more grand and inconceivable idea. A freckle. A wart.

And, still, I return to the page yet written, and feel something just shy of primal within me. The page, the only muse that remains, not that she ever had the choice. The last bastion for a sinner such as I. The place where all my wickedness (and the slightly more benign), get ironed out into some better echo. Where I take all my mistakes, and at the very least make them lyrical.

Which I can say, makes me at least slightly more tolerable than most assholes. In my own personal opinion.