Oh, the futility of fulfilment. Cursed by the blessing of instinctual internal wiring that seems to make any sort of satisfaction contained in this biological combustion engine eternally beyond grasp. Always something more. The search for something yet unattained while disregarding any horde of deed, declaration or interaction, mighty or miniscule, that resides in the wake left behind.

It had nearly slipped my mind the fact that it is a Monday evening. The slightest step away towards abandon to the newly reformed habit no one asked for, aside from the ever decaying ego I’ve been sentenced here to experience, and all the glorious privilege that implies.

Yet, fear not (or fear a lot)- for I am here. To likely say not much of anything while exercising the possibly pointless pronouncement of words, in a vocabulary that I never cease to tire of no matter the expansion. Not saying that there has been any expansion, just that if there were- I would likely try and dismiss it out of hand, if not entirely. A poison of my generation and perhaps the invocation for some future age caste to retort with the next equivalent of ‘ok boomer’.

Or, if I allow the narcissism to shed its criticism and run wild with some id based ideological fantasy- perhaps these will be viewed as the construction of timeless ideas. Both a reflection of the past and a peek at the future of identity crises, somehow universal in the species of the last few millennia.

Yeah, right. lol.

Generational based human, for my aging millennial peers.

I do read history, quite often. An affliction of my gender and demographic progression, perhaps. But not a useless tool, me thinks. Particularly when consuming through the works of those who had care enough to write, and cite, and dedicate their professional lives to the analysis and discovery of what had been left behind. A bit more work than a moving picture projected from a pocket television, but an effort well worth the increased intention. Something hopefully not too much longer having short supply, in this age of varied and vast conspiracy. Not saying that any such theories are incorrect, dead on the mark, or the more likely muddled in between the former two- just that they are seemingly prolific. As everything is in this age of ultra connectivity is, as far as the capacity otherwise practiced by my kin of bipedal sapiens over the last few score of lifetimes.

The input does seem to be on all the time, though. While all the wonders of our current technological status should not be cast aside, it is not difficult to wonder under the weight of it all if this will end up being any good to any of us. Perhaps it is just my imperfectly developed consciousness, but I know the insatiable urge to engage in the baser aspects of mass communication often exhausts not only my mind, but that thing they go on about being called a soul or spirit. You know the thing I’m talking about.

Perhaps I should read more poetry. Or write more of it. But I see it when our star falls out of sight on our regular spiral. I’ve heard it, in the voice and hearts of folks I know. I smell it, in the elegantly sterile air made by the snow crunched beneath my feet. Whether this life is meant to be anything is the choice of destiny, in whatever manifestation. But whether we can make anything of it, this life, I mean- is a matter of perception within and upon ourselves.

Last night, I was asked what I would go back and witness, were I able to go back and witness any point in the history of humanity. Not in any way to influence or participate in, just to see as it happened, when it happened. I picked two cataclysmic disasters. One caused by mother nature in ancient times. One caused by the cruel ambition of man, closer in time to now than most would like to consciously admit. I was not the only person asked by the interviewer, as of late, who replied that the choices responding to the inquiry could tell a lot about a person. Something I might shy away from digging in too deep.

When asked about folks of the former days of this planet to have discussions with, the tone of the answer changed. Those were mostly writers. Ones that at my most egotistic, I consider myself in a successor vein.

Then, later, before I left my place of occupation this evening, and drove home to meet you here- I had a discussion regarding conspiracies. A discussion with a fellow who consumes his information solely from his pocket broadcaster, set almost exclusively to intake. Unlike the old picture boxes of my youth and my most recent ancestors age, we now have ones that can technically go both ways. Not sure if that has done anyone any greater good than harm, but I’ll let the historians around when I am dust determine that. If there are any left around.

But in perhaps a betrayal to my teenage rebellion, I argued against the uniform tying together of ideas in the conspiratorial manner. Not to say I believe every officially given story. For sure, I don’t believe all that. But in the same way, only opposing, I tend to reject the neat story lines that conspiracy theories propel. Not a new idea, and one I mostly gleamed from the words of those literate consumers and professors of the past mentioned earlier- but one that, perhaps tragically, makes far too much sense.

We want conspiracies to be true because that means someone with power has their hand on the wheel. That it is destined and preordained and confined to pre-arranged narratives and notions. That we are but cogs in a wheel, and that wheel turns with intention and purpose.

The more likely event, and perhaps more terrifying, is that there is no such control. That it is all opportunities and risks. And whatever works out has no source of higher meaning. That things are just happening as they happen, and we are molded by and within such occurrences. That if there are hands on the wheel- its individual hands on individual wheels, all sharing a space where unpredicted collision is not only possible, but regularly occurring. Not even bringing up the unknown projection of all our proximal celestial bodies.

But that’s a long way to get to saying nothing. A thousand words more, to thrown on the pile with all the others. All to be lost someday. Maybe.