I wonder, again, of point and purpose. Of fates and destinies. Of the unpredictability of it all and what it does to change a soul.

I feel the rust of mediocrity in my hands, as each finger labors to connect the strung-up thoughts to some sort of semblance here. It is a feeling that I have known to be non-existent in other times. Or at the very least, much more easily subdued.

I think of failure. Even in the presence of success. Especially so, I would suppose. It is a confounding dichotomy that I seem to feel the heavy density of, these days. A blend and bounce between the fear of the inadequate acquaintance of youthful aspirations to what ended up conspiring, thus far. And the dread that all was some delusion, one which I seem unable to break. Perhaps, even further, my own insatiability may always keep some section of contentment away. Most would say I hold no shortage of luck. And in humbler moments, my egotistic self-deprecation may be quiet enough for my agreement.

But even more than enough can feel like famine to me. Which is probably why I find myself here again. The same thing that it has always been, despite any aliases, the new one being an example. This outward look inward, that I can never help from making public upon the inexcusable intrusion of my vanity.

That, and the hope that the right words might meet the right person, upon the right time in their sentience.

I seem to be finding a bit of fire in the longer growing nights, strange as that may be. Most take the march into winter as an easier route to lower energies and mentalities. Or a retreat into a hibernation of mind. And though I have certainly been privy to such methods before, I find this go about the seasons to have something else. There is a more present air to the idea of my own mortality that is some what lightening, if not a bit enlightened. The world of dark, bare trees with scattered light of human industrial defiance littered about reminds me of the smallness of it all. Our little snow globe planet, with it’s model trains and human tragedies. And in such a context the impossible idea of total experience becomes so implausible, it almost seems freeing. I can never do everything, so anything I do may never really matter at all. Therefore, everything is available left to do. Anything.

Of course, this is far too high-minded for a vain creature such as your humble narrator to ever full be capable of attaining. Still, the thought is nice in between the bouts of self-aggrandizement and internal reprimand for perceived failures.

And somehow, still, after over a decade of this thought experiment- this base purpose I aim here to arrive at, finds its way through the haze. Certainly somehow connected to a dopamine release, this always seems to get me a little bit more than all that. Something akin to outside consultation, this typing away at words and phrase grants this user at least a temporary sense of balance. Some agency, perhaps, in a world that seems otherwise spun beyond command. A connection with the mind of some random or otherwise others, though I will likely never truly know. And chat with myself, in a forum aside from the bathroom mirror, where I must confess is not where I always shine as the kindest. And of course, the possibility of attention, something no amount of knowledge seems to be able to shake the desire from me.

So, I changed the name. Again. Essentially what it was, just in a different programming slot. But I’ll stick to these Monday Evenings, for a while. If nothing else, picking a day helps keep the discipline up. And I could use some more of that, as unruly and chaotic as I’ve been.

So here and now, witness the triumphant return of one of my better bad habits.