Gathering a coherent thought at the moment seems slightly out of grasp. Yet here I am, trying anyway. The self-imposed deadline is being tested, for sure. Must be my addiction to being spread thin. Something that does have its rewards, this I know. Doesn’t necessarily make it easier but try I must.

An opinion from a respected being on these thought experiments informed me they tend to dwell on the darker side. A place that I am no stranger to, and certainly not something I try and hide from or chase away. I firmly believe that confronting the less idealistic side of this human existence is a key to living with more fulfillment. And my reverence for the balance of contrast sings to me the merits of knowing the dark to better be able to recognize the light. Still, I know that pessimism is often the easier route. But such roads can rob the soul of solace and far too often allows the better things in life to slip by unattended to or all together unnoticed.

Life is good, even if only in fleeting moments from time to time, and in residence in the recollection a particular sentience. Difficult, no doubt- but the flowers of spring need winter, or whatever other metaphor one might choose to apply. I prefer the seasonal comparisons, due in no small part to the current cyclic change in climate in this zone where I have called home for all of my days. Precipitation and solar rays working together let life grow, but in too much of either it will drown or be dried out of existence. Not that I am one of the more nurturing of our kind, though I have my moments.

 I wrote out earlier about the struggle between idleness and experience. And the addiction to wishing for infinite experience in such a finite time of existence. That stagnation and burnout are opposite ends of the same spectrum. One that thrives on being dynamic and dies out with little more than a whimper when stretched too far to one end of the other. I could use a good night’s sleep and aim to get one.

But if I were to leave this evening with not a word typed out, the morning that resides before me will easily be grimmer, having nothing of substance to show on this Monday evening. Being mindful of the habit of seeking acknowledgement and accolade, I must remember that I strive to write from something that burns and stirs from within. And although life can be fanned into the flame, that the origin arises from a more intrinsic desire. Should be easy enough to remember, as these have gained me not great fame or fortune. I will continue on, whether or not either of the aforementioned are gained. My living is eked out via my labor and my notoriety is better sought by the folks that I know, rather than the random mass of unknown faces.

As far as the instigation for this and all the other endeavors of expression, I know it comes from within. It always has. And it must always. And though I must never be consumed by such ambitions, I know I must also prevent the outside from feasting upon my internals or risk there being nothing left.

But as I explained to my own offspring earlier, despite how we feel of our ideas and creativity stemming from inside one’s self- we still exist on this mortal plane in world made up of other sentince, in varied structures, that operate on ebbs and flows that span civilization and time. And at my most arrogant, I foolishly feel as though all can be conquered by my own will- but the truth is I am a character of my times and places. As all other were before me. And as the other that come after are likely to be.

And within that construct of a societal species, we must always be reminded of our effect, affect and impact on the others all around us. As we would wish ourselves considered within their movings and makings within reality. Which of course, is just a paraphrasing of a schtick from some mythical ancient Semite known most the world over. And who knows? He might have gotten the bit from someone else. Or at least one of the cats who wrote the books did.

That’s the thing about writing, and the ever-permeating written word- it is time defiant. In one direction, for the non-Tralfamadorians- but certainly holding the potential to pass on a fresh-dried perspective in time and casting in unknown towards the future. This, for example, can be revisited again once all the current emotions have evaporated. And however it may seem to the current consumer of the future, it will still be a reflection of this moment and day.

The wild part is what can be picked from any of this. Sure, by a bored future self, looking to suckle on some homemade nostalgia. But also by any other body and mind that dines of these ideas, even as immediate as the availability becomes digitally public. And I suppose, if anything more is gotten from the preceding ramblings other than my own cathartic undertones, well that just delightful bonus. Metaphysical extra credit, for whatever its worth.