I struggle with the idea of any destiny beyond that of the self-determined. Which is certainly a contender for the peak point of arrogance. I have a few traits in the running, I suppose. They pair well with the vast array of insecurities.

It cannot be that my intentions can exclusively mold the way onward. I know that to be true, and can prove it with the many waves beyond my span of control that have crashed against, if not dented, damaged or crushed previously held perspectives and objectives.

But it isn’t all about what you know. And it is in the realm of feel where the self-determination reigns.

Perhaps this is why I often fall short or totally fail to remain within the moment, as the cliché would say. Either too far dug into the historical, or else, transfixed upon the fight for foresight- that impossible task. And even worse, with an id and ego such as mine- it is never far to wander either front or back to where such a little life as mine might match up within the waves of a few thousand years, in either direction.

Some act, especially for someone who can shock himself to inactivity via the input of a minimal amount of anxious energy. There may be a name for such a condition. Or conditions.

But that isn’t quite right, either. I suppose I play up the ego as a defense against the fear of failure. A symptom only exasperated by being born into this age- one which as I grew from boy to man, the constant demand for and of attention has increased in absurd exponentials. Behold the boyish man, so unsure and so certain all the same.

Be it as a distraction or otherwise, I can hide away by helping along with the work of others. I currently stand upon tasks that would help elevate the art of a few close others. What do you call them? Friends, that’s the word. Not for lack of my own things to do, but rather as a support in the project of purpose. To will into a more concrete existence, the expressions of others I aim to fan the flame of. Yet, within that rests the tasks I feel required to accomplish myself. And too often have I let the hours fade into the oblivion behind while these ideas wither on their respective undernourished vines.

But I still fight to feed these dreams. In any way I can.

Last night, I stopped by a pub hosting one of those open amateur nights. Including belting out a few of my own compositions to a room of mostly strangers, I was able to witness the expression of many of the aforementioned unknown beings. A few old coots with renditions or yesteryears tunes, with some openly attaching those arrangements to specific point in their own timelines. One old timer, for example, playing the tune he would play for his wife when they first met. A note that made a song I normally wouldn’t stand have the emotional impact to become more than bearable. A few others with songs of their own, or at least a unique interpretation of something a bit more standard. All this prompted the formerly constant habit of scribbling out words with the pen and paper almost always carried on my person. Something I used to do much more often, whether anything ever came of it or not. And something, if I expect any chroniclers beyond my lifespan to have anything to work with- is something that I should do more often.

That, of course, is not the true reason for doing any of this.

Be it an outwardly sonic expression, a few jotted words on wrinkled or battered page, or even this right here- I go through all of that and more not to receive the feedback from without, but rather to satiate that itch that is both so desirous and always just out of reach. I sing and strum- because I must. I type away here again on a weekly basis- because I must. I wonder and discuss ideas and emotions wrapped in various aesthetics of the sense- because I must. For any stretch of time I have deprived myself of those actions, I feel bits of my soul begin to rot. An ultimately futile agenda to fight in a physical world seemingly ever evolving toward entropy- I still derive my greatest power from these things. And with the years passing by and by, it seems a clearer idea that these attempts towards expression must occur not to invoke any response from outside- but rather, to quell the anarchy that will fester and grow inside with the absence of such projections.

So whatever result, and for all the good it has ever done me- onward I shall go. Making a racket. Scratching out the unprofessional verse and prose. And all the other means of artistic aesthetic, I seem helpless to go against.

A sign of addiction, I suppose. But perhaps not every sort of such habits are meant to doom the protagonist. Fatal flaws often can grant the most life to all sorts of characters. At least in the stories that pull me within their gravity.